Page 35 of The Holiday Makeover

Because the truth was, it was never Rory who wasn’t enough—it was me.

Chapter Twelve

Rory

“All I can say is, wow,” Lily breathed into the phone, sounding just as exhausted as I felt.

I’d just unloaded everything about yesterday—all of Tate’s distractions, his Tate-ness, his maddening winning ways. And how I’d come out the supposed victor by finally saying the unspoken truths out loud.

So why did it feel like I’d lost?

I curled up in one of the paisley chairs in the parlor, a low-burning fire crackling in the hearth. I never thought I’d be spending Thanksgiving morning questioning all my life choices. I’d never been so drained—emotionally or physically. I’d stayed up half the night packing the kitchen because sleep was a lost cause. And honestly, I thought for sure Tate would leave.

But . . . he didn’t.

His truck was still in the driveway when I woke up, and I’d heard him fumbling around upstairs. George was probably still stationed outside his door like a furry sentinel. It was like he knew Tate might leave and was determined to stop him.

“Yeah, wow,” I yawned.

“I’m sorry, Rory. I wish I weren’t spending Thanksgiving in Las Vegas with my in-laws. Then you could spend the day with us. Also, who chooses to do Thanksgiving in Vegas? Last night, Shay’s mom asked if I wanted to go see Thunder From Down Under with her.”

“What’s that?”

“Think Australian Magic Mike.”

I giggled. “Are you going?”

“Uh, no. My life is wiping butts right now. I don’t need to see any onstage.”

“You make a fair point.” Not that I could see Lily going to a Magic Mike–type show. Now Coco . . . she was a different story.

“Are you okay?” Lily sounded more than concerned.

The honest answer was no. Everything was upside-down. It didn’t even feel like Thanksgiving.

There was no turkey in the oven, roasting since dawn. No onions and celery softening in butter. No Coco humming off-key while she danced around the kitchen singing silly songs about Thanksgiving. No annual argument about whether marshmallows belonged on sweet potatoes. They did, according to Coco, because “vegetables deserve joy too.”

Instead, the house smelled like cheesy baked goods, cardboard boxes, and the faint vinegar tang still clinging to my hair from stripping wallpaper.

But I didn’t say any of those things. Instead, I whispered, “I don’t know,” as I looked out the parlor window. Snow was drifting down again, soft and steady, the kind that muffled everything. It made all the houses on the street look like a scene from a vintage Christmas card. I loved this neighborhood and how unique it was for Aspen Lake. Like something straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

A couple of neighborhood kids were already out sledding down our street’s tiny hill, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass. Parents stood at the bottom, bundled up, coffee mugs steaming in their hands, making sure no cars interrupted the fun.

Tate and I used to be those kids.

Now I would give anything to be the parents at the bottom, watching our own kiddos squeal as they glided down the hill on the wooden sleighs my grandpa built for us.

But that dream felt further away than ever.

“Do you want me to go through the why-we-hate-Tate list?” Lily offered.

“No.” I laughed a tired, frayed laugh. “It won’t help.”

“Do you want Shay to give him a root canal? I could arrange it.”

“Hmm. I’ll think about that one,” I teased, though my voice lacked its usual spark.

“Rory . . .” She hesitated. “Do you want to get back together with him?”