Thirty-Two
Isla
T here is something lawless about the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.
Days blur, seconds stretching and sprinting in the same hour. Pajamas qualify as business casual. Calories don’t count. How can they when most meals consist of scavenged leftovers and stale cookies that never made it to Santa?
It’s cozy limbo. A glitter-dusted fever dream, shifting between harmony and melancholy in equal measure.
And it all comes to an end in a few hours.
The Sugarpine Springs Town Hall resembles a snow globe someone shook too hard.
Packed with revelers, vibrating with music, lit up by what feels like thousands of candles in mason jars.
They line the perimeter of the space, flames playing dangerously close to old wood.
Thankfully, every off-duty firefighter in town appears to be in attendance this evening.
An assortment of scents wafts through the air. Sweet. Savory. Spiced. Every year, the local businesses turn the event into a catered potluck. Holly brought cinnamon rolls the size of my face. Spoon & Slice provided enough chili to feed a small army.
Pride flickers in my chest when I notice the restaurant is using the menu cards I designed. They feature QR codes that can be scanned to read each dish aloud, along with a friendly font that still pops under dim lighting. It’s clean, accessible, and thoughtful.
Exactly the kind of designer I strive to be.
The live band drops the tempo, abandoning the dance music for a cover of “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?” A few notes in, and my brain queues up a full-blown movie montage starring me, Theo, and a whole-ass mountain of regret.
“Hey.” A nudge to my elbow pulls my attention to Willow’s soft gaze. “You look like you need something warm,” she says. “Hug or cider?”
“How about both?”
Before I even finish getting the words out, she has her arms around me. She’s also managed to concurrently press a drink into my hand.
“You okay?” she mumbles against my shoulder.
I nod. “Just a bit tired. It’s been a busy week.”
I cleaned my new place from top to bottom at least three times.
Then I refreshed the paint and took on the aged carpet stains.
Sugar—late Grandma Hazel’s even later Pomeranian—is forever immortalized by the mural on the bakery’s wall.
The dog’s incontinence, however, has been permanently sealed into the apartment floors .
Somehow, I also managed to get a bit of work done.
Much of it was theoretical in nature—sketching a logo, mapping out a plan for building my social media presence, fiddling with my new website design, mocking up brand kits I dream of pitching—but it still counts.
My biggest win? Linking a new accounting software to my bank account.
The stupid thing only took three tries and one breakdown to load properly.
“You worked miracles in the time it took me to finish off a tin of fudge.” Willow pulls back and flashes a bright smile. “Sugarpine Springs is lucky to have you back.”
Asher slips into the gap between us, holding a plate stacked with two cinnamon rolls and what can only be described as chili doing unspeakable things to mac and cheese.
“Come dance with us.” He nods toward the far side of the room where Sienna sways near the bandstand. “I hereby grant you both permission to hit me over the head at the first sign of feelings.”
“As much as I’d enjoy inflicting blunt-force trauma,” his sister shoots back, “you’re already too far gone for the violence to be any fun.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You do remember you’re off to her honeymoon in a couple of days, right?”
Asher winces. “Hadn’t totally thought that move through, huh?”
“Do you ever think anything through?” Willow pokes her index finger into the center of his forehead.
“Nope.” He swats her hand away, then reaches for one of the rolls. “Our big brother does enough thinking for all of us,” he says around a bite.
As if realizing whom he brought up, Asher’s wide gaze shoots to me. Willow’s follows, brimming with just as much alarm .
I shrug one shoulder and take a slow sip of my cider. The goal is to keep my mouth too busy to react.
Things have been quiet on the Theo front. Just as I requested.
A single text arrived the day he left:
Take all the time you need, Sunshine. You're worth the wait. Always were. Always will be.
He gave me the space I asked for, but instead of finding peace and clarity, all I feel is regret.
The silence that crowds me is agonizing. Even more so because I chose it.
I’m unsure whether it’s the roaring fireplace or the surplus of candles, but every inch of my skin feels like it’s been set aflame.
My outfit—an ivory knit dress with long sleeves and a short hem—hits that sweet spot between winter practicality and New Year’s Eve cheer.
Or so I thought.
I set my uncomfortably hot cup down on the nearest table. “I feel dizzy. I need some air.”
