27. Izzy
Izzy
It’s almost Christmas. I swear my diet consists only of sugar cookies and hot chocolate. Not sure how the sugar rush helps, but at least I’m sleeping again.
My heart? That’s still very, very bruised.
I grimace at the starting chords of Joni Mitchell’s “River.”
“Zoe!”
She adjusts her Santa hat at the wrapping station, then hops up.
“On it.” She’s probably sick of wrapping presents, but she’s doing an amazing job.
I only wish I had more help. That nagging guilt drops in my stomach.
I push it aside, diving back into smiling and making small talk with the woman on the other side of the sales counter.
“Thanks so much for coming in today with the snow. Have a great holiday.” I hand her a tote bag of books and peek out at the giant white flakes sticking to Main Street.
After the new year, I’m hiring more employees to help run the store. As much as I wanted the expansion, it didn’t make sense to turn Salty Romantic into something I hate because I couldn’t tell myself “No.”
My mom calls, because of course she does, but I don’t pick up. I told her that when I’m working, I’m not available. Look at that… I figured out what a boundary is.
Zoe sneaks behind me at the register and drops a cookie next to me. “Ooh, therapy is working!”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve had two sessions.”
“Still counts.”
It’s hard to finally choose myself for once, and the guilt is overwhelming, but I’m doing it anyway. I can’t keep being everyone’s everything, and I have to save some of myself for me.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me heading out early?” Zoe asks.
“Yep.” I stuff the cookie into my mouth. I need food, real food, not just sugar and caffeine. Did I pack a lunch today? No. But what’s the saying? Healing isn’t linear. I might not be getting a gold star today, but I’m trying. It’s going to take time to learn to love myself.
She throws on her coat with a happy squeal, pulls me into a tight hug, before she wishes me a Merry Christmas and dashes out the door.
The snow falls more heavily as the morning continues, and by lunch, the little traffic on Main Street nearly stops.
The shop feels different in the quiet—just the hum of the heater and the soft glow of twinkle lights strung along the shelves, and in the front window.
I move through the routine on autopilot: straightening displays, flicking off the overhead lights, adjusting the small tree in the corner. Outside, snow falls in thick, lazy flakes. The construction noise from next door stopped hours ago. Everyone’s gone home.
I’m not going to my mom’s tonight.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, accompanied by its usual companion: guilt. I sent the text this morning: Not feeling well. Going to stay home and rest. Have a wonderful Christmas.
I’m sure that’s why she’s calling. I offered Riley the chance to stay with me for Christmas break, but she passed.
I sent Peyton a present for Luca in the mail.
I really wish I could see that little nugget, but I think space is best for everyone right now, and I need one night where I’m not the glue holding everything together.
The bell above the door jingles, and I look up to find Sloane bundling through, cheeks pink from the cold, shopping bags dangling from both arms.
“Hey! Thought I’d catch you before you left.”
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I say, smiling despite myself. “What are you still doing out?”
“Oh, deadlines have been brutal with the holiday flyer. So, last-minute shopping. You know how it is.” She sets the bags down, shaking snow from her hair. “You closing early?”
“Yeah, was just about to lock up. Giving myself the night off.”
“Good for you.” She studies me for a second too long. “So what are your plans? Going to your mom’s?”
I shake my head. “Not this year.”
Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t push. “Oh. Okay. Well, if you want company, we’re doing a thing at my place. Nothing crazy. Wine, movies, ugly Christmas sweaters. You’re welcome to join.”
“That sounds really nice,” I say, and I mean it. “But I think I need a quiet night. Just me.”
Sloane crosses the space between us and pulls me into a hug. It’s warm and tight and exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
“Okay,” she says, stepping back. “But if you change your mind, text me. Door’s always open.”
“Thank you. Really.”
She picks up her bags, then pauses at the door. “And Izzy? I’m proud of you.”
My throat goes tight. “For what?”
“For choosing yourself for once. That’s huge.”
She studies me. “We can do bad movies and wine if you want. I can send Ethan away and just the two of us can hang out.”
“No, no. You’re practically a Murphy, and I think if you skipped, Bridget would never let you live down missing UNO.”
“Fair, she and June are brutal.” She studies me, a sad smile on her face. “Well, open invitation.”
She hugs me, then leaves. The quiet settles back in, heavier this time.
I grab my coat. Lock the register. I test the door twice, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the quiet air. When I turn around, my heart doesn’t stop. It just… stutters.
Jack is leaning against his G-Wagon a few yards away.
He’s in his wool pea coat, hands shoved in his pockets, and an olive-green beanie tugged low to his ears.
But he doesn’t move. He waits for me, and I don’t know if it’s been seconds or minutes.
