Page 93 of The Holiday Makeover

I flinched. He wasn’t wrong.

His expression changed immediately, the anger draining from his face. “Rory.” His voice broke, losing its edge. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just—” He dragged a hand through his wet hair. “I’ve carried that ring and the regret of what could have been, what should have been, with me every day. Every damn day, I’ve looked at that ring and hated myself for not giving it to you.”

Every part of me trembled. I wasn’t sure where we could go from there. Maybe there wasn’t anywhere left to go.

But I thought he should at least know this.

“You’re right, maybe I should have fought harder for us. But . . . I didn’t chase after you because I figured I’d chased you for over half my life. And I would be a fool to keep chasing you any longer. And I do feel like a fool right now.” My heart and my voice both broke.

“Rory.” Tate stood and reached for me.

I backed away, holding up a hand.

“Just don’t. You know, I came up here to tell you that I would do the interview. That I would help you save your show because I love you.” My voice hitched. “But now I’m questioning whether our love was ever enough for you. Whether it ever will be. If I’m being honest with you and myself, the answer is no.”

His face crumpled. “That’s not true.”

I pointed at the ring on the bed. “Unfortunately, I don’t need to read a study this time to prove my point. It’s sitting right there.”

Neither of us said a word.

We just stood for one painful moment, staring at each other.

But I couldn’t take the hurt any longer.

I turned and ran down the hall. Ran to Coco’s room and threw open the door, wishing for a miracle. Wishing she would be sitting in her bed, watching “her shows,” just waiting to talk to me.

But she wasn’t there.

It was just her four-poster bed, neatly made with the ghastly floral comforter she had loved for reasons I had never understood. Her lilac perfume still lingered in the air. Her nightgown hung over the chair in the corner, waiting for her.

Family pictures sat on her nightstands, mocking me with how cheerful we all looked. How whole and happy we were.

I curled up on her bed, grabbed a pillow, and cried into it.

“So much for your makeover, Coco,” I whispered, the words garbled and barely coherent. “Did you know Tate wanted to propose? I have to believe he asked you what you thought. He probably even showed you the ring. He told you everything.”

My chest hitched.

“And if you knew, how could you bring him back into my life like this? Why did you think we had a shot at a second chance when it was obvious we never had a chance at all?”

I swore I could hear her whisper a phrase she used to say often.

Love always knows what to do.

I squeezed the pillow harder, tears soaking the silk case. This didn’t feel like love to me.

Torture was a better word.

All I could think of were dashed hopes and broken dreams. A ring that never made it onto my finger. A man who seemed to love the spotlight more than me.

“And I suppose you still want me to fulfill your final wishes after all this?” I said out loud, mirthlessly, as if Coco could really hear me.

I swore I heard her say, Of course, darling.

“Ugh. Fine. But then I’m done with Tate Ryder.”

Forever.