5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

HOLDEN

I think something is interfering with the cabin’s charm.

This rental should have a minimum of four bedrooms, and so far, I’ve found one . The bed is set up in the coziest room in the house, with a fireplace I know Laila will love, but since there’s no way I can make it back to town tonight, it’s a problem.

I can sleep on the couch, but it won’t matter. Laila will hate this.

When I find her, she’s in the living room. Christmas music fills the space at a low volume, oldies. I’m a little surprised, because she usually is listening to the updated versions by current music stars.

“There’s a small thing.” I hold my thumb and forefinger up, leaving minimal room between the two. “Super small.”

Her eyes lift from the snow globe she’s holding. “Out with it.”

“Well, there’s supposed to be several bedrooms. There’s only one with a bed in it though.”

“One?” Her eyes widen and she sets the piece down on the table with a thud. “In the whole house?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“There’s no way,” she says, brushing past me.

A couple of minutes later, she’s leaning over the railing of the stairs. By the way her lips are flattened in a line, it’s obvious she realizes I wasn’t joking.

“I told you, La.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“Obviously, you take the bed. The couch doesn’t look bad,” I reply, jerking a thumb over my shoulder. “I can take that.”

It’s overstuffed and looks way more comfortable than the one at my house. There’s even a lounge piece where I can stretch out on one solid cushion. I’ve slept in worse places.

“You’re not doing that. You took time out of your day to chauffeur me around. You found this place. You should get the bed.”

“Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t ‘chauffeur’ you anywhere,” I say, sure to emphasize the word with finger quotes.

“Semantics,” she snaps. “I don’t need the bed.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, you’re not sleeping on that couch.”

“Why not? It’s beneath me?”

“That’s not it at all,” I huff. “I’m well aware you’d sleep in a treehouse in this weather just to prove a point.”

“Is there a treehouse?” she asks, her voice softening.

“It’s the bed or the couch. I’m not taking the bed while you sleep out here, comfortable as that couch may look.”

“And I’m not taking the bed, so you can do the same.” She comes down a couple of steps.

“We can settle it with a snowball fight?”

Her eyebrow arches. “Why not a coin toss?”

It’s probably too much in our current situation to tell her that I enjoy seeing her fired up.

“More lively.” I grin and shove my hands in my pockets.

“Fine. You win. We’ll share. But there will be a pillow wall.” She comes the rest of the way down the stairs and stalks past me.

“Are you sure you didn’t want to share a bed with me? Remember, the house just does what you’ll be comfortable with!” I call as I follow her toward the bedroom.

There’s a frustrated shout as a pillow sails out the door and narrowly misses me.

Maybe I should go make some hot cocoa or sleepy time tea.

I’m being assaulted by the most extensive collection of pillows I’ve ever seen.

Apparently, Laila loves pillows. Considering how much she loves to cuddle, I’m not overly surprised by this. What does surprise me is her insistence that we divide a perfectly good bed.

“For clarification purposes, what do you expect me to do with these?”

“Build a wall.” She gestures with her finger from the top of the bed to the bottom. “You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.”

I scoff. “You can’t be serious. I think we can be ad—” the pillow that hits my face muffles the rest of the word.

“We can be adults. But this just feels safer,” she insists.

I’d like to point out that adults can have conversations without attacking with pillows, but I think I’ve ruffled enough feathers tonight.

“La. What are these pillows going to protect you from?”

She tugs one sweater sleeve down, curling her hand inside. Then another.

“I just feel better with them there. Okay?”

Her mood has completely shifted, and her vulnerability is on full display. It’s rare.

“I can sleep on the couch if you’re that worried that I can’t keep my hands to myself.”

“Holden.” She deflates. “I trust you. I just… maybe don’t trust me. You asked for boundaries before, and I want to respect that.”

I asked for a relationship. But if that translated to boundaries, I’m not sure how to convince her otherwise. She blows out a breath and grabs her bag from the floor, ducking into the bathroom en suite.

A few minutes later she emerges, hurrying across the room like she’s freezing. I started a fire, so she shouldn’t be.

“Christmas pajamas?” There’s no hiding the surprise in my voice.

She glances down, her cheeks blooming into an adorable blush. “So?”

“It’s just not what I expected.”

“Maybe a brand sent them to me and I’m testing them to see how to promote them.” She pulls down her side of the comforter, avoiding eye contact with me.

“Did they?” I prompt.

Her blonde locks are swept into a simple ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. It’s not a side Laila allows many people to see, and I know this is a big deal for her. But this is all I’ve wanted. I want her to let me all the way in. I’m tired of getting her in pieces.

“Why is this such a big deal to you? They’re just pajamas.”

“Why is this such a big deal to you ?” I counter. “All I said is that it’s not what I expected.”

Her eyes lift to me then, and there’s no mistaking the vulnerability there. Twice in one night.

“They’re matching,” she whispers.

“What?”

Laila huffs out a giant sigh. “I said they’re matching . They match Ella and Bridget. We have matching pajamas.”

