Chapter 8
Lila
The fire crackles low, throwing restless shadows across the room. The blanket Holt wrapped around me earlier lies crumpled on the arm of the couch.
I told myself for years that if he ever came back, I’d have nothing left to say. But the second he walked through that door, everything I thought I’d buried started clawing its way out.
I should feel relieved that I got it all off my chest.
But all I can feel is the echo of him standing there, eyes raw, words I didn’t let him say hanging between us.
I rub my arms, pacing the length of the room, still too wound up to sit. I pass the tree Holt brought in. The grocery bags on the counter—food, lights, tinsel—everything I bought in town, everything I thought might make this place feel less empty.
I let out a sigh. Now the tree’s been dug up, it deserves better than to sit there undecorated.
I tug open the first bag, pull out a strand of string lights, and start untangling them with grim determination. It’s silly and keeps my hands busy, and is absolutely what I need.
After a couple of minutes, I spot an ancient radio/CD combo on the bookshelf. I open the CD tray, find an Elvis Christmas album inside, and press play. The speakers crackle to life, and I’m immediately humming along.
By the time I’ve looped the lights around the little tree and draped tinsel along the mantel, the room is glowing softly, golden and a little uneven. The smell of pine fills the air.
I turn up the volume a notch as I rearrange a crooked garland and break into song.
This turns out to be a mistake. When I hit blueeee Christmas… the husky lets off a dramatic, operatic howl that rattles the windows.
“Oh, excuse me,” I laugh. “Are you the musical director now?”
He just tips his head right back and howls again, louder. Then the little dog decides to get involved, barking wildly like he’s trying to keep time.
Within seconds, it’s full on chaos—two enthusiastic canines performing a duet while I stand in the middle of the living room, laughing so hard I spill a box of baubles everywhere.
The tree sparkles, the music croons on, tinsel shimmers every time the dogs spin in circles, and the whole cabin buzzes with bright, ridiculous energy that I can’t help soaking up.
At last, I sink into the sofa, the lights winking softly around me. The other two dogs bound up ecstatically and jostle for space on my lap.
The room looks cheerful, like somewhere a normal couple might spend Christmas. For a second, I let myself picture it.
My body tucked into his; his big arms wrapped around me, keeping me safe and warm. Bickering whether we’re going to watch a rom-com or an action thriller.
Then the memory breaks apart.
The things he said before he left replay, sharp as broken glass. The way he looked at me, like I’d gutted him, when all I’d done was tell the truth.
My chest tightens. I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. I shouldn’t still feel this way. Not after everything.
Outside, the wind hammers at the windows, a hollow, furious sound that matches the one inside my head.
Then the lamps flicker. Once, twice—
Ping!
Total darkness.
“Crap.”
I wait, hoping the power will snap back on, but it doesn’t. The music stops, and the only sound left is the storm pressing at the walls and the faint hiss of snow against the glass.
Power cut?
I grab my phone off the counter—no signal of course. Doesn’t work this far up the mountain even when the weather’s good.
Panic flutters in my throat.
All alone out here, with no electricity.
Sheesh.
Then I look at the fire, still roaring.
At the stack of logs Holt brought in yesterday.
At the gas hob I used this morning.
I’ve got food.
Blankets.
Four extremely warm dogs.
I’ll be fine.
We’ll all be together.
Something orange flickers at the edge of my vision.
I turn to the window. A light—soft, unsteady, golden.
My breath catches. I cross the room. Through the blur of snow, something glows on the porch.
Lantern light.
I freeze, one hand against the glass. The wind lashes the windows, but that glow stays, small and stubborn against the dark.
He did this.
I fumble with the latch on the door and step onto the porch, hair whipping across my face. There are three more lanterns, half buried already.
He set them here. To keep me safe.
All the anger, the things I said—it drains out, and I sink to my knees on the porch boards, the cold biting through my jeans.
For a moment, all I can do is stare at the small, stubborn glow of that little flame.
How can the man who walked away without a word be the same man who’d cross a storm to make sure I’m safe?
I stare out at the endless snow, swallowing the yard, the sky, everything. I draw a breath, let it out slow.
Then my eyes land on the stable. A dark shape through the white. The little ponies—wondering when their dinner’s coming.
“Shoot!”
I can’t leave them to go hungry, just because there’s a power cut.
I grab my coat from the hook by the door, shove my arms through the sleeves, and plunge into the snow.
“Lila!”
I spin, heart slamming against my ribs. The voice comes again, closer this time, ragged in the storm.
“Lila, wait!”
Through the swirl of snow, Holt is running toward me, coat open, snow plastered in his hair.
He stops in front of me, chest heaving, breath pluming.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he hollers.
“I’ve gotta feed the ponies.” I can barely speak.
“Already done.”
My mouth falls open. “No way? Then you came and left the lanterns for me?”
“Yup.” He nods, eyes fierce and soft all at once. “But then I couldn’t go. Not after what you said. I needed to see you were okay.”
“I was angry,” I shout. “That doesn’t mean I wanted you gone forever.”
“I know.” His voice drops. “And I’m sorry. I left because I thought I was the worst thing that could happen to you. Turns out, leaving was.”
Something tight in my chest gives way.
I want to stay angry, but his voice, his face—none of it matches the man I thought I’d shut out.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
He nods, snow melting on his lashes. “You don’t have to. Just let me try to make it right.”
The wind eases for a heartbeat, like the storm itself is listening. I reach for him before I can stop myself, fingertips brushing his hand.
“Come inside,” I say. “We’ll start there.”
He exhales—a sound like relief and devastation all at once.
Together, we walk toward the house, the lone lantern burning through the snow—small, stubborn, and still alive.