Chapter 11
Ryder
The kiss ends when Connor slams the front door so hard the windows rattle.
Lucy pulls back first, her breath catching against my mouth.
I turn toward the house as the porch light blazes on, flooding us in white light.
My hand is still at the small of her back, her fingers tangled in my shirt.
The heat of her body burns through the thin fabric, and I can taste her ChapStick, feel the rapid flutter of her pulse under my thumb where it rests against her spine.
I should let go, step away, make this look like anything other than what it is.
Connor stands on the porch in sweatpants and a Bulldogs hoodie, his face a mask of fury I've never seen directed at me. Not when I forgot his birthday. Not when I missed his championship game. This is something else.
"Are you kidding me?" His voice cracks on the last word.
Lucy's hand drops from my chest, leaving a cold spot where her palm pressed. "Connor, let's just—"
"Don't." He points at her, then at me. "Don't you dare try to explain this."
The door opens behind him. Emma appears in her bathrobe, Jim right behind her. Great. Perfect. The whole family gets to witness this.
"What's going on?" Emma's gaze moves from Connor to us, and I watch the moment she understands. Her expression shifts from confusion to alarm—we've been caught, and she knows how badly this could go.
"Ask them." Connor's laugh is bitter. "Ask them how long they've been sneaking around."
My throat closes. "Connor, I know how this looks—"
"You know how it looks?" He comes down the steps, and I move in front of Lucy. Her hand finds the back of my jacket, gripping the leather. His eyes track the movement, track the way her body aligns with mine even now. "You're protecting her now? That's rich."
"I'm not—" I start, but he's not listening.
"How long?" Connor demands. "How long have you been lying to me?"
Lucy moves beside me, her shoulder brushing mine, the contact sending heat through my jacket. "We weren't lying. We just—"
"Just what? Just waited until you were sure before telling me? Just wanted to make sure he was going to stick around before getting me involved?" Connor's voice rises. "Or maybe you knew exactly what I'd say, so you figured you'd hide it until Christmas and ruin that too."
The words slice through me. Jim puts a hand on Connor's shoulder, but he shrugs it off.
"Connor." Emma's voice is gentle but firm. "Let's go inside and talk about this in a calm way."
"There's nothing to talk about." Connor looks at me, and the hurt in his eyes makes my chest ache. "What's the plan, Ryder? Long distance for a few months until you get bored? Or are you just killing time until you go back to Boston?"
Every doubt I've been carrying crystallizes in his words. Every reason I should have kept my distance, thrown back in my face by the person who knows me best.
"It's not like that," I say, but my voice sounds hollow even to me.
"Then what is it like?" Connor steps closer. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're using my sister for entertainment while you're stuck in Vermont. And when you leave—because you know you're leaving—she's the one who'll be destroyed."
"That's not fair," Lucy says. Her voice shakes, and I feel it in the tension of her grip on my jacket. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Connor turns to her. "You think I haven't noticed the way you look at him? You're in too deep, Lucy. And he's got one foot out the door."
The truth of it twists in my gut. I want to argue, want to tell him he's wrong, but the words won't come. Because he's not wrong. Not about Boston, not about leaving. I am going back. That was always the plan.
"Connor, that's enough." Jim's voice carries authority now. "This isn't the time or place."
"When is the time?" Connor asks. "After he's gone and she's heartbroken? After he's back to his real life and this was just a nice little detour?"
I should say something. Defend us. Defend what we have.
But my mind is blank, every argument dying before it reaches my lips.
Because what can I say? That I haven't thought about this scenario?
That I don't wake up some nights in a cold sweat, terrified of hurting her?
That Connor isn't voicing every thought that's been eating me alive?
"Ryder." Lucy's hand finds mine, her fingers threading through mine with the same ease they did an hour ago when we were alone in my room, when I had her pressed against the door and she made those sounds that drove me wild. "Say something."
I look at her face, tilted up toward me, trusting me to fix this. To make it right. And I've got nothing.
"I don't—" I start. Stop. Try again. "I never meant for this to happen."
Wrong words. I know it the second they're out of my mouth. Lucy's hand goes rigid in mine, her fingers still warm but no longer soft.
"You never meant for what to happen?" she asks in a quiet voice.
"For us. For this." I gesture between us, hating myself. "I knew it was complicated. I knew Connor would—I should have been more careful."
"More careful." Her voice is flat. "You mean you should have stayed away from me."
"That's not what I—"
"That's what you mean." She pulls her hand from mine, and the loss of contact is worse than Connor's words. "Connor's right. You're halfway out the door."
"Lucy, no." I reach for her, but she steps back. The space between us feels like miles. "I'm just trying to be realistic. I'm going back to Boston. That's not new information."
"But you acting like this—us—is a mistake? That's new." Her eyes shine in the porch light. "I thought we were figuring this out together."
"We are. I just—" I run a hand through my hair, wishing I could feel her fingers there instead, the way they tangled in it when I kissed down her throat. "I don't have all the answers, okay? I don't know how this works. I don't know how to do this without someone getting hurt."
"So your solution is to hurt me now instead?"
"I'm trying to protect you."
"By agreeing with Connor? By standing here saying you never meant for us to happen?" Lucy's voice breaks. "I don't need protection. I need you to fight for this."
But I can't fight. Not with Connor staring at me like I'm a stranger. Not with Emma and Jim watching this train wreck unfold. Not with every worry Connor voiced settling into my bones like truth.
