Chapter 23
twenty-three
HOLDEN
Downtown smells like cinnamon, cold air, and second chances. Or at least what I think that might smell like if you know one was right in front of you.
I’m sure there’s an argument against actually being able to smell “second chances”, but people say they can’t smell “cold” either.
Ludacris nonsense.
Laila is quiet as we walk, her hands deep in her coat pockets. It’s almost like she’s afraid of touching me, or she’s worried we’ll be drawn to each other like magnets. Like we always are.
Snow freckles the street, catching on garland and the big wreath over Once Upon a Brew. I know she hates silence, but I don’t know what to say. I try to fill the silence, anyway.
“Quinn says she tweaked the Gingerbread Wishes Latte,” I offer, nodding toward the café. “Says it’ll change my life. Again.”
The corner of her mouth tips. It’s not a full smile, but it’s real, and I’ll take it. “She says that about every new drink she comes up with.”
“Only the ones with whipped cream,” I say. “Besides, you’re not one to talk. We both know how you get about a Mistletoe Mocha.”
I pull open the oversized wooden door, noting the shift in the stained-glass window at its center. There’s usually a plain steaming cup of coffee in the center, but now there’s a little Gingerbread man in the center of the cup, complete with colorful gumdrop buttons.
For a second, the glass almost glows. It makes me think of her story, the one about the trail of gumdrops that never stopped shining. Maybe that’s what she’s been doing all along—leaving little lights to find her way back.
I usher her in before me, eager to step into the warmth. The weather hasn’t been quite right since a few days before Holly’s wedding, and we’re all suspicious the mayor has something to do with it, since she’s known for providing a frigid blast when she’s miffed.
Quinn sees us and does that not-subtle-not-loud grin that says she’s cheering without using pom-poms.
“Two to-go?” She asks, already moving.
“Please,” I say.
We move to the end of the bar near the little jar of gumdrops and the tip bell and a hand-lettered sign: GOOD THINGS TAKE TIME. I’m not sure when she added it, and that bothers me—it shows how distracted I’ve been the last couple of months.
Laila bounces on her feet, the little puff on her beanie joining her rhythm.
It’s like she’s ready to run or ready to stay and hasn’t decided which takes more courage.
Gingerbread men line the pastry case instead of pumpkins.
The bulletin board of town flyers boasts The Gingerbread Trail instead of Autumn Enchantment and Homecoming.
Through the window, the square looks like a snow globe now, framed in real snow instead of fake orange leaves.
She’s here and also somewhere else.
I hate that I don’t feel like I can just tuck her close like I usually do, that our rhythm is so out of sync.
Quinn slides two cups across, then follows with a tiny paper bag.
“Sugar cookies. It was supposed to be a housewarming for your first weekend back upstairs, but I guess it’s just a ‘welcome back and enjoy Sam’s place’ for now.” She laughs.
“Thanks,” Laila says, her voice soft.
Quinn flashes her a bright smile and turns to the next order. No questions. The town protects its own, Laila included. It still makes my chest ache in a good way.
We collect our items and step back into the cold, breath pluming. Across the street, my bakery windows glow warm, and I feel that tug in my ribs that says go home, fold dough, fix the things that can be fixed with time and heat.
I don’t move.
“You want to stop in?” I ask. “Say hi to McKenna?”
“Not today,” she says, and the words are gentle, not sharp. “I need a minute before I go anywhere that feels like home.”
“Okay.” I mean it. I also store away the fact that “home” was the bakery first in her mind. It’s a small thing. It’s everything.
We drift past Fables and Folklore, the little bookstore that smells like cedar and paper, past the Treasure Trove Trading Company.
The town is quiet, the way towns get right before the lights come on, expectant.
Her hand goes deeper into her coat pocket.
Something in her shoulders changes, like a decision clicked into place.
“Holden?” she asks, stopping under a strand of lights strung between buildings. Snow glistens on the bulbs like sugar crystals.
