Chapter 30
thirty
LAILA
I can’t remember the last time I slept so soundly. The sheets are soft, the blankets thick, and honestly, it’s like being wrapped up in a cocoon of warmth and safety.
There’s a comforting heaviness, familiar and grounding. Like Holden, when we’d fall asleep on the couch watching movie marathons and wake up tangled together.
My eyes fly open.
There’s an arm sprawled across my waist, and absolutely no trace of the pillow wall I insisted on last night. It’s a little awkward, but not enough to justify the fluttery feeling in my chest.
I am not supposed to be here.
I ease away, careful not to wake Holden, wincing when I inch out from the warm spot of our snuggled-up bodies.
Holden’s arm tightens around my waist, tugging me back to him.
“Where’s my wife sneaking off to?” His voice is still gravelly from sleep.
Wife?
WIFE?
Even on our fake honeymoon, he didn’t use the term so loosely.
Holden is mostly still asleep, and the man isn’t this quick with his wit first thing in the morning. What is happening right now?
“I was going to make coffee,” I croak, my head spinning.
He nuzzles my neck, his beard scratching against my skin. “I set the timer last night. Stay with me a little longer.”
The words echo last night’s plea, “come back to me. I’ll keep you safe”. He’s acting like nothing between us ever broke.
Part of me doesn’t care. I’ve missed this quiet intimacy of belonging to someone. But there’s a bigger part of my brain that can’t ignore that this isn’t real.
This has to be a dream. An overly realistic, “I took too much melatonin before bed” kind of dream. It always gives me weird dreams, anyway, and that’s why I rarely take it.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten Mississippily.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
When I open them again, it’s clear that this is very real. All of it. The warm golden light, the weight of Holden’s arm, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla.
To be extra sure, I pinch the skin of my forearm, hissing when I feel the bite of my nails.
Definitely not dreaming.
“I should check on Ella,” I mumble. “Make sure that they’re not snowed in at the farm.”
Usually, I’m looking for any excuse to be close to Holden for a bit longer, but nothing has been normal since October. This shouldn’t feel so off.
Except—it feels like what we started last December.
“I thought you stopped taking melatonin, honey,” he says. “They always give you weird dreams.” He props himself on his forearm and blinks down at me. No glasses yet, just a sleepy, rumpled version of my favorite person.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say.
“Then you should’ve woken me,” he murmurs. “That’s what I’m here for.” He smiles, small and drowsy, and it’s the kind of moment that used to make everything else fade. For half a heartbeat, I almost let it. “It hasn’t snowed here in years.”
My stomach drops. “It snowed last night. You were there.”
I shove the covers back, wincing at the sudden drop in the air temperature. Anxious to prove him wrong, I gesture at the fireplace, but it’s dark, cold, and spotless. Like we didn’t fall asleep to crackling logs and the warm heat.
My breath catches. I glance down at my pajamas…snowmen. Not plaid and definitely not mine. Yet, the details are wrong in the prettiest way.
I don’t know why my next instinct is to lift my left hand, but it is. Or why it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room when my rings are back on my hand. The only difference is that two slim Art Déco bands frame the beautiful moss green agate ring, now.
Wife status: confirmed.
The world tilts, golden light rippling across the floor like sunlight caught in glass.
“Where did you get these?” I whisper.
Holden is setting up in bed now, his brow furrowed in concern. “We picked them out together, La.”
There’s an odd mix of terror and elation battling in my chest.
I spin slowly, taking in all the details of this room.
The walls are cream, with exposed wood beams stretching across the ceiling above us.
Garland drapes across the headboard—yet something else that reminds me of our fake honeymoon—and a massive Christmas tree glows by the picture window.
It’s stuffed to the brim with ornaments that I don’t remember ever picking out.
Photos cover the walls—so many photos—in frames on the dresser and nightstands. Wide grins, tanned faces, laughter. A well-documented love story of two people who chose each other.
A copy of The Enchanted Hollow Bedtime Collection sits on the nightstand, Aurora Thorne’s name embossed in silver—a wink from the universe.
My story that Ella’s dad always told me is in there.
The one that says that every gumdrop is just a sweeter breadcrumb, a way home disguised as sugar.
I used to think that was just a pretty line in a story.
Now I’m wondering if she meant it literally.
This “life” feels disguised in sugar; it’s so sweet.
“La?” His eyes are soft with concern. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I manage.
“You didn’t move all night,” he says gently.
Maybe I’m suffering a psychotic break.
“We had a pillow wall,” I whisper. “You promised to stay on your side.”
But there’s no hint it even existed. An oversized chair sits next to the tree, filled to the brim with throw pillows.
He raises an eyebrow. “A pillow wall?”
“When we got here,” I blurt. “Your brothers played a prank or something. There was only one bed, so—”
Holden chuckles. “We’ve only had one bed for years, honey.”
No, we haven’t! I want to scream it.
I hiccup, anxiety bubbling up in my chest.
“Come back to bed for a few minutes.” He waves in a come here motion.
Nothing makes sense, and it’ll be worse if I get back in that bed with him.
He sighs, like he knows I’m not moving, and tosses back the covers. He pauses to slip his feet into slippers that look like the ones I had on last night, little gingerbread men, and pads across the floor. Our pajamas match. Of course, in this weird, melatonin-induced dream, we match.
This is just a by-product of our conversation last night. It has to be.
