Chapter 31 Dane

Chapter 31

Dane

Does anyone like hospitals?

I don’t. They smell like badly covered sickness and death.

Amanda looks as comfortable as a fish in a desert. Her mom can’t sit still and keeps pacing the waiting area. Lorelei’s picking at her fingernails.

She doesn’t merely dislike hospitals. She actively hates them.

But she’s here.

“I’m sorry,” Amanda says one more time.

“This is not your fault,” her mom says.

I squeeze her knee while a new kind of guilt beats me over the heart. “It’s not your fault,” I agree.

It’s mine.

I’m the one who insisted we stay fake engaged. I egged her on. I pushed to get the engagement ring. I kissed her in public to sell this.

And then I fell for her for real.

How could I not?

But I fell for her for real, and I just wanted to be with her more and more, and I lost sight of the fact that we could be doing real damage to our families in our pursuit of ending the feud.

I know we did this for the right reasons.

I know I deserve better than to feel like my accomplishments have more worth than being used to make our family feel better than theirs.

But I should’ve seen how much stress it could put on our grandparents.

That they’re too set in their ways.

Victims of what they were fed their entire lives who didn’t have the resources to get over it the way my generation does.

“It is my fault,” Amanda whispers.

“Not yours alone,” I reply quietly.

“Stop. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I rub my eyes.

We’ve officially—and very suddenly—broken up in the eyes of the town, our secret out there for everyone to know, and I don’t know where that leaves us personally.

I still like her. I still want to be here for her.

Especially now, when she keeps grabbing her ring finger like she wants to twist the engagement ring that’s no longer sitting on it.

The engagement ring she wore for show, and only for a few days.

But there’s no reason for me to do anything other than head back to the cabin to gather my dog and my luggage and fly home.

Clear my head.

Decide who I need to apologize to for the lies this week.

If I even deserve to think about how much I enjoyed this week with Amanda.

How much I still don’t want it to end.

“I think what you did was wonderful,” Lorelei says.

As one of Amanda’s oldest friends, she has more of a right to be here than I do. But we both followed along behind the ambulance and Kimberly’s car to come wait for news about Vicki.

“I don’t even care that I thought you were faking the whole thing and didn’t trust me enough to tell me why,” Lorelei adds. “I wanted it to be real. I thought if I treated you like it was real, I could manifest this being real.”

So did I, sis.

So did I.

And it could be ... but how?

Do we do what we claimed we did and date long distance?

Would she even want to?

And how inappropriate is it for me to sit here thinking about wanting her when we almost killed her grandmother?

I need fresh air. I need time and space to think. I need to recenter myself.

“You seemed so happy,” Kimberly says quietly. “I’ve never seen you so happy with a boy—a man—before.”

“I couldn’t have pulled this off with anyone else,” Amanda replies.

I want to look at her, but I can’t.

What if I look at her and she’s just being nice?

What if I look at her and I think she wants more, but I misread her expression?

What if she does want more?

Would she move to San Francisco? Would I move to New York?

How guilty will I feel for the rest of my life if her grandmother doesn’t make it?

Why do I feel like the spot where my heart was two hours ago is now occupied by a black hole?

And don’t ask what the ring in my pocket feels like.

“I’m sorry you had to do it at all to get the rest of us to pull our heads out of our collective asses,” Kimberly says.

She’s pacing.

Pacing in ivory flats over a blue rug patterned with concentric rings while the rest of us sit on stiff gray waiting room chairs.

They’re cushioned.

That’s nice.

Possibly the only nice thing in this situation.

“Grandma still hates the Silvers,” Amanda whispers.

“She’s retiring. She can go live in her own misery and completely step out of the Tinsel community if she insists on continuing to hate them over what our family did to them.”

“Maybe after we’re sure she’s gonna pull through?” Amanda says.

I steal a glance at her.

She looks tired. Utterly beaten down by this entire situation. Like she needs an eggnog latte and to be thoroughly satisfied in bed.

Fuck me.

Was it just a few hours ago that I was ready to tear her clothes off inside the bakery kitchen?

And what now?

I can’t fix her grandmother for her. Not her health. Not her opinions. Not her behavior.

And who was I to think that I could change the minds of people who’ve been set in their ways for seventy or more years?

“She’ll pull through,” I tell her. “Can I get you something? Eggnog latte? Fruitcake? A dog to pet?”

Her eyes go shiny while she blinks at me. “I’m sorry.”

“ Stop. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“We were supposed to plan the breakup story together.”

“Your version worked very well.” I wince. Good job handling the breakup that I didn’t want to have but don’t have the courage to tell you. “The moment was right. You did exactly what you—what we needed you to do.”