“Yeah?”
“I need to give you something.”
My pulse kicks once and then settles. “Okay.”
She pulls out the coin—the same coin I slipped into her bag two months ago when I realized I couldn’t make magic for us, but maybe I could nudge it. She holds it in her palm like she’s weighing it.
“I think this belongs with you,” she says.
I don’t reach for it. “You sure?”
Her laugh is a breath. “No. Yes. I don’t know.
” She looks straight at me. “I told myself it helped—how the letters always found me. You remembered things no one else did. I used to read them and think, maybe he still sees me.” She swallows hard.
“But I think I kept the coin because it was easier to believe in magic than admit I wasn’t ready to be found.
You sent pages. I sent crumbs. Then I stopped, and the coin stopped working. That wasn’t the coin. That was me.”
Somewhere in my chest, something loosens and something tightens at the same time.
Truth does that. I can work with the truth.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I say, steady. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know.” She curls her fingers once around the coin before setting it on my glove. The metal’s cold enough to sting. “I need to stand on my own two feet before I stand next to you again. If it’s really magic, it’ll find its way home. Maybe that’s with you. Maybe one day it’s with me.”
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, sliding the coin into my pocket, “I kept writing. After the last one. Didn’t know if they’d still find you.”
Her breath fogs the air. “They did. Every single one. Maybe not because of the magic—maybe because you never stopped believing there was still a way to reach me.”
I nod once, the simplest truth I can give her. “That’s enough believing for both of us.”
Maybe magic never lived in the metal. Maybe it lives in the ones who stay—the steady hands, the open doors, the letters that always find their way back, the gumdrops that mark the path home.
Snow drifts between us, catching the streetlight—tiny, glowing crumbs leading each of us back to where we’re meant to be.
I nod toward the square. “You know the gingerbread bouquets I wrote you about? The ones Violet’s been helping me with? They’ve been selling like hotcakes.”
That earns me a genuine smile. “I might’ve seen a post or two about them on Hollow Hub.” She’s quiet for a moment, then continues. “Someone took a lovely photo of the farm stand—very nostalgic with the lights and the little gingerbread men with chef hats.”
I don’t point out that Ella helped me figure out an app called Pinterest, or showed me some of Laila’s boards. She’s definitely got a vibe she searches for when she looks. It’s apparently a pastime she’s got when she needs an escape.
I just paid attention and offered her gumdrops—or breadcrumbs—to light her way back. And I like that she noticed.
But that doesn’t mean I have to run everything I want to tell her through a filter. Just the things I know she’s not ready for.
“Returning the coin doesn’t mean I’ll stop believing in us,” I say. It feels like I’m straddling a fine line here, but I promised Kenna I’d be more open. “Just so we’re clear.”
She flinches like that lands and then lets out a breath that sounds like surrender to honesty, not to me. “That’s not why I returned it.”
I don’t ask, and she doesn’t offer. We just face each other while the snow accumulates. Nearby, a shop door jingles. Kids shriek with excitement at the uptick in snowflakes. There are fifty things—easy—that I could say to her right now.
But I choose the one that will still give her the space she needs.
“Ella’s on the farm all afternoon if you want to meet her there,” I say. “I need to make a delivery, so it’s no trouble.”
I wince, hating how we orbit each other. It all feels—off.
Normally, she’d grab my arm and ask when I was taking her to walk through the evergreens. Or for coffee. Or demanding those disgusting supermarket sugar cookies they put out every holiday.
“I do,” she says. “I won’t have a moment of peace and quiet until I go.”
“That’s fair.” I tip my chin toward the square. “They’ll light the tree tonight. If you want to go—I know it’s one of your favorite things.”
Something in her eases, like a knot giving way. “I think Ella, Luke, and Lucy have plans to come. Maybe we can all go together?”
It’s the smallest olive branch—but I greedily accept it.