Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
WILLOW
The next day is better. So, stupidly, I try broaching the subject of my mom while Roman helps me close up the store. We always close early on Sundays, which means the sky is still pale when we turn the locks, daylight bleeding out faster and faster as Christmas looms.
“I think she’d be proud of you,” I say, my voice softer than I intend. “Mom, that is.”
Roman laughs, brittle, a sound that doesn’t belong in December, too fragile for a season built on warmth and light.
He slides the key into the storage room lock and mutters, “For what? For not ending up in prison? For not dying in a ditch somewhere? For not destroying my life? Yeah, real big accomplishments.”
My throat tightens. “For being a kind and generous person. For always trying your best, even when it’s hard. For never giving up on the people you love.”
He goes still, staring at me with something unreadable. Then his mouth twists. “I think you’re mistaking me for a mirror, St. Willow.”
Unbelievable. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I grip the counter, nails biting into wood. Sincerity, right? Just . . . communicate. “Could you just take the compliment for what it is?”
Roman lets out a low laugh, humorless. “It’s a sweet story. But let’s not kid ourselves. Your mom was nice.”
His words hit like ice water poured straight into my chest. Despite all this time.
Despite how my mom loved him, supported him, saw more in him than he ever gave himself credit for—it’s still not enough.
Not when his demons scream louder. Not when tearing himself down keeps everyone else at arm’s length.
Even me.
I cross my arms, trying to hold myself together. “You’re impossible sometimes.”
“I’m just calling it how it is, Princess.” He says it so casually, like it’s fact, like I’m an idiot for not seeing all the broken parts he hates.
It’s days like these that make it unbearable to reconcile the man I love with the one drowning in his self-loathing.
“Bullshit,” I whisper.
His head jerks up, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
“Bull. Shit.” My voice is louder now, shaking.
“If you don’t believe me, fine. That’s your problem.
But don’t you dare for a fucking second think my mother wasted her breath on you if you weren’t exactly the kind, incredible man you are.
Don’t you dare rewrite her love just because you can’t stand to accept it. ”
Don’t you dare act like mine is, either.
“Willow—”
But I can’t. If I stay, I’ll break. My feet move before my brain catches up. Out the door, down the street.
The cold tears into me, wind slicing my cheeks, my coat no match for the December air.
I scrub at my face, furious at the heat of tears slipping free anyway.
The Christmas lights strung across Main Street blur, little halos against the darkening sky.
My heart is an ache I can’t swallow, too full of grief, anger, and love to fit inside my chest.
“Fucking impossible,” I breathe into the winter air, words turning to steam, vanishing before I can take them back.