Page 5 of The Holiday Makeover

But I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that she wanted me to give up my dream—and that she didn’t think she was part of it. I was too angry, too proud, too convinced she didn’t understand me.

So I left.

And regret has been following me like a shadow ever since.

My eyes flicked to the note from Coco on the passenger seat. I was afraid to read it. Afraid I’d let her down. From the time I was ten—making daily bets with Rory about who could climb the backyard trees faster or win a bike race to the end of the street and back—Coco and Sam treated me like one of their own.

I couldn’t help smiling, thinking about how much Rory used to get under my skin. She loved to taunt me every time she won one of our bets. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, she made sure the whole world knew it.

Sometimes I wished we could go back to when things were that simple between us. But the truth was, I missed the fire of being friends teetering on something more. And then finally having her all to myself. Nothing compared to that. Rory was passionate about everything she cared about. Especially those she loved. I’d never known anyone like her.

I wanted that passion back. I wanted her.

But I wasn’t sure if that was possible.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the letter and tore it open.

A single sheet of ivory stationery slipped out of the envelope. Coco’s handwriting—shaky, uneven, like every stroke cost her—covered the page.

My chest tightened. I should’ve been there. I should’ve said goodbye. Told her what she meant to me. At the very least, I should’ve been holding Rory’s hand.

My mom had told me Coco was in the hospital. But I was in the middle of finishing an episode for next season, and I convinced myself Coco would pull through. And I didn’t think Rory would want me showing up out of nowhere.

But I should’ve gone anyway. Instead, I proved Rory right. Again.

That she wasn’t my priority.

That I loved the spotlight more than her.

That she’d never been enough for me.

None of it was true. At least I didn’t think so. But I’d wondered more than once if she was right. That doubt was what had kept me away for the last two years.

I blew out a long breath and forced myself to read the words I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

Dear Tate,

Well, if you’re reading this, I guess I’m dead. There are worse things in life.

I huffed out a laugh. Only Coco could start a letter joking about her own death.

I’m sure you’re sad about it, as you should be. But don’t cry for me, Tate. I lived a good life. A happy life, even, despite some very devastating moments. Moments that I thought would crush my soul. One of those being when you and my sweet girl parted ways.

A sharp twist hit my chest. It felt like she’d reached out of the grave and jabbed me with one of her knitting needles.

How’s that for guilt? I haven’t lost my touch.

I couldn’t help but smile. She was a Jedi Master of guilt. And it always worked on me.

But seriously, Tate, this isn’t about guilt. This is about your and Rory’s happiness. I know neither of you are happy right now. Sure, you both put on your poker faces for the world, but I can see it. The light is gone from Rory’s eyes, and I hate to say it, but your new show doesn’t have the magic of Hammer and Hue. Don’t even get me going on those guest interior designers they’ve brought in. They have nothing on Rory.

She wasn’t wrong. Everyone—from producers to fans to the random guy who recognized me in the grocery store—had something to say about how Designed by Tate didn’t have the same spark. How Rory’s designs were second to none. How she had an eye for patterns and colors that couldn’t be taught.

They even missed the way we used to playfully bicker on camera.

What music we listened to while we worked.

Whose turn it was to pick takeout.