Chapter 18 Evan
Evan
My speech that I thought I memorized is gone. Every word of it.
Three days of rehearsal, the entire drive here, even while Jocelyn interviewed romance authors about perfect New Year's Eve kisses at the bookstore—I'd been running through what I'd say. Pictured Holly the entire time they discussed countdown kisses and midnight moments.
Now she's here and I have nothing.
“Hi,” I finally manage.
“Hi. Your coat's buttoned wrong,” she says.
I glance down. She's right. Off by one button, the whole thing pulling strange. “I left the bookstore in a hurry.”
“Why?”
Her cheeks and nose match the pink in her scarf now, all made rosy by the December cold.
“You asked me to be here.”
We start walking. Neither reaching for the other. My hand keeps twitching toward her, muscle memory demanding what my brain won't allow yet.
“I started to drive back on Tuesday,” she says. “To find you. To apologize. Got halfway before I turned around.”
“Why?”
“I lost my nerve.” She stops walking. We’ve almost reached the town square, the Wish Tree visible ahead. “I'd been so awful to you. Accused you of—” She shakes her head. “I didn't know how to fix what I'd broken.”
“You didn't break anything.”
“I did. You were trying to explain and I just ... shut down. Shut you out.” She turns to me. “I couldn't figure out what to say that would be enough.”
“Holly—”
“Then Mrs. Kowalski told me about the scholarship fund.”
She keeps touching things as we walk—her scarf, her coat pocket, the edge of her sleeve. Her hands need something to do that isn't reaching for me. I recognize it because mine are doing the same thing.
“You did that while I was being horrible to you. While I wasn't answering your calls.”
“You weren't horrible. You were hurt.”
“It's too much. The endowment, the guest artists—”
“It's exactly enough. For what that studio means. For what you've given them.”
“You did this not knowing if we'd ever speak again.” She takes a breath. “You did it anyway.”
We reach the Wish Tree. There's a bench nearby, and we both head for it.
We are both quiet until we sit.
“This is weird,” I say.
“Which part?”
“That the person I’ve most been wanting to talk to about all this ... is you.”
“I know what you mean,” she says.
We sit with that for a moment. The relief of just being able to talk to each other again.
“I think I'm in an unhealthy relationship with my phone,” I say.
“I was checking it every five minutes. At my mother's on Christmas, I kept thinking—I should just leave it in the car. Or upstairs somewhere. Stop torturing myself.” I pause.
“But then I'd think: what if you called?
What if you needed to talk, and I wasn't there?”
“You were trying to give me space.”
“You asked for it. I was trying to respect that.” I look at her. “Even though every morning I'd wake up and think 'I could just send one text.' But you needed space. So I didn't.”
“I kept checking my phone too,” she admits. “Constantly. And every time there was nothing from you,” she stops. “I asked for space but I didn't really want it. I wanted you to text me anyway.”
Neither of us speaks for a beat.
“We're idiots,” I say.
She laughs despite everything. “Complete idiots.”
“I was miserable. But more than that, I hated knowing that you felt hurt. I wanted so badly to fix it, because I—” I stop. Try again. “I care about you.”
The words aren't big enough for what I mean.
“What I mean is, this week has made me realize how much I—”
I'm searching for words I can't find.
“I want to tell you my wish,” she says, nodding toward the tree. “From before.”
I look at her, grateful for the interruption.
“You go first,” she says.
I take a breath. “I wished to stop feeling like a guest in my own life.”
She waits. I can see she knows I want to say more.
“You helped me with that, Holly,” I say. “You reconnected me with what I'd hidden away. I thought my parents wanted me to be a replica of my father—the same college and business school, the same CEO, the same controlled person. That's what was expected.”
I look at my hands, flexing them once. “But at the gala, when I talked about the foundation evolving ... I wasn't afraid. I talked about honoring the spirit of his vision while changing how we do it. Meeting new needs. Reaching more people. Doing it my way.”
“That's what your father would have wanted.”
“I know that now. Doing it my way—that honors his legacy better than being a copy of him ever could.” I turn to her.
“You helped me see that. And it's more than just work, it's life.
You helped me find the person I thought I'd lost. The dance, the joy, the person I want to be. Whatever happens next, that matters. You gave me that.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “I knew you weren't really a grump. I knew it right away.”
“You did?”
“The peppermint mocha argument gave you away. Nobody gets that worked up about something unless they care deeply about everything.” She smiles. “I'm glad you know it now too.”
“Your turn,” I say. “What did you wish for?”
“I wished for this to be real. Not an arrangement. Not pretend.” She meets my eyes. “Real.”
I study her face for a long moment. “Are you sure that's what you want?”
“I've been asking myself that all week,” she admits. “I kept thinking—how could someone like you be interested in someone like me? I'm finding my footing in your world, but it still feels like imposter syndrome. Like I'm waiting for someone to realize I don't belong there.”
I can't stand hearing her doubt herself like this.
“You belong everywhere you choose to be,” I tell her. “And if anyone in my world makes you feel otherwise, they're the ones who don't belong.”
She exhales, the tension draining from her shoulders.
“Should we make new ones?” she asks, already standing. “New wishes for whatever comes next?”
We walk to where paper and pens wait under a small canopy. She hands me one of each. We both write, fold our papers.
“Trade?” she asks.
We exchange papers. I unfold hers: “To believe the good in my life is mine to keep.”
She reads mine aloud: “To show up as myself and trust that's enough.”
“We're wishing for the same thing,” I say. “To believe we deserve this.”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
We tie our wishes to the branches. When we step back, we’re standing closer than before. Close enough that touch feels inevitable.
