Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dylan
What was I thinking?
I’ve been kicking myself all day for that stupid “just friends” comment at breakfast.
The way she’s sitting right now, alone on the couch next to the Christmas tree, shoulders slightly hunched, withdrawn from the noise and bustle of my family in other parts of the house ... it makes me wonder if I’ve already screwed things up.
The living room is peaceful compared to the chaos that filled it this morning. Discarded wrapping paper has been cleared away, replaced by the neat stacks of gifts each person received.
Most of my family has dispersed—Dad’s snoring in his recliner in the den, Mom’s in the kitchen with Aunt Julie, preparing leftovers for everyone to take home, and Genna disappeared with Paul about twenty minutes ago, probably showing him her childhood bedroom upstairs.
Which leaves just me and Cheyenne.
Alone.
With all these words I need to say but can’t seem to form properly.
I watch as she shifts slightly, tucking one leg underneath her. The book I gave her sits beside her on the couch.
Did she understand what I was trying to communicate with that inscription?
Or did my stupid comment this morning erase any meaning it might have had?
“Some things are worth more than they appear. Looking forward to finding out how this story ends.”
I meant us. What’s between us—whatever it is that’s been growing these past few weeks—might be worth exploring.
But of course, my dad made that joke about the article, and I panicked when everyone was looking at us...
“We’re just friends.”
Three words I’d give anything to take back.
I’ve rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in my head since breakfast, and nearly approached Cheyenne at least three times during the day, only to chicken out at the last minute.
But I have to say something.
The way she’s been avoiding me all day ... the way she barely looked at me when she thanked me for the book...
I can’t leave things like this.
I run a hand through my hair, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to break. I take a deep breath and step into the room. The floorboard creaks under my foot, and Cheyenne’s head snaps up, her hazel eyes meeting mine.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“Hey,” I finally say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
“Hey,” she replies softly. Her fingers pause on the bracelet, then drop to her lap.
“Mind if I join you?” I indicate the empty spot beside her on the couch.
She shrugs, which isn’t exactly the enthusiastic welcome I was hoping for, but it’s not necessarily a rejection either.
I’ll take it.
I cross the room, hyperaware of every step, and lower myself onto the couch, leaving enough space between us that she won’t feel crowded.
“So,” I begin. “Good Christmas?”
Really? That’s what I’m going with?
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes fixed on the Christmas tree instead of me. “Your family always makes it special. Tell your mom thanks again for the scarf.”
“I will.” I clear my throat, searching for the right words. “Listen, Chey, about earlier—”
“It’s fine,” she cuts me off, still not looking at me. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
“But I do,” I insist. “What I said at breakfast—I didn’t mean it. Not in the way it came out.”
Now she does look at me, her expression guarded. “Then how did you mean it?”
I swallow hard. Here it is. The moment.
Just tell her how you feel.
“I panicked,” I admit. “Everyone was staring at us, and my dad was making jokes, and it just ... I didn’t want to put you on the spot like that. Not in front of everyone. Not when I wasn’t sure what you were thinking. About us.”
She watches me, her expression softening slightly. “And what about us?”
“I don’t know. That’s the thing. I don’t know what this is,” I say honestly.
“But I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this all day.
I gave you that bracelet because I wanted you to have something meaningful, not just some generic Christmas gift.
And the book ... I remembered you gushing over it when we walked by that window display, and I thought if I wrote—”
A sharp ping interrupts me.
Cheyenne’s phone lights up on the cushion between us, and I can’t help but glance down at the screen. The name “Garrett” appears above a message preview:
Garrett: I’m serious about us, Chey. I miss you. Can we talk? I want to—
The rest disappears from the preview, but it’s enough. My stomach drops like I’ve just taken a blindside hit on the ice.
Garrett wants her back?
Cheyenne grabs the phone quickly, but not before I’ve seen enough. Her cheeks flush pink, and she stuffs the device into her pocket without looking at the message.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I should’ve put my phone on silent.”