Time has always had a funny way of bending around Jack ever since he walked onto that stage in September.
“You’re supposed to be flying to a game.” My voice is thin in the cold.
“I’ll be there. But I needed to see you first.”
I throw my arms out to the side, my tote bag swinging wide, almost knocking me off balance. It doesn’t take much, I guess. “Here I am.”
“There you are…”
I shut my eyes at the awe in his words. I wish I could keep that, tuck it away, and listen to it over and again because it makes my heart hurt a little less.
We stare at each other from across the snowy street, the sound of the waves sloshing against the docks. The string of Christmas lights strung overhead from the lampposts glows warm as the last sliver of day drops to inky blue.
“Now what?” I ask. Small, silly words for a big question. I don’t just mean in this moment, but tomorrow, next month, three years from now.
Please, let there be more to this story.
“I wanted you to be around for what I’m going to do next.” He takes a slow, cautious step forward. “It’s important.”
“What’s that?”
“I hit the boards hard, and all I could think about was that I never told you.”
I stand there, the snow melting on my eyelashes.
“I love that you like iced coffee in wineglasses because it’s extra fancy and embroider your tablecloth every time you have people over for a party because you want to celebrate everyone.
That you hang up disco balls where there might be a ray of light because you want it reflected.
That’s where you find joy. I love that you decorate for every season and celebrate all the tiny pockets of good in this world because you refuse to sit in the dark. You’re braver than I ever will be.”
A sharp, hot sting hits the back of my throat.
“You never wanted the version of me that everyone else gets,” he says, stopping just out of reach.
It aches not to touch him, but I stay still, frozen to my spot on the sidewalk.
“You wanted the guy who dressed up as a nun just to hear you laugh. The guy who burns the bagels and makes dumb jokes and is embarrassed to wear his glasses. The messy, insecure version.” He reaches out, his thumb working over the wooden buttons of my wool toggle coat. His hand is shaking.
He swallows hard. “I know I have things to figure out. But I want to be better—for you, for us. I’m asking you to let me prove it because “I’m staying. I’m building a life here. And I want to do it, every single step of it, next to you. Loving you is so damn easy, Izzy. I mean that. You’re magic.”
“I don’t follow…”
“Ready for my hat trick?” He shows me his phone, that crooked grin of his more wobbly than usual. He pulls up his gallery, clicks on a video of him sitting in his living room, then hits play.
“Hi, Boston. After spending most of my life on the ice, I’ve decided this season with the Boston Breakers will be my last. I’m going to give everything I have in these last games, push for the playoffs. Thank you for all of your support. It’s been an honor.”
I swear I hear the words, but I’m still processing what he just said before he pulls up Instagram, adds the video, and types out the quickest caption before he sends it.
“Oh my god. Jack!” I grip his arm. “What did you just do?”
He stares at his phone for a second, shakes his head, and laughs before he stuffs it back in his pocket.
“I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I’m going to annoy the shit out of you as long as you humanly allow. Isla, sweetheart, I’m done with hockey. I owe it to the Breakers to finish out the season. Heather’s taking care of all the logistics. But I’m done.”
I blink. That’s not what I expected.
“You told me you loved me, and I froze. Not because I didn’t feel it. But because saying it back meant admitting I could lose you. And I was terrified. Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of you seeing the real me and deciding I wasn’t worth staying for.”
My vision blurs.
“I’m sorry. For all of it. For making you feel like you weren’t enough when you’ve always been enough.” His voice cracks. “I’m sorry, Izzy. I’m so fucking sorry.”
His gloved hand reaches out and wipes the tears off my cheeks.
“I love you. I’m in love with you. I should have said it at the rink.
Should have said it a hundred times before that.
But I’m saying it now. I love you, Izzy.
All of you. The messy, stubborn you. The you who takes care of everyone but never asks for anything back.
The you who’s scared to need anyone because everyone’s always left.
I take a breath, let it out. “I love you, too, and I’m sorry I didn’t let you in when you were trying. I was so busy protecting my heart that I almost lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me. He pulls me in, his arms tight around me.
We’re both crying now. Snow is falling more heavily. The street is empty and quiet. Just us.
“No more pretending? You’re really going to be my girlfriend?”
“I’m going to choose us,” I say. “Every day.”
He smiles through tears. “Deal.”
I laugh, crying. “We’re really doing this?”1
“If you want to.”
“I want to. God, I want to.”
He steps even closer, hands framing my face, gentle, and asks, “Can I kiss you?”
“Please.”
He kisses me, and it’s different from every other kiss. Not desperate or hungry or performative. It’s anchoring. It’s choosing each other.
“Come on,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Let’s get you warm.”
And for the first time, I realize: wherever he is, that’s home.