Chapter 31
thirty-one
LAILA
The house has shifted since last night. The room I fell asleep in last night was downstairs, but this morning it’s upstairs.
I take my time exploring the rooms, soaking in the tiny details. So much of our story plays out on the walls of our home.
Our wedding photos fill the hallway, all taken on Ever After Farms, bathed in gorgeous golden light from the sunset.
Ella, Luke, and Lucy are there, a piece of family I didn’t know I was missing until recently.
I was always so jealous of Ella’s relationship with the Jacksons, and yet somehow they all became part of my world too. Love bloomed there.
The maternity photo stops me in my tracks. Holden’s hands cradle the swell of my belly, the love for this unborn child so apparent it takes my breath away. Pure awe. I trace the photo like I did the ornament on our tree, afraid that it might disappear if I blink.
More canvases follow—our children.
My throat tightens as I absorb these two tiny humans. A little girl with a smattering of freckles. A little boy with Holden’s smile. I don’t know them yet, but I ache with a love so deep it’s hard to fathom.
This life isn’t mine, even if all the pictures disagree. I have no memory to match them. But they fill me full of emotions I can’t even name.
“All I’m asking for is to let it get messy and real. I want to weather it all, not just enjoy the best moments.”
He only ever outright asked me once—on a sleigh ride through the snow—to stop living life through a filter. I couldn’t see the big picture then, but I see it now.
I don’t know how to circle back to this.
He asked me to marry him, and I told him I needed to figure out who I am first. He deserves someone who’s whole. I obviously figured that part out, but how?
The realization that we could be so close to living this life knocks the breath out of me. By sticking to only one weekend a year for so long, I’ve robbed him of this life.
No, even I know that’s not fair of me to tell myself. Holden would be furious if he knew I carried that sort of guilt. It’s a work in progress.
I haven’t robbed him yet, but I’ve prolonged it. Fear prevented me from seeing the possibilities of a life with Holden. But so has the lack of example.
As I walk down the stairs, it’s unnerving how many details bring back memories of last Christmas. The fresh garland wrapped around the handrail makes my heart pump in overdrive. It smells fresh, so I imagine it came from Luke’s farm.
Above the fireplace hangs a painting I know before my brain can even name it—a snow-dusted market square with wreaths and ribbons and tiny candy-cane lampposts glowing beneath a golden sky.
It’s the one from Sweetheart Springs. Piper Donovan’s signature still hides in the corner, faint against the snow.
The same painting Holden and I stood in front of, talking about what home should feel like.
I told him it belonged over a mantel, one packed with knick-knacks, garland, and laughter.
I guess he listened, because that’s exactly where it lives now.
My feet touch the bottom step, and a whole new level of detail assaults my senses: the warm and spicy aroma of gingerbread, the sounds of the Grinch coming from somewhere nearby. But most of all, it’s the level of coziness that infuses our space.
The sound of tiny feet on hardwood jolts me out of my reverie.
“Mommy!”
Their voices are tiny and bright. They barrel into my legs, one attached to each leg, and my world spins on its axis.
They’re clamoring over each other to get to me—to me—to hug and kiss me and tell me they love me.
There’s only one way I can put a name to the feeling overwhelming me, and my eyes seek his as the realization hits me square in the chest.
It’s unconditional love.
Fury muscles its way past the overwhelm. Because my mother stole this from me.
I sink down and bury my face against their heads, tears stinging my cheeks as they fight over who can get the closest to me.
Their high-pitched voices vie for my attention, chattering a million miles a minute about their morning so far.
I laugh as they tell me about Holden turning whipped green like the Grinch and how he made them hot chocolate for breakfast.
If there’s nothing else I take away from this magical snippet of what I hope is my future, it will be this. I vow right here on the floor that I’ll never let my image come before these kids. Or any others that come along.
Not long after we graduated high school, Bridget, Ella, and I moved into an apartment. We couldn’t wait to put some distance between ourselves and Mom because we realized we were pawns. Nothing more.
I can’t think of a single instance where she cared about any of us more than our image.
My talent might’ve landed me on the dance team in Enchanted Hollow, but it was all the classes she worked so hard to pay for that actually got me there.
