Chapter 5
Lila
Iwake to sunlight slanting through the loft curtains. For a moment, I lie perfectly still, listening to the creaks of the cabin and pretending the tightness in my chest is just from sleeping stiffly.
Then a wet nose presses against my cheek and a heavy paw lands squarely on my stomach.
“Okay, okay.” I push the dog off, laughing despite myself.
Another joins in, tail thumping against the bedframe.
How the heck did they get up those steep steps?
Somewhere in the rafters, the parrot squawks, “Breakfast!... breakfast!… breakfast!” like a tiny drill sergeant.
Outside, I swear I can hear the ponies whinnying.
So much for the haven of peace that Heather promised.
I sit up, rub my eyes, pull the tiny red-and-white checkered curtain aside. The sky is patchy blue and sunlight glints off the fresh snow, bright enough to hurt.
Christmas Eve.
The words slip into my mind before I can stop them.
Once upon a time it meant cinnamon rolls in the oven, old carols on the radio, my parents slow-dancing in the kitchen, pretending everything was going to be fine this year.
It hasn’t felt like that in a long, long time.
Still, there’s something about being here with all the animals, safe from the rest of the world.
I throw back the covers and swing my legs out of bed, careful not to step on any tails. Down in the living area, the fire’s burned low, but the cabin has held onto its warmth.
The place is a mess of muddy pawprints and scattered boots, but it’s lived-in, comforting. A different world from my mother’s house, where everything is curated and expensive and breakable.
My gaze drifts to the empty windowsill. A thought nudges at me.
Holt’s comment from last night flashes up—something about the place “looking better with Christmas decorations.” I’d rolled my eyes at him then.
Still… he wasn’t wrong.
If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well make it feel like Christmas.
I picture a small tree by the fire, some fairy lights, maybe a few ornaments. The picture puts a little warmth in my chest—quiet, tentative, the kind that makes me go still so I don’t scare it off.
And—of course—that’s exactly when last night surfaces.
Not the whole thing. Just fragments.
His voice cutting through the snow.
His big, reassuring presence, appearing right in front of me.
The look in his eyes when he said my name.
I shut the memory down fast.
“Right,” I tell the dogs, who are now lined up like soldiers waiting for orders. “We’re going to town.”
They wag their tails as if they understand, and I almost feel ready for the day.
An hour later, everyone’s been fed, watered, and emotionally validated, and the dogs have been left at home—screaming betrayal with their eyes. But I’m not risking four hyped-up canines plus a car full of groceries. I’m chaotic, not insane.
The drive down is surprisingly smooth. The snow’s packed solid, the firs are sparkling like they’re auditioning for a holiday commercial, and my death grip on the steering wheel finally loosens.
I wouldn’t say I slept well, but… I slept. The cabin felt safe.
Shame the thing that made me feel safe is also the thing currently turning my head into a blender.
Maple View appears around a bend, and Main Street looks more like a Christmas movie than ever. But this time it doesn’t come with a clench of my stomach.
Instead, my heart warms at the sight of all the twinkling lights, the wreaths hanging in every window, the soft haze of woodsmoke drifting above the roofs. The bakery’s open—cinnamon and coffee scenting the cold—and someone’s set a speaker outside the diner, playing old Bing Crosby tunes.
I let the smile spread across my face. It feels nice to be here. To belong to a morning that isn’t waiting to go wrong.
The general store’s warm and crowded, everyone in bulky coats and good moods.
I grab a cart and start filling it with the kind of things I haven’t bought in years—real food, not microwave dinners.
A turkey breast, cranberries, potatoes, a box of stuffing mix.
A wedge of brie. Crackers. Chocolate. And, because I’m feeling reckless, a bottle of cheap champagne.
Halfway through the aisles, I find myself humming along to Jingle Bell Rock.
When I reach the checkout, the cashier, a woman with silver braids, rings up my things and nods toward the window.
“Christmas dinner shopping?” she asks, smiling as she scans the turkey. “Good idea—stores’ll be shut tight tomorrow. And they say there’s a lot more snow coming.”
I glance outside. The blue sky is already disappearing behind a bank of gray.
Storm-light.
Holt warned me about it.
I push that thought aside. “Just getting ahead of it,” I say.
“Smart girl.” She slides the last bag over. “You drive careful on that road.”
I smile. “I always do.”
Outside, I load the car, tucking the grocery bags carefully so the champagne doesn’t roll.
The wind has teeth again, cutting through my coat.
The tree lot beside the store catches my eye—rows and rows of netted firs. I walk over, boots crunching. Up close, they’re beautiful: deep green, full branches, little clumps of snow still clinging. But the raw, cut bases make something twist inside me.
All dressed up for a few weeks—then out on the curb with the trash.
“Do you have any in pots?” I ask a man in a red apron.
He shakes his head. “Sorry, ma’am. Not much call for them here.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “That’s okay. I’ll find something else.”
I don’t need a perfect tree to make this Christmas mine.
By the time I slide into the driver’s seat, the first flakes have started to fall. The sky’s gone the color of pewter. I glance at the clock, calculate the drive back up the ridge.
If I don’t dawdle, I’ll be home in half an hour. I picture the animals’ excitement when I arrive.
Being wanted.
Needed.
It’s a good feeling.
And that’s what I’m going to stay with.