Page 36 of The Holiday Makeover

“Uh, no,” I said way too quickly.

“Oh. My. Gosh. You totally do,” she half scolded, half commiserated.

“I would be a fool to want that.”

“Definitely.” She didn’t sugarcoat it. “But . . . I kind of get it. Admittedly, you two were pretty adorable together. I’m only saying that because I’m afraid your grandma will send some bad juju my way if I don’t.”

“Oh, I get it. I keep waiting for her to send the Ghost of Christmas Past here to play a highlight reel of all of Tate’s and my best moments on repeat until I swear we’ll get back together.”

Come to think of it, we had several cute highlight reels we’d done for our channel. They still lived out there in the digital sphere. But those weren’t the moments that made us who we really were. The real ones were away from the cameras, in each other’s arms reading the same book and laughing at the same parts. Or washing the dishes together and talking about the state of the world, like we could solve any of its problems.

“I would be more afraid she’s planning to send the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and push you both into a freshly dug grave until you promise to work it out.”

A chill ran down my spine because that felt like the most likely scenario. Coco wasn’t one to mess around. I just hoped she remembered how claustrophobic I was and that I might actually have a heart attack if she tried it.

And then Tate almost beat her to it, thundering down the stairs and making my heart slam against my ribs like it was trying to break free.

“Crap,” I whispered into the phone. “I need to go. I’ll call you later. Happy Thanksgiving. I love you. Take pictures if you go see Thunder From Down Under,” I joked.

“Ha ha. Happy Thanksgiving to you. I love you. Hold strong, girl. Hold strong.”

I hung up just as Tate’s footsteps hit the bottom stair, each one echoing through the parlor like a countdown I wasn’t ready for.

Then I realized—my eyes and face probably resembled the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, and I was still in my fuzzy Kermit the Frog pajamas. Apparently, I was going for hobo chic. But I digress. The real issue at hand wasn’t my green amphibian PJs.

It was Tate marching across the entryway, looking like a god in tight jeans and a fitted T-shirt. His biceps and forearms were on display like they belonged in a museum dedicated to the most gorgeous creatures on the planet.

They did not help with the heart-pounding situation.

What helped even less was him striding right past the parlor and out the front door without even glancing my way.

Poor George trailed after him, only to be stopped cold when Tate slammed the door in his face.

And that’s when it hit me.

This was it. He was leaving. And he’d done exactly what I asked—he didn’t say goodbye.

How absolutely rude. He should have said goodbye.

Like the masochist I was, I ran to the picture window, arms wrapped tight around my ribs, trying to hold myself together as I watched. My chest felt like it was folding in on itself. One goodbye had already gutted me in the past week. I didn’t have room in my body for another one.

Tate unlocked his truck with an advertisement for his stupid show plastered on the doors, his pretty face front and center. Honestly, it surprised me that he wasn’t shirtless in it. Idiot.

It was like two years ago all over again: me standing at the window, watching him, thinking he wasn’t really going to leave. Back then, I’d truly believed he’d turn around, run back inside, wrap his arms around me, and tell me it wasn’t the end of our story.

But he didn’t.

And here I was once again, wishing for the same thing.

Which made me the real idiot.

The whole thing was like a train wreck I couldn’t turn away from. Tate appeared to be fiddling with something on the passenger side, and then he shoved something into his pocket, slammed the truck door, and marched right back toward the house.

I hadn’t prepared for this scenario.

What did I do?

Part of me wanted to scurry up the stairs, but the other part of me was so stunned, I stayed rooted to the spot, watching Tate trudge through the snow like he didn’t even feel the cold. His expression was almost feral. Possessed, even.