Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
But I’m damn well going to find out.
Because Ruin’s right. Living up here for the rest of my life pretending the best thing that happened to me was just a storm fluke?
That’s not living.
That’s hiding.
I’ve done enough hiding.
Time to go down the mountain.
SEVENTEEN
IVY
Saint Pierce looks exactly the same.
Brick buildings, flickering crosswalks, the coffee shop on the corner that knows my order and spells my name right forty percent of the time. The streets are wet from melted snow, reflecting the leftover Christmas lights like the city is trying to hold onto the holiday a little longer.
I’m the one who’s different.
I walk to work with my Creative Director badge clipped to my blazer and a hollow ache under my ribs that no promotion has managed to fill.
I throw myself into the job.
I build decks. I lead brainstorms. I say things like “quarterly projections” and “brand synergy” and don’t even flinch. Our Chimney Gorge campaign is still lighting up the analytics dashboard. Margo practically waltzes through the office with pride. Clients want more “authentic seasonal storytelling,” which is fancy for “make people cry and then click the donate button.”
On paper, this is everything I wanted.
In reality, I keep smelling woodsmoke that isn’t there.
I hear bells in car commercials and my throat closes. Every time my inbox pings with a new social alert, I expect to see a tag from Chimney Gorge, a photo of the sleigh, a grumpy man in flannel lurking at the edge of the frame.
Sometimes he’s there.
Someone posts a picture of Donner in a wreath. Another of the seniors holding cocoa. Once, there’s a blurry shot of Rhett in the background, head tipped, smiling at something off-camera.
I scroll past fast.
If I pause, it feels like pressing on a bruise.
I tell myself I’m adjusting. That it’s normal to miss a place you put so much heart into. That what I feel is nostalgia, not heartbreak.
It’s a lie, but I say it anyway.
Melanie calls when she can between feedings and naps and Everett being “way too cute for his own good, it should be illegal.” She sends pictures—Everett in a tiny knit hat, Everett sleeping on Lucas’s chest, Everett staring at the camera with big solemn eyes like he’s already judging us.
I cry every other time I open one. Happy tears, mostly. But there’s a thread of longing woven through, something like I want that. I want someone who stays.
I don’t say it out loud.
Not even to her.
Not yet.
A few days before New Year’s, the city decides to have one last hurrah.
Saint Pierce calls it the Winter Lights Finale—one more evening where they turn everything on at once. Trees wrapped in white, snowflake projections on building walls, a live band in the plaza, food trucks, couples holding hands in puffy coats.
Margo sticks her head into my office around four.
“Garland.”
I look up from my laptop. “Yes, boss?”
She’s wearing lipstick that means she’s in a mood. “You’re coming to the finale tonight.”
“I have a deck due tomorrow,” I protest weakly.
“Your deck can wait,” she says. “The sponsor loved our numbers. They want us to capture one last burst of city holiday content for next year’s teaser. Also, you look like you’ve been living in that sweater for three days.”
“I have not,” I lie.
She arches a brow. “Wear the red coat. The one from Chimney Gorge. Meet me downstairs at six.”
My heart stutters. “Why?”
“Because I said so,” she sing-songs. “And because I have a surprise. Trust me, Garland. You’re going to want to see this.”
She disappears before I can argue.
I grumble at my screen, but an hour later I’m shrugging into the red coat anyway. The one from the Jubilee. The one that still smells faintly like cold air and pine if I inhale like a maniac.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Same brown eyes. Same curls. Same face that fell for a man on a mountain and tried to pretend it was just altitude.
“Get it together,” I tell my reflection. “You’re a professional. You can attend a lights festival without having a crisis.”
My reflection looks unconvinced, but she follows me downstairs anyway.
The plaza is buzzing.
The big tree in the center is still up, strung with white and gold lights that haven’t been turned on yet. Food trucks line the edges. Kids twirl with battery-operated sparkler wands. The air smells like kettle corn and roasted chestnuts and some kind of maple thing that makes my stomach grumble.
Margo is nowhere to be seen.
I tap out a quick text: Here. Where are you?
Her reply pops up instantly.
MARGO: Front steps. Face the tree. And… don’t hate me.
That’s ominous.
I step off the building’s front stoop and turn toward the tree, scanning for her.
I don’t see her.
I see the sleigh.
It’s not the full setup from Chimney Gorge—that would be insane—but it’s a smaller version, a two-person antique painted the same deep red, sleigh bells looped across the side. It’s parked on a stretch of fake snow laid over the plaza bricks. There are portable spotlights and a camera on a tripod and—