13. Holly

Chapter 13

Holly

I had to leave before my monster overtook all the calm I’d managed to achieve so far today. One mention of me going back on the ice and panic gripped me and I needed to go somewhere quiet to lose my shit.

Thankfully Lucas didn’t follow me, and I didn’t look back. The cold hit me immediately, sharp and biting against my skin. The sky was dark, thick with heavy clouds that would dump the promised snowstorm, and the air was so still I could hear my breathing.

Connor’s face stayed with me long after I left the café—his wide brown eyes lighting up as he talked about playing for Kai’s team and the future he was chasing. He had that spark—hope, drive, and maybe a little naivety—that I hadn’t felt in years.

Then there was Lucas, steady and quiet, watching me as if trying to figure me out. He didn’t throw my mistakes back at me, though he had every right to. Instead, he gave me space, nudged me forward when I faltered, and somehow believed there was something worth saving in me. The way he looked at me when I handed Connor that photo—like he saw something in me I couldn’t see anymore—was harder to face than anger ever would’ve been.

And Wesley, the man from the bookshop, with his easy smile and sharp wit, who hadn’t known my past or seen me as a fallen hockey captain. To him, I was just a guy in the mystery section, awkward and unsure.

It was overwhelming—Lucas’s quiet encouragement, Connor’s admiration, Wesley’s unassuming kindness. Each chipped away at the walls I’d built—barriers that only kept me stuck. It was easier to focus on regret and mistakes; they didn’t ask anything of me. But this? The hope, connection, and chance they seemed to offer scared me.

A part of me wanted to believe there was still something left to salvage, that maybe these tiny moments were building toward something. Something worth staying for.

I headed to the library for the taxi as Wesley had suggested, but there was no sign of a pink car, or anyone called Jeremiah. I waited for a while, taking in the strings of Christmas lights twinkling from shop windows, bright and cheery against the ominous sky, the kind of postcard-perfect scene you’d expect in a town like this. But even with all the lights and warmth spilling from the stores, the clouds hung low and heavy, a soft, muted gray that seemed to stretch endlessly. The light was dim but not dark, a pale, silvery cast that muted the world, turning everything colder, quieter.

Snow was promised in the cold prickling at the edges of my senses, and every sound was muffled as if the world were already preparing for the hush that would follow the first flakes.

Snow was coming, and I had a few miles until home. The bird stuff in my backpack wasn’t heavy, but add the books I was carrying in paper bags, and I regretted walking.

Were there cabs in Wishing Tree? I quickly searched for cabs, but the only thing that turned up was a company run by Jeremiah Owens, which had a picture of a bright pink jeep on the front. There were promised shuttles to the ski lodges, but they didn’t start until the day after Thanksgiving.

“Great timing, idiot,” I muttered to no one.

I should walk back to the cabin. The snow would be easy to beat, although the clouds were so dense that they swallowed the last traces of daylight.

I balanced the book bags in each hand and started walking, but my determination waned when my breathing hitched. I stopped behind the oak tree, focusing on the ribbons, the scent of the air, the muffled sounds of people hurrying home, the taste of ice on my tongue, and the touch of a snowflake on my nose. When my breathing became labored, I dry-swallowed my meds, and after the longest time of hiding, I started the walk home.

As I began the uphill climb, the snow was light flakes drifting down lazily, almost peacefully, and my friendly chickadee followed me briefly, then vanished as the snow grew heavier. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, feeling I shouldn’t have set out with so much confidence as I trudged forward. I could handle this. I’d been through worse.

But the further I went, the heavier the snow became. It came down in thick sheets, swirling in the air like a blanket of white, making it harder to see. The wind picked up, biting at the narrow bit of my face not concealed by the scarf, and suddenly, the path in front of me was nothing but a blur of white and shadows. The road beneath my feet had gone from slightly slippery to treacherous in minutes, and each step felt as though it could send me sprawling.

I cursed under my breath, frustration building as I realized this might have been a mistake. The visibility had dropped to almost nothing, and the cabin still felt a world away. But it was too late to turn back. I saw a sign I recognized for the ski resort, and I was sure my cabin was just a short distance past it. Turning around would mean walking longer in the falling snow.

The cold seeped into my bones, making my fingers and toes tingle. The books weighed heavy in my arms, weakening my grip as the snow piled up around me. My frustration turned into something more raw, a dull sense of panic, as I realized the storm wasn’t slowing down.

As I tried to pick up the pace, my foot tripped on a fallen branch beneath the snow. I went down hard, my arm scraping against something sharp—a rock or a branch, I couldn’t tell through the snow. Pain shot through me, not severe but enough to remind me just how much trouble I was in. I gritted my teeth and sat up, anger and self-pity flooding me.

The books were still in my grip, clutched to my chest. Letting them go wasn’t an option, although they were part of why I’d lost my balance. Stupid. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave them behind for some reason. I was dizzy, and I stopped for a moment to breathe. I should have eaten something. I was hungry.

I’m dizzy.

I can’t breathe.

Breathe!

I glanced up at the sky, thick with falling snow, and realized how ridiculous this was. I wouldn’t make it to the cabin, not with the storm. I looked around for shelter, making out a nearby tree with thick branches overhead, offering at least a little protection from the elements. I stood beneath it, intending to wait out the storm or at least wait until it eased up enough for me to see more than a few feet ahead. I was wrapped so that it wouldn’t be that bad. The wind howled through the branches, and the cold gnawed at me, but I held on to the books, not letting them go.

You’ll be fine, I told myself, trying to ignore the throbbing in my arm and the creeping numbness in my fingers. Just a little longer, and then you’ll finish this. Just wait it out.

But as the snow kept falling, part of me wondered if I was being stubborn again—too proud to admit I’d gotten myself into a mess and too stupid to stand under a freaking tree in a snowstorm.

So, shoulders back, I carried on trudging up the hill.