“Yeah?”
“You told me what you want for me.” His jaw clenches tightly. “But what do you wantfromme?”
My breath catches in my throat. I can’t give him the answer; I don’t know it, myself.
With a head shake and a sad smile, I turn and flee into the house.
* * *
Christmas has never beenmy favorite holiday. Cynthia wasn’t big on giving gifts to others, and my revolving door of stepfathers were unpredictable when it came to leaving presents under the tree. Still, when I wake this year and walk downstairs, there’s an immutable feeling of loneliness stirring in my veins. I fix myself a cup of decaf coffee and walk out onto my terrace, the slight chill in the early morning air seeping through my thin sweater and fuzzy white knee-socks.
All over the world, families are huddled around trees, tearing paper and singing carols, hugging each other close and celebrating together. And I am totally alone, staring out over the hillside toward the Pacific, where early morning light stains the expanse of ocean a steely gray shade.
Harper will come over later, of course, probably dragging Kent in her wake. We’ll exchange gifts and drink disgusting eggnog and sing off-key Bing Crosby, and I’ll tell myself that everything in my life is perfect, even though it’s a lie.
I set my coffee cup on the deck railing and wrap my arms around my body for warmth. In a moment of weakness, I allow myself to wonder what Wyatt is doing this Christmas. Will he be with the all-powerful Hastings clan, talking business over bourbon and smoking cigars at a lavish family gathering? Or curled up somewhere with Caroline, celebrating their first holiday together by a dazzling tree beneath that massive chandelier in his front room, making love in front of a fireplace until the sun fades from the sky?
My eyes are stinging precariously.
He’s not mine to miss, but I miss him anyway. I miss his laugh and his smile and that undeniable sense of safety I always feel inside his arms.
What would he say, if I called him right now? Would he even answer?
My hands itch to find out.
I’ve put him out of my mind over the past few days. The press junket has been a grueling parade of smiling bright and saying all the right things at all the right moments. At the end of each day I’ve collapsed into bed without even bothering to eat dinner, falling into a dreamless sleep before my head hits the pillow, jerking awake to the blaring sound of my alarm only moments before Harper arrives to make me beautiful so it can start all over again. Nonstop. There’s been no time to think of Wyatt.
But in this brief lull, my feelings catch up to me with the force of a freight train. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my sleep shorts and scroll down to his name. The sight makes me smile.
Wyatt Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore Hastings
If I close my eyes, I can almost still hear his laughter the day he programmed it in, on our way to Hawaii. Memories slide over me — salty waves and warm sand, his arms dunking me beneath the surface but keeping me tethered. Always, always, always keeping me safe.
My smile fades.
I click a button to power off my phone.
No.
I will not call him. I will not inflict myself on him again. I will not drag him back into the wreckage of my world, not when he is so much better off without me.
No matter the personal cost.
Even if it kills me.
Seeking his forgiveness would be a selfish act, not a selfless one: I’d feel better but he’d feel worse. Like a terminally ill patient who infects the person unfortunate enough to take up the bed beside theirs with a deadly virus.
Sorry for killing you, but at least now I don’t have to die alone.
A snapping sound cuts through the sinister web of misery inside my head. I whip around in time to see a man dressed fully in black, perched on the bough of a tree in my backyard. There’s a massive camera clutched in his hands and a slender tree branch cracked in two beneath his heavily booted feet.
“What the hell…” I murmur, watching in disbelief as he lifts the camera to his face and starts clicking.
Shit!
Heart pounding, I flee inside, slam the sliding door shut behind me, and dive onto the floor by my sofa, out of sight. I lie there in a pile of limbs, waiting for my sluggish thoughts to start making sense.
There is a man in my tree, risking criminal charges for a photograph of me drinking coffee in fuzzy socks.