Willow opens her mouth like she’s about to protest, then seems to think better of it. She simply nods, offering a quiet “Text for a pick-up if you stray too far.”
Promising to be good, I swing by the makeshift coat check before slipping out.
Though the air outside is cool, it lacks December’s usual bite.
Its softness comes from something greater than the comfortable temperature.
Big, fluffy snowflakes drift in lazy spirals.
Some catch in my hair, others kiss my cheeks.
A light, misty fog spreads across the path ahead, urging me forward.
It’s the kind of winter night that belongs in a fairy tale .
I walk without stopping until I find myself in front of Sugarpine Sweets.
The darkened windows of my apartment make my chest squeeze with discomfort.
Still, I consider going upstairs and crawling into bed—or rather, onto the mattress on the floor that’s still waiting for a frame.
It would be easy to dull the ache with sleep.
Let the clock strike midnight without giving the rest of this day the fight it deserves.
My feet don’t let me quit, though. They keep moving—past the hardware store, the bookstore, and the toy shop with the crooked bell over the door.
Then I’m standing by the streetlight in front of The Starlight Vault.
When I was little, I had a slight obsession with the flickering lamppost. It would glimmer only on occasion, without any apparent rhyme or reason.
My mom, ever so creative, spun a story that it was carrying through messages from the fairies. She said the blinking was how they communicated with children who believed in the beauty of nature and the magic of imagination.
I got it in my head that the fairies lived at the springs and begged Mom to leave behind gifts.
That’s how our longstanding tradition of decorating rocks began.
Every few weeks, we’d paint a new one to place at the water’s edge.
Each time we returned, the rocks were gone.
As we passed the light, Mom would tell me the fairies loved their presents and were asking for more.
At first, I felt special to be chosen by these mythical creatures.
But it was the painting that ended up being the best part—Mom’s undivided attention on me, our fingers sticky with a rainbow of environmentally-safe colors, chatting about her latest projects, laughing over something silly that happened at school.
That was the real magic.
It wasn’t until we were packing up my childhood home that Theo unearthed a large box in the attic, full to the brim with bedazzled rocks. Every single one we’d ever made was lovingly packed away inside. Evangeline ended up lining her garden with them so I can revisit the stories any time I wish.
The memory brings me to a sloping path that curves away from civilization. As if guided by an otherworldly force, I follow it, instinct pulling me toward wilderness. Snow muffles the sound of my footsteps, and the deeper I venture, the more hushed the world becomes.
The heat of the springs hits me before they even come into view. Steam rises in gentle swirls through the snow-speckled dimness, curling around the wooden bridge ahead.
As I walk toward its center, I no longer feel lost.
In fact, I feel like I’ve finally arrived.
Maybe magic dwells here, after all.
My boots scuff along the damp wood, thick heels slipping slightly where the snow has melted to slush. I catch myself on the railing, the sleeve of my coat brushing familiar initials.
Three tiny symbols I’d wished into wood as a teenager. A silly, romantic dream.
But they’re no longer the same.
Ten days ago, Theo stood in front of the etching and retraced the lines with his own hand.
Fingers gliding over the letters, I close my eyes and allow myself a moment to just… be .
Surrendering to stillness, I lose track of time .
Enough of it passes for the cold to settle in my bones and the noise in my head to quiet.
With nothing left to distract me, I’m pushed to confront my fear of feeling and to try making sense of the weakness I’ve spent years enduring.
I miss Theo.
Not only the sound of his voice or the weight of his gaze, but his presence.
He listens. He sees me. He holds space for me.
I miss the steadiness he brings. The tension, too. How he pushes and challenges me. Makes me want more. Be more.
I’ve tried so damn hard not to need him, but it was never about need .
It’s simply about want .
Wanting him. Choosing him.
When it’s hard, messy, and terrifying.
And I am terrified of what the leap might cost me. But isn’t that the whole point?
They call it falling , after all.
Maybe the real objective is to gather the courage to risk it all without any guarantee of reward. To selflessly give away body, soul, and heart on nothing but the sheer hope of receiving just as fierce and everlasting an offering in return.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial one of the only numbers I know by heart.
One ring.
Two .
Asher picks up on the third. “Lala? You okay?”
“Define okay. ”