“I shouldn’t,” she whispers, almost guiltily.
“Yeah, you should. I should too,” I tease, trying to coax her into softening. When I reach the counter, I order four cinnamon rolls and four steaming coffees, ignoring the amused look the barista gives me.
When the order’s ready, I busy myself at the little self-serve counter, adding cream and sugar to mine and Dad’s cups, leaving Penn’s black, just the way he likes it. I glance at Sloane out of the corner of my eye. Her cup sits untouched, and she makes no move to change that.
“You know,” she says suddenly, letting out a laugh that tries for casual but breaks in the middle, “I don’t even think Dylan would know how I take my coffee.”
The words are so raw they snag at me. I force a smile anyway. “Oh, I’m sure he would,” I offer, even though I’m not sure at all.
As I balance the cups in a cardboard tray, she takes the bag of cinnamon buns and we head outside. The cold slaps us the second we’re on the sidewalk, our breath puffing into clouds. “They’re just down the road,” I say. “Are you okay to walk?”
She nods, tugging her coat tighter, and we fall into step together, weaving through the crowd on the sidewalk.
“You and Dylan,” she begins after a few steps, her voice tentative. “You dated for a long time?”
The question lands like a stone in my stomach. The last thing I want is to dig up old history with his fiancée. “Yeah, a while ago,” I answer shortly, my tone clipped. Then I pivot. “What’s keeping him so busy that he has to work at Christmas?”
She shrugs, her lashes lifting just enough to meet my gaze. “He doesn’t tell me much about his work. Just the positive things he wants me to post about.”
“You help him with his social media?”
“I don’t have a degree or anything. Not like you.” Her voice cracks on the admission, a flash of vulnerability slipping through. “Maybe if I did, I’d be able to…”
Her words trail off, collapsing into silence. She glances down quickly, lips pressing shut as if she regrets saying even that much.
“Hey,” I say gently, “It’s not too late to get a degree, if PR’s your thing.”
She gives a hollow little laugh. “Yeah, maybe. I guess that would help him.”
Help him what?
The thought circles in my mind, heavy and unsettling. But I don’t ask. I don’t want to peer too closely into Dylan’s life anymore. Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
What I do know is that the polished image Sloane and Dylan broadcast online—the smiling selfies, the champagne toasts—suddenly looks thinner than tissue paper. And I can’t ignore the sting of irony. Here I am in a fake relationship with Penn, yet somehow Sloane’s real one feels just as fragile.
“What about you?” I ask instead. “Is PR something you’d want to do for you?”
Her silence stretches, filled only by the sharp click of her impossibly high heels on the snowy pavement. They’re all wrong for the slick sidewalks, and every step sounds precarious. Finally, she exhales, voice small. “You and Penn are really good together. I see the way he looks at you.”
Her words catch me off guard. “Thanks,” I murmur, because what else can I say? Things suddenly feel awkward and I fill the silence. “You and Dylan are good together too.” She simply nods, and I continue with, “You must be excited about the wedding.”
“I was,” she says, then stops herself. Her voice cracks on the word, and she looks away, eyes shining with something she doesn’t want me to see. “Until…”
The silence she leaves behind is louder than any confession. Something’s unraveling in Sloane’s world, and for the first time, I wonder if she’s standing on the same kind of shaky ground I once was.
“Hey,” a familiar voice calls and I lift my head to see Penn waving at me from beside the nativity set.
“Hey,” I echo, quickening my steps. Sloane keeps pace beside me, her heels clicking against the frozen pavement. My arms are heavy with the cardboard tray, but my chest feels light at the sight of him. “I thought you guys might be hungry after all this work.”
I let my gaze sweep over the nativity scene. The carved wooden figures stand tall against the frosted backdrop, halos of light catching on their sanded edges. “It looks great.”
Penn practically beams under my praise, that boyish grin of his tugging at something deep in me. When Dad rests a firm hand on Penn’s shoulder, giving it a fatherly squeeze, I swear I can hear the pounding of Penn’s heart in the space between us. His chest lifts, just a little, like the weight of that touch means more than he can say.
“Penn was a great help,” Dad says proudly.
I catch the subtle flicker of Penn’s eyes toward Sloane, just a brief acknowledgment before he refocuses. “I ran into Sloane at the craft fair,” I explain. “She helped me carry these treats for you guys.”
“Thanks,” Penn says, his voice low, and I hand out the steaming coffees while Sloane passes me the bag. One by one, I dole out cinnamon buns still warm in their wax paper sleeves.