27. Holly
27
HOLLY
Christmas is creeping into every inch of this town, and there’s no escaping it. Not in the snow-dusted streets, or the twinkling fairy lights on every corner, or even the Blizzards main hall, which today is our playground-slash-warzone for all things festive. A veritable gingerbread palace in the making, except, well, without the gingerbread. Just tinsel, trees, and too many arguments over which shade of red best screams holiday cheer.
Lauren, Mia, and I are stationed in the center of it all, awaiting the arrival of the decorator who’s meant to take this place from ‘semi-jolly’ to ‘full Christmas explosion.’ Mia’s flipping through her notes like she’s about to ace the SATs on holiday decor, while Lauren’s eyeing me, suspicion crinkling her brow.
“It’s snowing again,” she notes casually, glancing at me as if she’s testing a theory. “Pretty, right?”
“Beautiful.” The word flits out, barely more than a mumble. It’s hard to keep my focus straight on anything with thoughts of Ethan floating around in my head. The way he disappeared outside for a call last night, so mysterious and distant—like he’d been exchanging secrets with a ghost.
Lauren’s eyes narrow. “You haven’t heard a word, have you?”
“Of course!” The lie tumbles out too quickly, and her raised eyebrow says she isn’t buying it for a second.
“Uh-huh. Okay, well, try to keep up, Sherlock. We’ve got glitter decisions to make.”
Before I can defend my innocence (or lack thereof), the decorator strides in—a tall, rakish guy with a wild mane of curls and a scarf that looks like he’s just walked off a Christmas runway. He beams at us, hands sweeping out like he’s presenting the Sistine Chapel.
“Ladies, are you ready to make Christmas … fabulous?”
He’s a burst of energy, twirling swatches of fabric and shiny ornaments, holding up tinsel like it’s precious metal. And yet, with each sparkle and swoop, my mind keeps slipping away, drifting back to Ethan, that woman, and the endless question marks in my head. The way his jaw had clenched when I’d asked about the phone call and the brush-off with his “agent.”
The decorator is going on, way too enthusiastically, about “modern sparkle aesthetics,” waving his hands in wide arcs, and I catch a bit about “red-and-gold explosions of luxury meets whimsy.” But it’s a lost cause. Ethan keeps popping into my head, or rather the Ethan and Mystery Mall Woman Situation. Stubbornly, I shake my head, trying to follow the decorator’s rapid-fire explanations, but my focus slips again. Ethan’s been distant, and worse, has been taking phone calls outside in the snow. I mean, who even does that?
“Could we maybe do the centerpieces a little subtler?” Lauren’s voice yanks me back to reality.
“Yes, maybe … minimalist?” I manage, pretending I haven’t missed the last ten minutes of discussion. Minimalist sounds right, like clean, clear, honest. Oh, the irony.
It doesn’t take long for Lauren to pick up on my zoned-out gaze. She nudges Mia, who lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“Maybe we should take a break?” Lauren says, a too-casual look on her face. My excuse evaporates on my tongue. I’m about to argue, but before I can form a sentence, Lauren’s pulling me away from the decorator, shooing him off with a polite “We’ll let you know” that he thankfully doesn’t question.
As soon as the decorator gathers his bag and papers, waving a flamboyant goodbye, she shuts the door and raises an eyebrow at me.
“Holly, you look like you’re ready to pass out right here on the tinsel. I had to play interpreter for a solid hour in there.”
“I’m sorry—” There’s no escaping. She’s already eyeing me with that annoyingly perceptive look of hers, and Mia is watching carefully.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Holly, are you thinking about him and that woman again?” Lauren rolls her eyes. “I thought you’d have asked him and all this would be over now.”
“I couldn’t.”
“What’s going on?” Mia asks with eyes narrowing.
Lauren shakes her head. “Let’s talk about it at the sushi place next door. I don’t think she’s eaten.”
Before I know it, we’re packed into Mia’s car and headed toward lunch, the ride filled with an uneasy silence.
The restaurant’s cozy, dimly lit, and brimming with the scent of gingerbread and miso. A cheery Christmas mash-up plays softly in the background and as we settle into a booth, an array of tuna rolls and spicy salmon rolls on their way.
Mia’s gaze is still questioning so I sigh. “Fine,” I mumble, tracing circles on the table. “I saw Ethan the other day … with this woman. And he never mentioned it.”