I reach out, my gloved hand finding her cheek. She leans into my palm. The wool is wrong, too much between us. I pull the glove off quickly, needing to feel her skin. Her face is cold at first, then warming under my touch.
“Holly.” My jaw won't stop clenching. She watches me struggle for the right words, the way I’m gripping her face like she might disappear if I get this wrong.
“I love you,” she says.
“What? I was—that was my—”
“I know.” She rises up, kisses me before I can finish protesting. When she pulls back and looks at me, I can see she means it.
“I love you too,” I say, a little stunned. “I can’t believe you said it first.”
“You've been saying it all week. The scholarship fund. Showing up today.” She presses her forehead to mine. “I just used words.”
My body sways, tension leaving so fast I have to concentrate on standing. “Say it again,” I whisper against her mouth.
So she does.
The kiss settles something in me. The ache that’s been running through every thought, every breath, finally quiets, leaving only her and the steady calm that finally feels like the truth.
“We should get to the theater,” she says.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves.
“The show's soon.”
“Right.”
Holly laughs and grabs my hand. We walk faster than necessary, both of us eager to be inside, to be surrounded by people who'll see us choosing each other.
HOLLY
The theater is humming with pre-show energy when we arrive. Kids in various stages of costume, parents trying to corral them, Mrs. Kowalski directing traffic.
Emma spots us first from across the room. Her eyes drop to our joined hands. She grins like she just won a bet.
“Finally!”
Several parents turn to look at her, then at us.
“Emma, please—”
But she's already pulling me into a hug, then pulling Evan into one too. “It took you long enough. I was about to lock you two in a storage closet until you figured it out.”
Before I can respond, Jocelyn materializes at Evan's elbow. She is clutching a hardcover book with gilt edges.
“Holly, hi.” Her smile is tentative. “I'm so, so sorry about the photo. I didn't think—I was caught up in the romance of it all and—”
“Jocelyn.” I touch her arm gently. “It's okay.”
“It's not okay! I violated your privacy and—”
“You captured something beautiful. Your timing was terrible, but your intention was good.” I squeeze her arm. “We're okay.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say.
She practically squeals, then turns to Evan and hands him the book.
“Holly, if it's okay, I got this for Marie,” he tells me, showing me the cover—a gorgeous, illustrated edition of The Nutcracker. “It's the same one Elsbeth gave me, that I still have—though a newer edition of course. Can I give it to her?”
“Of course.” I have to swallow twice. “When did you order this?”
“Last week.” Before we knew if we'd reconcile. Before everything.
I open the cover. Inside, in Evan's handwriting:
For Marie & Clara—because you're both. May you always find magic in December. Love, Evan
My finger hovers over his words. This man, who questions every holiday tradition, wrote “May you always find magic in December” while we weren't speaking. This is who he is when no one's watching, believing in the magic he claims to question.
I reach up, touch his cheek. “Thank you,” I whisper. He turns his face into my palm, kisses it quickly.
The Johnsons approach with Mrs. Kowalski.
“We have a proposition,” Mrs. Johnson says. “It's the final performance. We think you two should do the party scene.”
“Oh no,” I protest. “You were great last weekend—”
“We insist,” Mr. Johnson says firmly. He turns to Mrs. Kowalski. “Don't you think?”
“I love it!” Mrs. Kowalski clasps her hands together. “Wonderful symmetry. You started this run together, you should end it together.”
Evan looks at me and raises his eyebrows, as if to say, what do you think?
I answer with a smirk. “Let's do it!”
“Okay,” we say together.
Emma helps me into my party scene dress while Evan disappears to change.
“You look happy,” Emma says, fastening the hooks. “Stupidly, obviously, embarrassingly happy.”
“I am.”
“Good. You deserve it.” She spins me around, assessing. “Now go find your billionaire tap dancer.”
I find him with Mr. Johnson, who's attempting to help him into the party scene jacket.
“Arms up,” Mr. Johnson instructs. “Now suck in. There we go.”
The jacket pulls across his shoulders in a way that should look awkward but instead highlights every line of muscle underneath. His wrists show past the cuffs—somehow even that's attractive. This is deeply unfair. I want to kiss him senseless right here in front of Mr. Johnson.
Near the wings, the mice are in the middle of a sword battle run-through, cardboard weapons covered in additional layers of tin foil.
Josh, mid-battle, breaks into his tap step.
Mrs. Kowalski holds up her hand. “Beautiful footwork, Josh, but mice don't tap dance.”
“Why not?” Josh asks, genuinely curious.
Everyone pauses. It's a good question.
“Because,” Mrs. Kowalski says slowly, “mice ... scurry.”
Josh considers this, then nods solemnly. “That makes sense.”
“Places for Act I!” Mrs. Kowalski calls. “This is it, everyone. Final show. Make it count.”
Party parents file to their positions. Kids scramble to the wings.
Evan takes my hand as we move to our entrance spot. “Ready?”
“With you? Absolutely.”
The lights dim. The overture begins, pulling us all into its charming world. The curtain rises.
We walk onto the stage together, and I'm not thinking about the photo or the past week or what comes next. I'm just here, in this moment, with Evan's hand in mine.
The party scene unfolds around us. We move through the choreography we've learned, smooth now, easy. I catch Evan's eye mid-scene. He's grinning, unguarded. Completely present.
Marie enters as Clara, radiant in her party dress, about to receive her nutcracker doll. Offstage, Josh is adjusting his mouse costume.
The tree hasn't grown yet. Everything is still about to happen.