More puzzle pieces click into place.

She had plans for this trip, and she’s stuck in a house she’s unfamiliar with away from her family. Despite our roller coaster relationship, I sensed the difference when she came back in the fall.

Laila keeps her feelings locked up tighter than a clamshell, so this new insight is like finding a pearl. It’s rare and beautiful and I want more.

I pat the pillow wall she’s created between us, urging her to join me.

“I’m a little jealous right now.”

“You’re jealous of our matching sleepwear,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me.

The mattress shifts under her weight as she climbs on, keeping her distance.

“Technically, we sort of match. You’ve got Christmas plaid, I’ve got buffalo plaid. Plaid is plaid.”

A smile plays around her lips. “Plaid is not plaid, Holden.”

“It’s a pattern.”

“Very separate, distinct patterns.” She shimmies under the blankets and tugs them up.

“How long have you worn matching pajamas?”

When I press for intimate details with Laila, she usually gets this deer in headlights look. Her whole body stiffens and you can see the protective armor shift into place. But for once, the way she tenses is less obvious. I just know her tells, so I can still see it.

“Well. It’s a tradition we started when her dad was still alive,” she says softly. “Ella was so excited for sisters. He gave us packages the night of Thanksgiving—he couldn’t even wait until the next morning. He wanted us to have as many nights as we could in them.”

It’s mesmerizing to watch her recount these memories. Now I feel like the deer, frozen in place, so I don’t spook her instead.

“They had their own family traditions, but we tried to start our own. They didn’t last very long, of course.” The happiness on her face flickers, like a short in an electrical fuse. “Ella, Bridget and I all lived together in Colorado. When we found our place, we restarted old traditions, and this one stuck.” She shrugs.

“What else did you do?”

“You don’t want to hear this.” She shakes her head.

“Yes, I do La.”

She faces me, the girl I knew from high school peeking out from behind the woman I’ve never stopped loving. I can’t imagine losing one father, let alone two. Laila has worked hard the entire time I’ve known her to keep me in her little compartment, where she thinks I’m safe. It doesn’t matter if she will admit that’s what she’s doing—I pay attention.

Laila is terrified of the consequences of loving someone, and I want to double down and prove to her it’s worth the risk. Now more than ever.

I just wish she’d let me.

I can’t remember the last time I slept so soundly. The sheets are soft, the blankets thick and honestly, it’s like being wrapped up in a safe, warm cocoon.

There’s a heaviness that is comforting, like a weighted blanket. Like Holden when we’d fall asleep on the couch watching movie marathons and woke up tangled together.

My eyes fly open.

There’s an arm sprawled across my waist, and absolutely no trace of the pillow wall I insisted on last night. It’s a little awkward, but I can shimmy out from underneath him. As long as he stays asleep, there’s no reason to ever bring this up again.

I try to edge away from him, wincing when I find that first strip of cold sheet outside of our combined warmth.

Holden’s arm tightens around my waist, tugging me closer.

“Where’s my wife sneaking off to?” His voice is still gravelly from sleep.

Wife? WIFE?

“I was going to make coffee,” I croak out, my head spinning.

He nuzzles my neck, his beard scratching against my skin. “I set the timer last night. Snuggle with me a few more minutes before the madness.”

I need a decoder. A cheat code. Anything to clue me in on what alternate universe I’m living in.

A dream. This is probably a dream, right? Maybe I drank too much sleepy time tea before bed.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I count to ten Mississppily.

One Mississippi…two Mississippi…

But as soon as I open them again, it’s clear that this is very real. Whatever this is. To be extra sure, I pinch the skin of my forearm, hissing when I feel the bite of my nails.

Definitely not a dream, then.

“I should check on Ella. Make sure that they’re not snowed in at the farm,” I mumble. As much as I love Holden’s arms, something is seriously off here.

“Were you having weird dreams, again? It hasn’t snowed here in years.”

“What are you talking about?” I demand. “It snowed last night.”

I shove myself away from him, throwing the covers away from me. Anxious to prove him wrong, I scramble out of bed, the frosty air like a bucket of cold water on my senses. Either the fire we had last night died off completely, or…

My eyes snag on the fireplace, no evidence in sight that one crackled inside the night before. I’m not in the cozy flannel pajamas I went to bed in. Instead, I’m wearing a soft cotton set covered in snowmen.

I can’t even take a moment to enjoy how cute they are because I just don’t understand what’s happening right now.

With a shaky breath, I splay my fingers in front of me, intending to check my nails. When I went to bed, they were a glossy cherry red, with candy cane stripes on the fourth finger of each hand. Precisely the finger that sports a glinty emerald on my left hand. It’s a respectable one and a half carats—maybe even two—and I can’t imagine where Holden would’ve gotten the money for something like this. Or when he gave it to me. Or why there’s a wedding band below the engagement ring and another stacked above.

Wife status, confirmed.

There’s an odd mix of terror and elation battling in my chest.