“No, it’s—it’s fine.” I hear myself backpedaling even as my mind races.
Garrett’s texting her? Today? Has he been texting her all day? Is that why she seemed distracted? Are they getting back together?
The thought makes me feel physically ill. She and Garrett were together for years. They have history. What do she and I have? A few weeks of confused feelings and one almost-kiss next to a Christmas tree?
“You can answer it,” I say, gesturing toward her pocket. “If it’s important.”
“It’s not,” she says firmly, but her fingers twitch like she’s fighting the urge to check the message.
“Look, I just wanted to clear the air, you know?” I hear myself saying, all my carefully planned words evaporating. “Make sure things aren’t weird between us. Because you’re important to me. As a friend. A really good friend.”
There it is again. Friend. I’m saying the exact opposite of what I want to say. But the ghost of Garrett is suddenly sitting between us on the couch, and my courage has vanished.
Cheyenne’s face falls almost imperceptibly, but I catch it—the slight downturn of her lips, the way her eyes dim a little.
“Right,” she says. “Friends.” She stands abruptly, smoothing her hands over her jeans.
“Actually, I should probably head home. Jhett’s been alone all day, and I need to let him out. ”
“Oh.” I stand too, feeling helpless as she gathers her things. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve got my car.” She picks up the book I gave her, holding it carefully against her chest. “Thank you again for this. It’s perfect.”
“You’re welcome.” I shove my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “So, I’ll see you ... when?”
“New Year’s Eve, right?” she says, already moving toward the doorway. “Genna mentioned a rooftop party?”
“Yeah, New Year’s Eve.” I nod, following her to the foyer where her coat hangs. “Let me help you with that.”
I hold her coat as she slips her arms into the sleeves, and for a brief moment, we’re standing close enough that I can smell her perfume, something floral and warm that makes my chest ache. She turns to face me, buttoning her coat, her eyes meeting mine for just a moment before skittering away.
“Merry Christmas, Dylan,” she says softly.
“Merry Christmas, Chey.”
And then she’s gone, the door closing behind her with a quiet click that somehow sounds ... final.
I stand staring at the door, listening to her car start in the driveway.
“Smooth move, idiot,” I mutter to myself, leaning my forehead against the door.
I had her. I had the perfect moment to tell her how I really feel, and I blew it. All because Garrett—freaking Garrett—decided today was the day to try to win her back.
What if she goes back to him? What if she’s on her way to see him right now?
The thought makes my stomach churn. Garrett didn’t appreciate what he had when he was with her. He hurt her. But they have history, and history counts for something.
I push away from the door and trudge back to the living room, collapsing onto the couch. My eyes land on a small glint of silver on the cushion—the dog charm from Chey’s bracelet. The clasp must have come loose when she was gathering her things.
I pick it up carefully, the tiny silver dog sitting in my palm like an accusation. Like physical proof of how badly I’ve messed up.
This is exactly why I’ve never allowed myself to get too close to women. This—this ache in my chest, this sinking feeling that I’ve lost something precious before I even really had it. It’s easier to keep things casual. Easier to be the carefree bachelor everyone expects that of me.
Caring hurts too dang much.
I close my fingers around the charm, feeling its edges press into my palm. I’ll have to return it to her at New Year’s, I suppose.
If she even wants to see me after today.
If she hasn’t already gone back to Garrett by then.
The thought sends a fresh wave of something hot and painful through me. Jealousy? Fear? Both, probably. And something else—something that feels alarmingly like ... heartbreak.
Which is ridiculous.
You can’t break what you’ve never offered to anyone.
But as I sit alone in my parents’ living room, the charm clutched in my hand, I have to admit the truth—at least to myself. Somewhere along the way, without me noticing or giving permission, Cheyenne has found her way past all my carefully constructed defenses.
And I just pushed her right into the arms of the man who hurt her.
Merry Christmas to me.