She always managed to frame things as if she cared about what was best for her daughters—Ella excluded—but it was really about what served her own interests.
The Laila in this universe healed from the fear she’d do the same with her kids.
“They love you so much,” Holden chuckles, crouching down beside me.
Words form, but I can’t quite manage them out loud yet: you really did choose me. He chose me when I didn’t know how, and somehow, that got us here.
I sniffle through a smile as I hug them close.
“The feeling is mutual,” I whisper, and I mean it in every possible way.
Never mind the fact that I don’t even know their names or how to be a mom. Just knowing that the potential for this exists for me—if I allow it—is enough. That wound inside me soothes, like aloe vera on a burn.
He extends a mug of steaming coffee my way. “I brought you caffeine.”
I could kiss him for this act alone.
Instead, I let myself really look at him. Our initial meeting this morning was too spiral-y, and while I’m not quite settled, I’m in a better frame of mind. Sort of.
He doesn’t look that dissimilar from the Holden of yesterday, but there’s a clear distinction in his eyes. This Holden is satisfied with his life. I’ve never recognized it because I didn’t know what it looked like.
It goes from quiet to noisy in the time it takes the kids to scramble off me and dump a box of blocks all over the floor, but I don’t mind. I’m surrounded by a domestic scene I’ve never let myself hope for.
Henry would probably call this a retelling, our story rewritten. It’s the version where the girl doesn’t lose herself in the forest; she finds home there.
Last year was the first time I admitted I wanted marriage. I’m still wrapping my head around that one. Holden has told me over and over that he will wait as long as I need to figure things out—but I wonder if I’m making a mistake trying to shoulder it all on my own.
“You never stopped choosing me,” I whisper.
I can’t wrap my head around it. Even after everything I’ve put him through, the repeated distance, the literal walls, the pillow wall—Holden still chose me. It bears repeating simply because it’s a huge deal to me.
He presses the coffee cup into my hands and folds himself into a seated position on the hardwood floor beside me.
“I will always choose you.”
I take a sip of coffee out of habit as I process this. Somehow, it feels safer to talk to this Holden, since we’re already happy and married. The risk is removed, and I can say what I think. Or I can at least test that theory.
“I was really selfish, Holden.”
His eyebrows curve in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Confining us to one weekend a year.” I take another sip, like it’ll give me a boost of bravery. “We could’ve started this life earlier. We could’ve—”
My throat tightens. The thought alone is too heavy.
“I’m hiding the melatonin from you,” he says with a smile. “That was some dream, huh?”
I wish I could explain that this is a dream, sort of. I’m still working out exactly what it is. So I give a slight shrug instead.
“I’m just so glad you were patient with me.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, some of my tension melts away. I need to tell my Holden that.
“The best things in life are worth waiting for, honey.” He bends and presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I’d have waited ten more years for you if that’s what you needed.”
My heart flutters in my chest, and I don’t know if it’s from his words or the gentle gesture. Either way, I tuck the moment away.
“But you deserved—”
“Nope,” he says, with a firm shake of his head.
I could really get behind this firm side of Holden. The pushed-up sleeves and exposed forearms propped on his bent knees aren’t hurting either.
I blink. “What do you mean ‘nope’?”
“I mean, you’re not hijacking your day based on a guilt trip your dreams sent you down last night.
” He reaches over and tucks a hair behind my ear.
“I know you really wrestle with this idea of me deserving better than you, but lucky for you, I’m in charge of who I think deserves me. And that’s you.”
“But—”
“And as much as I love how you compare me to your teenage crush Peeta, we’re not doing the ‘Peeta deserved better’ speech either.”
My cheeks heat. “I did not have a crush on Peeta.”
“Ella would disagree.”
Oh, I’ll absolutely get her for this.
“She’s a liar.”
Holden gives me a crooked grin that would push me right into a proposal if I weren’t already married to him. Well, whatever this is.
“I kind of love being your ‘boy with the bread’, honey.”
“I have never called you that,” I hiss in embarrassment.
To your face.
He pulls me onto his lap, and I squeal—half out of shock, half out of pure delight.
