Chapter 10 #2
Ella glances between both of us, then echoes my earlier words back to me.
“You won’t like it.”
“I could give you a dissertation on why I already don’t like it, Ella,” I say. “I think I’ve received at least one hundred variations of the same ‘remind her what’s at stake’ text. It’s ominous, and I’m exhausted, and I just want to know what’s going on.”
Holy moly, that feels better.
I didn’t realize how heavy that one subject was.
Ella looks like she wants to hide. Or fight someone. It’s a battle I know well—trying to be brave when you’re terrified.
“This wedding has to go off without a hitch,” she says quietly, “or I lose my parents’ farm.”
Her words hit like a punch, and the room tilts.
“What do you mean?”
“She has to sign it over to me,” Ella says. “I don’t have the money to dig into this. Luke and I poked around a little, but honestly—I can’t fight her. Even if I tried at this point without proof, she’d just tie it up in court. Just to be mean.”
Bridget mutters a word we don’t use around fairy godmothers. “Of course she would.”
It’s hard to breathe, like something is pressing on my chest.
“She stole so much from all of us,” I say. “She stole my life from me, too”.
“Was Holden your Pacey?” Ella asks.
Bridget tilts her head, confused. But I’m following the conversation just fine.
I teased her about Luke last week, overly referencing our favorite teen drama, Dawson’s Creek.
And how Luke’s determination to fight for Ella reminds me a lot of Pacey Whitter.
That fictional character set a high bar, what can I say?
I drop my head back and laugh. “That man doesn’t have a deviant bone in his entire body. He’s literally a golden retriever. His kindness and generosity know no bounds.”
“Like Peeta?” She raises her eyebrows.
Oh. That point feels like another gut punch.
Holden is absolutely like Peeta.
It’s probably a coincidence that I noticed him—like, really noticed him—after an intense fictional love affair with Peeta Mellark: the boy with the bread. He was my first true love, even if it wasn’t real.
But Holden is real. I don’t think I’ve ever purposefully drawn comparisons between the two, but now that Ella has brought it to my attention, it might as well be a viral video I can’t look away from.
From his open affection with me to his ridiculous optimism, all the way down to his baking skills, Holden has all the characteristics that I loved about Peeta. Of course, I’d find my own Peeta Mellark and be terrified to commit. It’s the cruelest kind of irony.
“Don’t project my crush on Josh Hutcherson when we were younger into this conversation.”
“Just a simple observation,” she says. “Might I point out that Holden doesn’t have blonde hair, though?”
We both know my feelings have nothing to do with the movie version of Peeta. Or really even the book version. But she doesn’t press, and I don’t offer.
“Don’t tell me that makes me Katniss. I’ll kick you right out of this room.”
“I really missed how entertaining the two of you are when we’re all together,” Bridget says. At some point, she scooted up to Ella’s headboard, and she’s sitting propped up, watching our conversation play out.
Ella sits quietly for a moment, like she’s contemplating whether it’s worth my wrath. Then she tips her head and says, “Remind me why you’re here again, Laila? Wasn’t it something like: ‘I’m here to keep the attention off you as much as I can’?”
She’s quoting me to me. Siblings are awful sometimes.
“I also said I was here to test out being a full-time influencer,” I snap.
“But are you? What Annie mentioned doesn’t sound full-time. And that’s fine. Because I hear a bunch of excuses and no solutions.”
I hold up a hand. “Point made. Why do I even talk to you?”
“Because you love me.” She smiles. “And you know that I’m not afraid of you. I’ll tell you how I see it. How serious is it now—with Holden?”
Serious enough that I don’t want to admit that I can’t sleep unless I’m at Holden’s.
Which is really unfair to him, since he works early mornings, and he keeps insisting I take his bed.
He’s too tall for his couch, so his legs hang off, and every morning I tell myself that I’ll stay here. I’ll sleep in my bed.
But the ghosts of what was and what we could be always chase me back to him. The irony is suffocating.
“I don’t want her to touch him, Ella,” I whisper. “I don’t want her to tarnish any more of this relationship.”
Every time I picture Mom meddling, the fear wins. Love asks me to stay; fear tells me to run before she ruins it. I’m so tired of letting her write my endings.
Bridget leans forward, her hand raised like she’s in class. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a blunt question: Is Mom the reason you won’t choose him? Because if so, she’s still running your life.”
I hate that she’s right.
Maybe that’s the difference between us. Mom believes love burns. That it consumes. Holden makes me believe it can glow instead. Like it could be golden and lasting.
The type of real life fairytale that Ella believes in, and I’m too scared to.
“It feels like a no-win situation,” I whisper. “If I leap, Mom will aim to cause damage. If I pull back, I’m hurting him, anyway.”
Ella tucks a curl behind my ear. “Maybe the win isn’t avoiding pain. Maybe it’s choosing the love that makes the pain worth it.”
“One weekend a year wasn’t ever supposed to turn into this. It was supposed to prevent things from getting serious.” I groan.
“I don’t think that worked. What’s the saying these days? You’re down bad for him.”
Despite my frustration, I laugh. “Please don’t ever say that again.”
“Did I say it wrong?” she frowns.
Bridget joins in our laughter. “No, it’s just weird.”
“Two more days—after Thursday night, we can aim for normal. Cider on the farm. Movie nights. Complete veg mode.”
Normal sounds safe, and I crave that like I crave Holden’s baked goods.
The problem is, nothing about this feels normal anymore.
Not the magic in the air.
Not the way Holden looks at me.
Not the way I’m believing, maybe, just maybe, I belong here again.
It’s the same pull Hansel must’ve felt when he saw the lights through the trees: hope flickering like a promise. Tomorrow decides if I follow it… or lose the trail again.