Mia and Lauren’s brows shoot up in unison, and Lauren goes from concerned to appraising in a flash. “Wait, who was this woman?”
“Not a clue,” I say, feeling slightly queasy. “Tall, glossy hair, red lipstick. She looked like she just walked off the set of a perfume ad.”
“Oh, that kind of mysterious. Does he know you saw him?” Mia adds, popping a piece of tuna roll into her mouth.
I shake my head, still lost in thought. Just as a spicy salmon roll hits my mouth, the smell suddenly turns sour. My stomach rebels and everything spins. Oh no.
It’s a betrayal, really. I love sushi. But this— this is the kind of nausea that no ginger tea can cure.
“Be right back.” The panicked squeak barely gets out of me. Bolting up, I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
Once the sushi-induced queasiness is dealt with, I return, forcing a strained smile as I slide back into my seat. Lauren’s eyes are wide, worry already carving little lines around her mouth. “Are you okay?” she asks, the words slower, as if talking to a wild animal. “This is, like, the third time you’ve been sick this week.”
“I’m fine.” The lie sounds weak even to me. “Maybe just stressed?”
“This is more than stress.” Lauren’s face softens, her usual sass turning to concern. “Holly, are you sure you’re okay?”
“No need to worry. Just some nausea.” I brush off their questions, but Lauren’s eyebrow only arches higher.
“You need rest.” Mia leans back, crossing her arms. “Look, Holly, you’re looking terrible, and no amount of good rating is worth you collapsing.”
“I know,” I sigh. “But the gala’s coming up, and I can’t just bail. Besides, I’m fine.” Except I’m not, not by a long shot.
Mia nods. “So, he hasn’t told you who she is?”
“I haven’t asked him.”
Lauren shakes her head and lets out a disappointed sigh. “C’mon girl. This kind of suspense isn’t good for you.”
“Maybe she’s just a friend?” Mia suggests, her face twisted into an expression that clearly doesn’t believe her own words.
“A friend he conveniently failed to mention? Yeah, right,” I reply, frustration seeping through. “And now … Ugh, I’m just tired of not knowing what’s going on.”
“This thing with Ethan … if it’s affecting you, maybe it’s time to talk to him. Figure it out. You look like you’re carrying around a sack of rocks.”
Talking to Ethan. It’s such a simple solution. But the pit in my stomach grows at the thought. It’s one thing to be nervous about someone, another to not know if you can even trust the answer they’ll give. And lately, that trust feels as fragile as sugar glass.
“I don’t know if I can believe what he tells me anymore.” The words come out in a rush, almost surprising myself with their honesty.
Lauren’s hand rests on mine. “Well, if you need to get away for a night, you know our place is open. Just say the word.”
I force a smile, grateful for her offer but knowing I’d only feel hollow without him around. “Thanks, but I’ll try to figure it out.”
Their offer sticks with me as I go back home alone, mind churning with every possible explanation for Ethan’s mystery woman. Inside, I slump onto the couch, physically tired but mentally reeling. Sleep sounds amazing, though my brain clearly has other plans. Ethan’s absence gnaws at me, and every sound in the house feels exaggerated.
I check my phone to see I’ve got two new texts. The first one’s from Mom, announcing that they’re flying back to the U.S. next week, complete with enough heart emojis to fill a digital scrapbook.
The second text isn’t so heartwarming. It’s from Jake, my ex. And with it comes the news: he’s signed a deal to do some promotional adverts with the Blizzards, so he’ll be staying around a bit more. My stomach flips, nausea rolling in waves as the implications hit. Seeing him, running into him—it’s all going to be unavoidable now.
I can’t move, can’t breathe. My stomach lurches again, bile rising. I hurry to the toilet seat and spend the next five minutes heaving. As soon as I’m back on the couch, my fingers fumble for my phone, opening an AI browser to search my symptoms. Nausea, fatigue, mood swings, random food aversions. I hold my breath as the bot processes my list. The answer comes through like a cold shock — pregnancy.
No. That’s … impossible? Surely? But I’ve missed my period for more than a week now. The possibility wraps itself around my brain, squeezing tight.
The realization freezes me to the core. This can’t be happening—not now, not with everything already balancing on the edge. But the thought has a weight that feels too real to ignore. Heart hammering, I grab my coat, purse, and keys, racing to the nearest convenience store.