“I need you to hear me right now.” His tone shifts from playful to gentle. “Focusing on how to survive your mother doesn’t make you a bad person. You thought you were protecting me by loving me with stipulations.”
Have I ever told him that? Or is he just that astute? Either way, he’s right. I thought pushing him away would keep us safe, keep me safe. But all it did was land us in relationship purgatory.
Those feelings are exactly why I turned down his proposal in October.
But as I sit here, soaking up all of this knowledge, I think I might have it all wrong. I’m not sure what “it” is yet, but maybe that’s what I’m supposed to figure out.
“You’re so wise.”
“I’m just a man who loves his wife.”
My Holden would tease me for not cringing at the word “wife”, not that he’s used it recently. And I suppose under normal circumstances, I would. But that’s because I didn’t understand what that word meant.
This morning, it’s the word I focus the most on. Every time the word passes his lips, I want to record it so I can replay it anytime I want to. Or need to.
“Even when I act nuts after too much melatonin?”
That’s an easier excuse than reality. We’ll just keep running with that.
“Even then,” he says.
“What about when I push you away?” My eyes sting with tears. “Or when I’m struggling to process my trauma? That’s a lot of baggage, Holden.”
He tugs me closer, so I’m practically cradled in his arms. “I loved you before you knew you had trauma, Laila. Why wouldn’t I love you while you’re healing from it? Every day can’t be perfect. We’ll always have messes to work through.”
I didn’t know how much I needed those words.
“What’s your sweet?” I whisper.
I don’t know if we still do this. But I suddenly need to know.
He grins. “There’s my girl. The day is still young, but I think it’s this—a lazy morning at home with my beautiful wife and kids.”
It dawns on me he’s not at the bakery. Usually, he’s up earlier than I am, prepping for the day long before I crawl out from beneath the covers. Now doesn’t seem like the best time to ask, especially when I’m not sure what day or year it is.
“I think mine might be gingerbread pancakes, if you ever offer me any.”
He feigns a pained expression and dramatically leans back, taking me with him.
“Geez, La—go right for the heart shot.”
“You love it when I compliment your food,” I tease. “But fine, you’re mine too.”
He balances us both—like one wrong answer will topple us over instead of righting us. That’s impressive core work, and now I’m curious about a lot more than his work schedule.
“Your what, Laila?” he asks, his voice dropping low.
Then I squeal as he tips us all the way back onto the hardwood, cushioning me from hitting the floor.
“Mommy pile!” he shouts.
Suddenly, little bodies are crawling all over both of us. Holden curls inward, still holding me, but I’m being attacked by hands. Tiny hands and big husband hands.
“No—time out! This is grossly unfair! I’m outnumbered!” I yelp between giggles.
Holden is in my ear. “What’s your sweet, honey?”
“You. It’s always you.”
I’m gasping for air at this point. The man must’ve told them every single tickle spot I have, and unfortunately, there are a lot.
“That earns you some gingerbread pancakes,” he says, sitting up.
His dark hair is ruffled, and we’re both out of breath, but I can’t think of a single time I found him more attractive. I can’t believe I’ve been afraid of this the whole time.
I want more of this in spades.
Since I don’t know the rules of how affectionate parents are allowed to be in front of kids, I seek an immediate subject change.
I’m having a lot of feelings about everything I woke up to, and Holden is here not only making it feel normal, he’s making it something I’m greedy for. He’s also saying all the right things—things my Holden would say if I gave him the chance—and pulling me into this family I didn’t know I wanted.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to kiss his face off.
NO.
“What do you have planned for today?” I ask.
He sighs. “It’s a pretty extensive itinerary. Lots of things.”
“Like tree farms and sleigh rides and hot cocoa?” I whisper.
His eyes flash playfully. “How did you know?”
“I had a feeling.”
“So what would you like to start with?” he asks.
“All of them. Let’s pack this day full.”
He pushes to his feet, and I gasp. Not gonna lie. I was not expecting that. I also don’t expect the way my cheeks heat as he gazes down at me.
“That’s the perfect answer, Mrs. Lockwood.”
I could swear the house hums in approval. Or maybe it’s just my heart.
Either way, I’m going to take this for exactly what it is. A lesson. One tastes a little like gingerbread and hope.