8. Winter

Chapter 8

Winter

I pull another sweater from the closet and gauge how many layers I need for Bixby's unpredictable winter weather. Of course, it will be cold in Colorado, but the temperatures can bounce back and forth from light snow dust to Arctic conditions within the same week. The soft fabric of my favorite cashmere cardigan slips through my fingers as Chelsea hands me another glass of wine, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"So," Chelsea begins, swirling the wine in her glass as she leans against the doorframe. " Orson Frost will be at the wedding, won't he?" Her eyes stay trained on me.

The mere mention of his name causes my stomach to twist in knots. I have been dreading this reunion for weeks—no, years—and she knows it all too well.

I nod, folding my button-down shirt with practiced precision and placing it gently into the open suitcase on my neatly made bed. "Of course, Orson's the best man." Anxiety laces my voice. The thought of my seeing him again makes my fists clench, wrinkling the shirt in my hands. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, a pang of sadness hits me. “You already know this, you smart-ass,” I scold, pursing my lips.

Chelsea grins and takes a sip of her wine. “And how do we feel about that? You haven’t mentioned him since the night of my premiere, but I can tell you’ve thought of him. What will you do? What will you say?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The soft hum of city life filters in through my slightly ajar window, so far from the silence I’ll find in Bixby. “It’s complicated. Seeing him at your premiere stirred up more than I expected. And not in a good way, just to be clear.”

Chelsea sits beside me and bumps her shoulder against mine. “It’s okay to still have feelings for him, Winter. He was your first love. Come to think of it, he’s been your only love.”

I sigh, staring down at my hands clasped tightly in my lap. “I know, but we broke up for good reasons. I just want to make sure I can keep things friendly and civil. You know what I mean? This is Dina’s big day. I need to keep my cool at all costs.”

Chelsea nods, her expression softening. “Just focus on celebrating with your friend and enjoy the trip down memory lane without wandering off into what-if territory. Above all, do not come home with a broken heart. We have plans for New Year’s Eve, and I don’t want you ruining them with nonstop tears.” She sticks her tongue out to assure me she’s only kidding.

“You’re right,” I agree with a smile that feels a bit more strained than I’d like to admit. I stand and return to packing, pulling out a pair of jeans and laying them alongside the sweaters. “Being maid of honor comes with major responsibilities. I’ll be too busy to worry about what the best man is doing. No doubt we’ll mingle, but I can’t fathom having too much interaction with Orson.”

“Besides,” Chelsea says as she stands up and moves toward my collection of shoes scattered on the floor, picking up a pair of boots perfect for Colorado's snow. “Who says you can’t look fabulous and feel strong while being civil? Let’s focus on finding you an outfit that screams ‘breathtaking but not here for your drama.’"

Chuckling, I shake my head but appreciate her efforts to lighten the mood. She always knows how to make me smile. No matter what happens in Bixby—with Orson or anyone else—I have my friends to support me. When my suitcase is zipped shut and my travel outfit is chosen, I feel ready for whatever awaits me.

Thirty minutes into my five-hour flight, my nerves are frayed, thanks to Tim, the clueless man sitting beside me. I can’t believe I gave my bodyguard the week off for Christmas. Hoping to avoid further eye contact, I tuck my book closer to my chest and glance out the oval window, watching clouds churn in shades of gray that remind me of Orson's gray eyes. The hum of the airplane engine almost drowns out Tim's incessant chatter about his recent skiing trip, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to get his point across. He leans closer, the scent of his cologne mingling unpleasantly with the recycled air.

"You really should try Vail,” Tim says with a grin that probably works on most but only makes my blood boil with rage.

I nod politely, my mind drifting back to Orson and the winter we spent cuddling in front of the small heater in my first studio apartment in Greenwich Village. It was our last Christmas together, and the end was already in sight. But for those last few days, we tried to put our differences aside and focus on emotions that wouldn’t disappear quickly. In the end, it didn’t work.

I remember how Orson used to look at me across the room, his gaze settling on me like a warm blanket in winter. Something about it made me feel larger than life, as if no one else existed but me. It’s strange that even with my fame and legion of admirers, no one has looked at me quite like that since. Although I’ve moved on, that’s just one thing that sticks with me.

Tim interrupts my daydream by rattling off hotel names and slopes with all the enthusiasm of an overzealous tour guide. He’s driving me up the wall, but I can’t be rude, or our interaction will end in a dozen gossip rags by morning.

With a curt smile that I hope he interprets as disinterest, I attempt to return to my book, but can barely focus on the words. I find myself tracing the letters absentmindedly as Tim's voice fades into background noise. Each sentence pulls me further into memories of Orson—his laugh echoing in my parent’s home, his hands pulling me close whenever my mother walked out of the room. But after all that good came a pain that traumatized me into never loving again.

“Have you ever been to Vail or Aspen?” Tim asks, continuing his line of questions and ignoring my body language.

Sighing, I turn back to him and reply with just enough words to seem cordial. "Yes. They’re both lovely," I say mechanically, "but I need to finish some reading.”

Tim nods and pulls out his phone, tapping through whatever apps hold more appeal than this awkward conversation.

I breathe a sigh of relief and lean back against my seat, closing my eyes against the muted whispers of passengers and the droning lullaby of jet engines.

Lost in thought about Orson, I fall asleep with my cheek pressed against the cool windowpane. Perhaps in my dreams, things will be different.