"Maybe Connor's right," I hear myself say. "Maybe I'm not thinking straight. Maybe I need some space to figure this out."
The words hit her hard. Lucy takes another step back, and I want to close the distance, want to pull her against me and feel her heartbeat and remember what this felt like before Connor ruined it.
"Space," she repeats.
"Just for tonight. To let everyone cool down." I'm digging the hole deeper with every word, but I can't stop. "I could stay at the inn. Give the family time to—"
"To what? Talk about what a mess I am?" Lucy's laugh is sharp. "Or maybe to convince me that you're right. That this was all a mistake."
"That's not what I want."
"Then what do you want, Ryder?" She spreads her hands, and I remember how those hands felt on my chest, my shoulders, my face. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you want an easy out. And I just handed you one."
I look at Connor, at his Dad, at Lucy. My mind is static, every thought fragmenting before it forms. I should stay. I should fight. I should tell Connor he's wrong and Lucy she's right and that I'm all in no matter how terrifying it is.
Instead, I say, "I'll get my stuff."
The silence that follows is deafening. Lucy stares at me like she's never seen me before. Maybe she hasn't. Maybe this is who I am—the guy who runs when things get hard.
"Lucy—" I try, but she's turning away.
"Don't." She doesn't look back. "Just go."
She walks past Connor, past her Dad, into the house. The door closes behind her with a quiet click that sounds louder than Connor's slam. I can still feel the shape of her body against mine, still taste her on my lips, and it makes leaving worse.
I stand there, rooted to the driveway, my heart pounding against my ribs. This is the wrong choice. Everything in me knows it. But my feet move toward my truck.
"Ryder." Jim's voice stops me. "Think about what you're doing."
I do think about it. I think about Lucy's face when I said I never meant for this to happen. I think about Connor's accusation that I'm just killing time. I think about Boston and distance and all the ways this could go wrong.
"I need to clear my head," I say.
Jim's expression is disappointed but not surprised. Like he expected this. Like everyone expected this except Lucy.
Connor says nothing. He just watches me with that same look of betrayal, and I know I've confirmed every doubt he had about me and his sister.
I get in my truck. Start the engine. The dashboard clock reads 12:58 AM.
The drive to the inn takes eight minutes. I don't remember any of them.
The night clerk gives me a key card and points toward the elevator. The room is generic and beige and smells like industrial cleaner. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall.
My pulse still races from the confrontation, from the kiss before it, from Lucy's hands in my hair and her body pressed against mine and the taste of her I can't shake. My jacket still carries her perfume—vanilla and something warmer—and I should take it off but I don't.
The buzz of my phone makes me check it. Connor: Don't come back tomorrow.
Then another text, this one from Emma: Call me when you're ready to talk.
Nothing from Lucy.
I check my email without thinking. There's one from Greg with the subject line "Boston timeline." I don't open it. Can't open it. Not tonight.
Instead, I lie back on the stiff hotel comforter and watch the ceiling fan turn. I've ruined Christmas. I've hurt Lucy. I've proven Connor right. And worst of all, I did what I always do—I chose safety over risk. Distance over intimacy. Running away over staying.
The thought stops me cold. When did Lucy become the person I think about first thing in the morning and last thing at night? When did her happiness become more important than my own? When did the thought of leaving her become worse than any Chicago crowd or career setback?
I grab my phone, pull up her contact. My thumb hovers over the call button. What would I even say? That I'm sorry? That I panicked? That Connor's words hit every insecurity I have and instead of fighting through them, I ran?
I put it down.
The room is too quiet. Too empty. Too far from where I want to be, which is back in that driveway with my hand at Lucy's spine, kissing her like Connor never interrupted. Or better yet, in her room with the door locked and her body warm against mine, the way it was before everything went to hell.
I close my eyes and see her face when I said I needed space. The way her expression shuttered. The way she walked away without looking back, her shoulders rigid with hurt I put there.
I've been alone plenty of times in my life.
After Dad died. During the worst of my depression.
Through every winter in Boston when the ice felt like my only friend.
But I've never felt as lonely as I do right now, in this beige hotel room on Christmas night, knowing that the best thing in my life is five miles away believing I chose leaving over her.
Because maybe I did. Maybe Connor was right. Maybe I am halfway out the door, just waiting for the excuse to finish the exit.
My phone sits silent on the nightstand. Outside, the first light of dawn starts to creep around the curtains.
Somewhere, families are waking up to new Christmas presents and coffee and that lingering Christmas morning magic.
And I'm here, alone with my jacket that smells like her and my mouth that still remembers the shape of hers.
I think about Lucy sleeping across the hall from Connor, not sleeping at all. I think about Emma and Jim trying to salvage some kind of Christmas morning. I think about Connor, vindicated and furious and right about me all along.
The ceiling fan keeps turning. The sky keeps lightening. And I stay where I am, paralyzed by the same thing that brought me here in the first place. The worry that I'm not enough. That I'll hurt her worse later if I don't end it now. That Connor's right and Lucy deserves someone who can stay.
Someone who isn't me.
I grab the phone one more time. Open a new message to Lucy. Type: I'm sorry.
Delete it.
Type: I was wrong to leave.
Delete that too.
In the end, I send nothing. Because what's the point? The damage is done. Christmas is ruined. And I've proven what kind of man I am—the kind who runs when it matters most.
The fan keeps turning. The light keeps growing. And I lie there, alone, with nothing but my jacket that smells like vanilla and the memory of her hands in my hair and the taste of her I can't forget.