For the first time, I soak in the details of this room in the soft morning light. The walls are cream-colored now, with exposed wood beams stretching across the ceiling above us. I frantically look around, absorbing the Christmas decorations everywhere. There’s a massive Christmas tree by the picture windows, stuffed to the brim with ornaments. Garland sprawls across the top of the headboard.

There are photos on the walls— so many photos— in frames on the dresser and nightstands. A well-documented love story of two people that chose each other.

“La, are you feeling okay?”

My eyes fly to Holden, half-awake and on his elbow, his dark hair tousled with sleep. He squints at me through one eye as he rubs the other.

“I don’t know,” I manage. “Maybe I just didn’t sleep well.”

“You didn’t move all night.” He tilts his head, studying me. He’s concerned and I think he’s got every right to be.

I think I might be suffering a psychotic break.

“But we had a pillow wall.” I sigh, pressing my lips together. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

He raises an eyebrow. “A pillow wall?”

“When we got here, the house only had one bed, so we didn’t have a choice. But you promised to stay on your side.”

I hiccup, anxiety bubbling up in my chest.

“Honey, come back to bed for a few minutes.” He motions with his hand.

“No.” I shake my head. This is someone else’s life. It’s a beautiful life, but I don’t belong here.

He tosses back the covers and makes his way to me. Dimly, I notice his pajamas match mine, and the ache in my chest grows. This is just a byproduct of our conversation last night. My imagination is going absolutely wild.

“This feels like more than a rough night’s sleep.” He hooks a hand around the back of my neck, curling his fingers against my skin and some of the tension in my chest unfurls with the tenderness. “Tell me about it.”

“You’ll think I’m crazy,” I whisper, avoiding eye contact.

My heart is cracked wide open right now. On full display in a magical house where I’m the star of the life I’ve always secretly wanted, and I’m powerless to stop it.

“I think something has you rattled enough that it feels real to you. That’s not crazy,” he says. “It’s valid to you, so it’s valid to me.”

There’s a litany of other questions I want answers to, but there’s one that feels the most pressing. I’m aware of the image my job has given me, but I need answers about this ring on my finger. Of all the reasons that I never committed to a future with Holden, money was never one of them.

But did I tell him that?

“What is this?” I point at the stack of rings on my very important finger.

“I’m pretty sure you know what that is. You were there for all of it.”

Except that I wasn’t.

“Humor me, please?” I sigh.

“I suppose you’re looking for more than the obvious answer here.”

“Please.”

He pulls me closer with a gentle press of the fingers at my neck so he can kiss my forehead. It’s a casual but intimate thing, something I’m sure he often does for this version of me. At least based on the way it seems second nature to him.

“If you want to see our wedding video again, all you have to do is ask,” he murmurs against my skin, his lips spreading into a smile.

I wonder how many times he’s done something similar, and I didn’t appreciate it.

“This feels so real ,” I whisper.

“Why wouldn’t it be, La? We’re very real.”

“It’s too perfect.”

Like a candy-coated gingerbread house.

“Perfection is an illusion. You, of all people, know that. The chaos, the messiness, the choosing—that’s real. And I will always choose you.”

But I didn’t choose you .

He wraps his arms around me, drawing me into his chest. I’ve only been awake for a few minutes and I’m losing this battle. This is why Holden is the hardest thing for me to stay away from: he grounds me. For all I know, I picked the blue pill and I’m blissfully and ignorantly living in a simulation of my deepest desires.

Even if that’s true: Holden is still Holden. He’s real and I can focus on that.

“Why don’t you take a few minutes and come down when you’re ready? I’ll start breakfast, and we can watch the wedding video while we decorate the tree.”

Kids??

My stomach flips, and I stare at him. “They want to do what?”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes. Want a fire, too?”

I nod wordlessly.

Once he leaves, I glance around the room one more time, desperate for a detail that this isn’t real. Proof that I’m being lied to, messed with, anything.

My eyes snag on the tree again, dialing in on a specific ornament. One Holden gave me after a weekend visit. I rush over, eager to say what other secrets this tree holds and gasp when I notice that all of my gingerbread ornaments, the one Holden gives me after every single visit, are here.

Some are different. And they’ve multiplied.

How long have we been together?

I gingerly touch one, then another, like my fingerprints can unlock a transfer of memories to me and replace the ones I know. They’re perfectly intact, solid beneath my fingers.

Did we go skiing on vacation? Am I in a coma? Do I have amnesia?

No, I wouldn’t remember Holden.

Or would I? Is selective amnesia a thing?

I press my fingers to my eyes, sucking in a breath.

“I don’t understand how this is real.” I whisper.

None of this matches the life I know, but it certainly matches the one I’ve always wanted. The one I’ve believed for so long that I didn’t deserve.

Sometimes you have to get lost to find where you belong.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I don’t belong here. The woman in these photos hanging on the walls looks like me, but she’s not. This ring doesn’t belong to me, it belongs to her.

This whole life isn’t mine.

And I never realized until this moment how much I wish it could be.