Chapter 35
thirty-five
LAILA
We take turns cleaning the kitchen and the kids until Holden calls it good enough for now. We all pile into the living room, this time in pajamas that match all four of us.
Our newly decorated tree twinkles softly in the corner, and I cover both Luna and Henry in warm, fuzzy blankets in various shades of plaid.
Maybe plaid is plaid after all.
Holden holds up a stack of Christmas DVDs and grins. “We’ve got Elf, Home Alone, The Grinch, and The Muppet Christmas Carol.”
“No Scrooge. Scary.” Henry pulls his blanket up so only his eyes are showing, and I open my arms so he can scramble into them.
“He can be,” I agree, glancing up at Holden. “Michael Caine really committed to that role.”
“On second thought, ghosts before bed might be a bad idea,” he whispers.
“I know Santa!” Henry shouts, grinning up at me.
“Do you?”
“He means Elf,” Luna says. “I want that one, too.”
I think we really missed an opportunity here by not naming her Hermione.
LeviOsa, not LeviosA.
“Outnumbered,” Holden says, flashing a grin at me. “But Home Alone after. Another tradition.”
My heart flutters a little faster. “Deal.”
We’ve already let the kids stay up entirely too late—at least by what I consider normal standards—but I assume he means just us.
As soon as he’s done loading the movie, he drops into the space between Luna and me.
He stretches an arm across the back of the couch, inviting me in, and I snuggle Henry closer as I settle beside him.
By the end of the opening credits, there’s soft snoring coming from my lap. Henry’s heavier, his little body pressed against mine. Luna giggles at the antics on television, and every once in a while, Holden leans in to whisper funny commentary in my ear.
About half an hour in, Luna slumps against Holden’s side.
“I guess we wore them out,” I whisper, absently stroking Henry’s hair.
“All those fun old-fashioned family Christmas shenanigans,” he winks. “I’ll go put them in bed.”
“I can help. We’re evenly matched, it just makes sense.”
He chuckles as he scoops up Luna, and I cradle Henry close as we take them to their rooms. As I lay him in bed, I mentally catalogue the day—every laugh, every glance—just in case today is all I get.
I tuck the blanket under his chin, his lashes resting heavy against his cheeks. Henry once said that stories are rituals so people can make sense of the world. Maybe that’s what today was—a ritual of sorts. A way to remember how love can make a home out of chaos.
Sebastian said I’d remember no matter what, and I want to.
The family breakfast, the commentary during our wedding video, the tree farm, the quick carriage ride Holden snuck in before we picked up the kids, and everything once we got home. The decorating, the food—all of it.
Henry said people need rituals so they have a sense of order and control in a chaotic world. Folklore is one of those things. The stories we tell need rituals for structure and meaning, to bridge between the ordinary and the extraordinary. But sometimes, the endings have to change.
It’s something that I can’t stop thinking about.
Holden and I got close to changing our ending, and then I fell right back into old habits—holding back and keeping him at a distance to protect him.
But it’s obvious that we somehow got here without that choice.
This is a completely different ending—where I stopped running and we finally turned a new page.
Holden is quiet as he meets me in the hall, and even quieter as his hand slips into mine to lead me back to the living room. I settle on the couch while he turns off the lamps, and soon it’s just the two of us in the soft glow of the Christmas lights.
If this is my ghostly glimpse of what could be, I don’t ever want to wake.
“Think you can hang in for Home Alone?” he asks, waving the DVD around.
“You know, you can stream these on the internet now.”
“But why would I want to ruin tradition?” He squints at me like I’ve suggested a trip to the moon.
“That’s fair. What’s Christmas without eating junk and watching rubbish?”
“Perfect answer,” he says.
He starts the movie and disappears into the kitchen. Moments later, he appears with an armful of Christmas tins.
“What are those?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.” He pulls off the lid to expose my favorite of his concoctions—gingerdoodles.
“You didn’t have to go all in with the rubbish like that!” I scoot forward and swipe two from the tin, shoving one in my mouth almost immediately.
We settle into the cushions, and he pulls a blanket over both of us.
I only make it to the part when Kevin wakes up alone before I can’t ignore an unfinished conversation from the lake.