The store’s quiet, its fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over every aisle. The test box feels absurdly small, too flimsy for the enormity of the task. At the register, the cashier glances over with that half-sympathetic, half-curious look reserved for the obviously anxious.
“Mind if I use the restroom here?”
The nod is quick, as if he’s seen this a dozen times before.
Inside the small, antiseptic bathroom, the seconds feel eternal as I wait for the result. The seconds tick by like hours as I wait, breath shallow and mind whirling. And then — two lines.
Two. Lines.
I blink, hoping they’ll vanish. They don’t. My mind swirls, thoughts tangled in a panicked knot, barely able to process this unexpected, tiny, life-altering detail.
The bright lights of the convenience store feel like they’re pressing down on me, and the stale scent of bleach doesn’t help. Two lines, bold as ever, stare back at me like they’ve got something to prove. If there’s a time for me to melt into the tile floor, now would be it.
But nope, the world doesn’t collapse, and the little stick doesn’t magically change its mind. So, with my pulse pounding in my ears, I leave the restroom and stumble to the front of the store, keeping my head down as I make a beeline out the door.
The cold air hits like a slap — crisp, grounding, painfully real. Each gust seems to pierce through the fog in my mind, but not enough. I need someone. A friend. A plan. Or maybe a very long scream session into a pillow.
Mia’s café sits just a few blocks down, and before I know it, my feet are propelling me straight there, the glow of the “Mia’s Grind” sign pulling me in like a beacon. The café’s warm glow and wafting scent of espresso hit me as soon as I step inside, and I pause, letting the cozy air wash over my frayed nerves.
Mia’s darting between tables, trays balanced in both hands, that trademark focused look on her face as she maneuvers around the café with the grace of a pro figure skater on caffeine. She spots me from across the room and sends a quick, surprised smile in my direction, one eyebrow arching as if to say, “You working or hiding?”
She makes her way over, tray still in hand, and I manage a shaky smile in return. “Hey, Mia, need an extra set of hands?” The words spill out before I can process them, but the distraction might help.
“Of course, but are you sure you’re good?” Mia’s eyes narrow in that caring way she’s got.
“Yep! Just … give me something to do,” I say, forcing enthusiasm I absolutely do not feel.
Mia doesn’t ask further, just hands me a tray with a mix of coffees and pastries, and I glide through the tables, offering smiles and keeping my mind as blank as possible. Pouring all energy into delivering orders is exactly what I need — at least, for now.
The quiet moments creep back between orders, though. Once the café’s rush dies down, Mia sidles up to me, setting down a tray with a soft thud. “You look like you’re either on the verge of fainting or preparing to give me some wild confession,” she says, dropping into a seat across from me and folding her arms.
There’s no hiding from Mia’s all-knowing stare. Might as well spill it, even if I can hardly hear myself over the thumping in my chest.
“Promise not to tell anyone, especially Lauren—not yet?” I whisper.
She nods, her eyes warm and waiting.
My voice drops to the tiniest whisper. “I’m … pretty sure I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air, as foreign as if I’d just spoken them in another language. Mia’s eyes widen, a slow, steady gasp escaping her lips. “Are you serious?”
I nod, still too stunned to manage anything beyond that.
“Oh, Holly,” she murmurs, squeezing my hand. “How are you feeling about it?”
“It’s just a lot.” The words come out on a shaky laugh. “One moment I’m organizing Christmas events, and now, it’s like—bam! —instant life change. And with everything going on with Ethan, I just don’t know.”
Mia’s gaze softens. “Are you going to tell him?”
A chill runs through me, as if a tiny snowflakes melted on the back of my neck. “I don’t know yet. I can’t — not until I know what’s happening with him. He’s been so off. Secretive.”
“Take things slow,” Mia advises, patting my shoulder. “But if it all gets too much, you’re welcome to stay with Lauren or me. No need to stew over it alone.”
Relief washes over me, taking the edge off the whirlwind of emotions. “Thanks, Mia. I’ll think about it.”
The café hums with soft conversation and clinking mugs as I gather myself. Everything feels so loud and intense — like every heartbeat, every breath is amplified. But Mia’s calm presence, her offer of a safe haven, soothes the chaos inside, if only for a little while.
A sense of quiet resolve settles over me. There’s the Christmas gala to plan, a swirling mess of emotions to sort through, and yes, a little secret growing inside me — one that will stay safe until I’m ready to share it.