“Pia says she’s donating the cake to your reception even if you don’t get married,” Lorelei says. “And Mrs. Briggs wants to see you in your wedding dress having the time of your life, enjoying what you did for the community with bringing our families together.”

“See?” I nudge her knee with mine. “All’s well that ends well. And your grandmother will pull through. She was talking. She was breathing better. Whatever happened, she’s in good hands.”

Nothing is well.

I’m sick to my stomach, ignoring the constant humming inside my own head.

Vicki Anderson wouldn’t be in the hospital right now if you hadn’t faked your engagement. You tortured old people with weak hearts.

And when I drown that out, I go back to thinking about wanting to kiss Amanda.

I shouldn’t be here.

I’m not helping.

“What if I was wrong about the recipe?” Amanda whispers.

Kimberly stops pacing to take the seat on Amanda’s other side. “Even if you were, there’s something that set the families at war, and it’s something that doesn’t matter anymore if none of us can remember it.”

“Agreed,” Lorelei says.

An older man in scrubs enters the waiting room. “Mrs. Anderson? Ms. Anderson? Vicki is asking for you.”

Amanda and her mom both bolt to their feet.

“Is she okay?” Kimberly asks.

“How bad is it?” Amanda adds.

“We’re still monitoring her, but indications are she’ll be just fine.”

I don’t know whose exhalation of relief is loudest. Could be any one of the four of us.

“Indigestion again?” Amanda asks.

“I don’t believe so. We can talk more in her room.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

We did do this to her.

The man in scrubs nods toward the hallway. “This way, please.”

They both start to follow the doctor, but Amanda pauses to turn and look at me. “Thank you. Again. For everything. I—I meant it when I said I hope we can stay friends.”

Stay friends.

She has a lot on her plate right now. Her grandmother. Figuring out the bakery. Probably a lot of truth to share with her mom, much like I need to fully clear the air with my dad about how our families’ feud has impacted me.

Dating is the last thing on her mind.

As it should be.

This was a week of purposeful fun with an expiration date.

And how utterly boring is purposeful fun ?

I know I’m not boring. I got over Vanessa’s reasons for breaking up with me a long time ago, especially as I started working through how all the negativity I’ve been surrounded with my entire life has impacted me.

But I’m not the vibrant ray of life that Amanda is either.

I nod to her even though my heart is screaming for me to kiss her in direct opposition to my brain screaming at me to apologize until I’m hoarse for trying to kill her grandmother. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Her smile is pained. “You’ve done so much already. I couldn’t ask for more.”

And she doesn’t.

She walks away, scurrying to catch up to her mom and the doctor, their footsteps fading down the hallway.

“You like her,” Lorelei whispers.

I don’t deny it.

I can’t.

“This week has been . . .”

Special.

Unexpected.

Fun.

Mine.

I can’t accurately put into words what my time with Amanda has meant to me, much like I can’t put into words how I feel knowing that it’s over.

That she’ll head back to New York. That I’ll head back to San Francisco. That Tinsel will be better for what we did while we were here.

I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about Amanda. “You should talk to Kimberly about working at the bakery once Vicki’s fully retired.”

“Because the recipe was ours to begin with?”

“Because you’d be happier there. You love to bake. You love this community. You love Christmas. You could fit there if you and Kimberly can work through all of the feud shit. And I have faith in you. In both of you.”

She blinks at me, and then her eyes get shiny. “You did this for me.”

“I did it for all of us. Definitely for you. So you could see Amanda in the open. Probably subconsciously to give you a shot at working at the Gingerbread House too. But I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean it to end with us in a hospital waiting room.”

She throws her arms around me, and I take advantage of the opportunity to lean right back on my little sister.

“She likes you, too, you know,” Lorelei says.

She might.

But does she like me in an I would date him kind of way, or in a he was fun to hang out with for a week kind of way?

And can I handle it if the truth is the latter?

She’s free spirited. Impulsive. Fun.

It’s half of what I adore about her, but I’m not.

Not regularly. I’m . . . quieter.

She’d get bored with me if there wasn’t something like a fake engagement and a series of mysterious letters keeping us together.

“We nearly killed her grandmother.”

“ Stop ,” Lorelei orders. “You’re the first person to catch a fly and let it loose outside instead of swatting it. I know you, Dane. You did not do this with the intention of harming anyone. You did it to make things better. Amanda knows it too.”

“She has bigger things to deal with.” I take a shuddery breath. “This week—it’s felt very unreal. Good, but unreal. I need—I think I need a little normal to see where my head’s at.”

“You’re going home. San Francisco home.”

I don’t answer out loud.

But it’s exactly what I think I need to process everything and decide what I want to do next.