I don’t know how much longer I’ve got here, so I want to make it count.
“You said I don’t take enough credit for blowing up our business.” My finger traces the rim of my coffee cup, round and round, so I can avoid his gaze.
“You don’t, Laila. You rarely do.”
“It’s just a bunch of photos and videos,” I mumble. “I tell people to buy stuff.”
He touches my arm. “That’s not even close to what you do. Can you look at me, please?”
With a raise of my chin, I shift to see him. In the soft light of the Christmas lights and the fire, it’s a little harder to read his expression, but I can see enough to know he’s being earnest.
I plunge ahead without giving him the chance to say anything.
“Your gift in the kitchen is what keeps people coming back. It’s not me, Holden,” I say, gesturing to the tins of cookies on the coffee table.
“It’s the love you put into your food. You are always underestimating what you’re capable of, too. ”
“That’s what makes us perfect for each other.
” He smiles. “You started it by giving humanity to the bakery, honey. At first, it was sort of like a mini documentary series, I guess. Videos of my parents, me, and Kenna. The process of how we prep every morning, filling the farm stand, and delivering food to The Storybook Cafe.”
A lump centers in my throat as he rattles off the things I’ve wanted to do for his family. I haven’t done them because I was scared they’d think I was exploiting them, but I suppose those are my mother’s words, not theirs.
He continues. “You created social media pages, a new website for all the online ordering and the gift boxes, and everything else you could dream up. Even the gingerbread bouquets with Violet—those things are everywhere now. Every farm-stand display, every Christmas market stall. You’d be proud of how they’ve taken off. ”
A soft laugh escapes me. “Of course they have. Sugar and flowers are unbeatable.”
“You said that when we first pitched it,” he reminds me, smiling.
“We actually had to hire more people to keep up with all the business you drummed up. When I told you I wanted to expand to a food truck so we could travel more around the area, you never even blinked. And when we finally got it ready to launch, you planned the event. You’ve never wavered in your faith in me. ”
“You had faith in me first,” I say, before I can stop myself.
But it’s true. He did, and he clearly still does.
I used to think love meant losing myself, that choosing Holden meant tucking everything I’d worked so hard for away in a box.
But maybe it’s never been about choosing. Maybe it’s about building something together instead.
“You said we planned the food truck together.”
“Some of it. But you got the ball rolling and steered the ship. I just let you boss me around.”
This is exactly what I want. Ella has been almost insufferable for the last two months—mostly because of how miserable I’ve been—going on and on about how amazing it is to have someone who encourages her and understands her.
Last year, I promised him a weekend with no filters, but I still wasn’t being real with him the way he deserved. I told myself it was practicality. But really, it was fear of finding this and losing it if I let my guard down.
I confined it to weekends instead of letting it blossom into this incredible life.
“I love you,” I whisper.
It’s not the first time I’ve told him this, certainly not in this reality.
But it’s not something I say often, either.
I show him with all the memories captured on all walls, or the way I set up his reminders for the things he can’t forget but still somehow manages to.
In the name of my social media project turned career: Sweet Things.
I’ve unconsciously mirrored back the love he gives to me without question.
“I love you, too.”
He reaches over and takes my hand under the blanket, his fingers warm and steady against mine.
I don’t want to go to sleep tonight. What if this is it? One day doesn’t seem like enough. But that’s the point, I guess.
If you find what you’re looking for, you can’t be lost anymore.
“This is real,” I whisper to myself.
Holden’s warmth is making me groggy, and soon my blinks last entire sections of the movie. The fire snaps quietly; the lights on the tree blur into halos. He shifts beside me, pulling me closer as he strokes his thumb lazily against my palm.
“Should go to bed,” he mumbles.
“This is perfect,” I breathe. “Let’s stay here.”
Love doesn’t burn here; it glows. Steady. Golden.
And I mean it with everything I’ve got. I don’t have to go back. I could stay right here and just keep going.
My eyes slip closed.
Halfway between wakefulness and sleep, Holden’s heartbeat thrums in my ears. I’m not sure when we changed positions, but the comfort of its steady rhythm pulls me into an even deeper sleep.
The kind that feels safe.
And when I open my eyes again, the light has changed.