I groan. “Kill me now.”
But inside, with her tucked so perfectly against me, there’s no denying the truth. If she wants me to sing, I’ll sing. Hell, I’ll do anything for her.
19
Jaylynn
After going with Penn to BJ’s place for his suit fitting, I step through the double doors of the community center and pause, letting the warmth and buzz wash over me. The air hums with chatter and laughter, the kind that floats above the clinking of coffee cups and the rustle of paper bags.
To my left, rows of vendors line the walls, their tables overflowing with knitted mittens, jars of homemade jam, and delicate ornaments that shimmer beneath the twinkling strands of white lights draped overhead. The faint sound of a carol drifts from the old speakers, scratchy but charming, adding to the nostalgia of it all.
From the adjoining room comes the happy chaos of children’s voices. I peek inside long enough to see kids bent over paper and glue, little fingers sticky with glitter and ribbons. The sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon bursts into the air from their craft table, hitting me square in the chest and reminding me of every Christmas cookie my mom ever baked. I breathe it in, savoring it before drifting toward the cozy café corner tucked against the wall.
“That looks good,” I murmur to Mom and Aunt Maureen, nodding toward the rows of pastries glistening under glass domes. Flaky croissants, sticky buns drizzled in icing, and steaming cups of cocoa topped with whipped cream.
They’ve come simply to shop, their arms already carrying tote bags, while I’m here to keep an eye on things, to make sure the festival I poured my heart into runs smoothly. Still, my gaze strays to the vendors, to the sparkle of holiday magic on every table, and I think maybe—just maybe—I’ll pick something up. My shopping is done, gifts wrapped and hidden, but I’d like something special for Penn. Something that says thank you for everything he’s doing, for all the ways he’s standing beside me when I need him most.
Just the thought of him sends a soft, syrupy warmth through me. I decide then and there to bring Penn and Dad something sweet, maybe coffee and cinnamon rolls, as they work on fixing the nativity set. A small gesture, but one that might make them smile.
“I’m going to check out the knitted sweaters,” Aunt Maureen says, already wandering off, her eye for handmade goods as sharp as always.
Mom lingers, though. She squeezes my hand, her mitten rough against mine. “The festival is going so well, Jaylynn. You’ve done a remarkable job.”
Of course, she’d say that—she’s my mom, my forever cheerleader. But the pride in her voice warms me anyway.
“Let’s just hope the parade goes off without a hitch,” I reply, though a knot tightens in my stomach. Memories of #GobbleGate flicker like a bad movie reel. I know how quickly things can spin out of control.
Mom’s smile widens, unshakable. “It’s going to be perfect.”
And I believe her, because she’s always believed in me. That’s the thing about parents—they’re your safety net when the rest of the world feels like it’s waiting for you to trip. Not everyone is lucky enough to have that.
Which makes me think of Penn. My chest tightens. Dylan was cruel to bring up Penn’s parents, cruel to dig at a wound that never healed. I can’t fathom what it must have been like for him, abandoned, left on his aunt’s doorstep with no goodbye, no promise to come back. Just silence.
But Penn isn’t alone. Not anymore. He has me. He has Dad. He has this community that cheers for him louder than he’ll ever know. He just needs to believe it, to believe in himself. Until then, I’ll believe enough for the both of us.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She gives my hand another squeeze before hurrying after Aunt Maureen, their laughter trailing behind them as they disappear down a row of knit hats.
I take my time wandering through the aisles, pausing to admire the way the fairy lights glow against jars of cranberry chutney, the sparkle of snowflake earrings, the rows of hand-painted ornaments. The energy in the room is alive, festive, the air thick with pine and cinnamon and community spirit.
At one booth, I stop to admire the stockings, each one stitched with care. “Hey, Janice,” I say warmly to one of the town’s long-time crafters. “These are beautiful.”
I lift a stocking patterned with peppermint sticks, the red and white stripes bold against quilted fabric. My fingers trace the stitches, neat and perfect, and a grin tugs at my lips.
Janice nods, her silver hair catching the light. “That one’s been popular this year.”
I can’t help but laugh softly. If anyone should have a peppermint stick phobia by now, it’s Penn. And yet, my grin deepens. “I’ll take two.” Later when I have the time, I’ll personalize them.
Her eyes brighten with curiosity. “For you and your fiancé?”
The word sends a little flutter through me. I nod, returning her smile, though my heart beats faster, skipping like it knows the truth before I’ve dared to say it out loud. “Yes,” I say, voice soft.
“Will you be going back to Boston with him?”
The question lingers heavy, and I nod automatically, though the truth is murkier. Boston isn’t a certainty. Not with him, at least. Maybe I’ll be in the stands, cheering for Penn when the Bucks hit the ice, especially if the PR position comes through. Maybe we’ll still be friends. The future feels like a snow globe that hasn’t settled yet—everything swirling, glittering, but impossible to see clearly.
What do you want, Jaylynn?