But when he slips a hand behind my head, curling his fingers against my skin, it feels too real. Too much like something Holden would do when I’m spiraling. And to be clear, that’s not something I do often in front of him.
“This feels like more than a rough night’s sleep. You wanna tell me about it?”
“I don’t think you’ll believe me if I do,” I murmur.
“Whatever it is,” he says quietly, “I’ll listen. I’m here and you’re safe.”
The word safe makes my chest ache. I’ve always confused safety with control, and neither has ever lasted long. His words from last night echo again in my heart.
My body believes him before my brain, as usual. Holden is the embodiment of warmth and steadiness. But sometimes—like right now—there’s an icy whisper of: you’ll ruin it. You always do.
This life terrifies me.
I look back down at my rings and blink back the sting of tears. Of all the choices I’ve made along the way, this one carried through to whatever life I’m standing in now. And suddenly, that’s the only thing I can fixate on.
“What is this?”
He reaches for my rings with his free hand and adjusts them so they’re all aligned, then lets his hand linger.
“It’s our life,” he says simply, like it’s just a fact I’m supposed to accept.
But it’s too golden, too still. I used to think love should burn red-hot. This—whatever this is—glows instead. It’s soft and scary, all tangled up together. It feels real.
Except it’s not.
Not my life anyway. I want to know how this life came to be.
“Can you please just humor me?”
With a familiar press of his fingers, he brings me closer so he can press his lips to my forehead. It’s all so confusing, to be so familiar with someone, yet I don’t know how we got here.
“If you want to watch the engagement video again, all you have to do is ask. Or is it the wedding video?”
“We have both on video?” I whisper.
It’s such a small something, but it knits together the hurt in my heart. My desire to capture everything on video was something Holden wrestled with, and it’s the only thing we’ve ever really fought about. If you can even count it as fighting.
Holden has always wanted us to stay in the moment, and I’ve always wanted to preserve memories. It’s nice to know we came to some sort of agreement here.
I swallow hard. “This feels so real.”
“Why wouldn’t it be, honey?” he asks, shifting his hand so his thumb brushes against my jaw. “We’re real.”
This moment is too perfect. He’s saying and doing all the right things—which is very on brand for Holden—but it’s everything else. It’s all shiny and sharp-edged and flawless.
Like one wrong move might mess it all up.
“Perfection is an illusion,” he continues, his voice soothing my nerves. “You’ve always told me that. The chaos, the messiness, the choosing—that’s real. And I’ll always choose you.” The words land like a promise I don’t remember earning.
But I didn’t choose this.
I don’t know how. Or what to say back.
And as usual, Holden accepts that.
He wraps his arms around me, drawing me into his chest. Once again, Holden is my anchor. He’s doing the same thing he’s always done for me—he’s offering me unconditional steadiness.
Maybe this reality exists because I picked the blue pill, and I’m blissfully and ignorantly living in a simulation of my deepest desires.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“The kids requested gingerbread pancakes for breakfast, so why don’t I go get started on that? You can take a few minutes and come down when you’re ready.”
“G-g-gingerbread pancakes?” I stutter. I’m much less surprised by his offering of food than by who requested it. He’s always making sure I eat.
Of course. Even my subconscious runs on sugar.
He grins and kisses me once more. “Don’t act like you didn’t cast a vote last night.”
I wasn’t here, so I didn’t cast any votes. But if I had been, I would’ve. I hate how much this tracks so close to the life I dream of on the rare occasion that I let myself.
He heads to the bathroom to grab a robe and do whatever else he needs to do, and I glance around the room again. I don’t know where I keep anything. If I walk around opening and closing doors, Holden is really going to think I’ve lost it.
I decide to investigate the tree until he leaves.
Holden always gave me a gingerbread ornament every year until the visit to Sweetheart Springs. That started a new tradition of ornaments he paints. Or at least I think it’s a new tradition because in my reality, he’s only ever given me one. A painting of the bridge on a wood round.
I can measure time by the ones adorning the tree—there are now five more.
That means—
“That trip changed everything for us, you know,” he says softly.
I don’t know when he came up behind me, but I startle a little, my touch causing the ornament to sway on its branch.
“Oh?” I ask, steadying it.
He wraps his hands around my waist, the faintest scent of his mint toothpaste wafting over my shoulder. This Holden is freer with his touches than mine. I didn’t think that was possible, but maybe that’s marriage.
“Yeah. You really must’ve liked pretending to be my wife.”
He noses my neck right where it meets my shoulder, and I can’t help the giggle that escapes. He’s got insider knowledge of every spot that makes me squirm. Totally unfair.
“Maybe I did,” I say.
“See you in a few minutes, honey.”
And then he leaves me to stare at a slew of memories that I never lived.
I trace the outline of a glass one from Dreamy Pines Farm in Sweetheart Springs. This one we picked up only a few months ago when we followed through on our plans to go back for our “six-month anniversary”.
The glass warms beneath my fingertips, and I yank my hand back.
I know what this is.
This is what I wished for under the lights of the wish tree at the farm, standing beside Sebastian.
I wish I could see what it’s like to live without fear.
Somehow, I’m standing inside the answer. Like some weird time warp from the Ghost of Christmas Future.
“If this is a haunting, it’s the kind I asked for,” I whisper. “Just… maybe skip the part where I can’t wake up.”
Nothing. Not even a whisper of a ghostly breeze. Which is great, because now I just look even more nuts than I already did.
Which means one thing: I’m stuck in the life I could have if I’d quit running.
That’s scarier than a ghost.