9. Orson

Chapter 9

Orson

As I step into the bistro, the cozy atmosphere envelops me. The warm glow of flickering candles illuminates the vintage French posters adorning the walls. Christmas lights trace the frosted windows, and decorated trees are strategically placed in every corner of the room. The scent of cinnamon, freshly baked bread, and rich espresso fills my nostrils, making my mouth water.

My suit feels out of place in this quaint little bistro, but at the same time, I feel perfectly at ease. It's like stepping into a different time and place, where comfort and simplicity are a way of life. I straighten my tie, trying to blend in, and ask the host for the location of my party.

Within seconds, I spot Winter leaning against the bar, holding a flute of champagne, her laughter mingling with the soft jazz playing in the background. She’s so fucking beautiful—a vision so familiar yet so different from the girl I used to know. It doesn’t seem like she’s noticed me yet, or if she has, she’s doing a fantastic job of pretending otherwise.

With a deep breath, I steel myself and begin to navigate toward her, my heart thumping like the anxious steps of a soldier entering a battlefield. "Winter," I call out, trying to sound nonchalant despite the drumbeat in my chest.

She turns, her eyes widening with surprise before settling into a cool reserve.

"Orson." Winter’s voice remains neutral and poised. But those pale blue eyes betray a storm somewhere within. "I didn’t know you'd be here. Owen said you wouldn’t arrive until midweek."

"Well, Owen’s practically my brother," I reply smoothly. "Luckily, I was able to slip away earlier than expected. I couldn't bear the thought of missing anything important." There's no need to divulge that I arrived earlier just for her—it would only complicate things. I'll share that piece of my soul with her when we have more time.

“It’s good to see you. I saw you at a movie premiere a few weeks ago. I’m not sure if you saw me—Chelsea Franklin is a close friend of mine.” Winter lies through her perfect teeth. She knows damn well I saw her.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

We fall into an awkward silence—the kind where all the unsaid words hang heavy between us. I need to bridge this gap, but every piece of charm in my arsenal seems suddenly trite. It's easy wooing women when my interests have no realistic chance of lasting more than a few weeks. It’s so much more complicated when there is something at risk.

"I definitely saw you. You’re hard to miss.” I lean closer, watching her reaction for a hopeful sign. "How have you been?"

The question is simple, but it takes her aback slightly. "Good," she says after a slight pause. She glances away, then back at me. "Busy with work and all."

"And all? That sounds ominously vague," I quip lightly, hoping to draw out the giggle I haven’t heard in years.

Winter smiles, but the delight reflected on her lips doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "You know me—always keeping busy. Perhaps I’ll take it easier next year."

"I do know you," I say softly. The air shifts slightly as those words hang between us—a gentle reminder of our shared past.

Winter lifts her head and looks at me as if she’s searching for the Orson she once knew in the man standing before her. There seems to be something on her mind—something I think I want to hear, she quickly changes the subject and leaves my curiosity unsated. "Owen told me you’ve been doing well in Los Angeles. I’m glad to hear it."

"LA is good," I admit, shifting slightly under her gaze—so intense, it’s difficult to read. "But it’s not home."

"No?" Winter’s eyes grow wide as if my admission surprises her. She tilts her head slightly, a gesture so inherently Winter that my heart clenches with familiarity and longing. “Do you miss Bixby?”

"No." I lean in just a fraction closer, driven by a sudden boldness—or maybe desperation. "I don’t think of home as a place. I’m starting to believe home is a feeling—or maybe a person. You used to feel like home. Don’t you remember me telling you that?”

Winter’s breath catches slightly, and I can see her discomfort in the way her shoulders stiffen. She looks disturbed by my admission. Although there’s a hint of warmth in her eyes, she’s not ready to hear what I want and need to say.

The air around us becomes tense momentarily as I wait to hear Winter’s voice. Maybe I was too bold, but it’s hard to restrain my enthusiasm when I’ve thought about this day for so long. Unfortunately, we’re interrupted by Owen clapping his hands for attention from across the room, calling everyone to join him in lifting our glasses and toasting his bride-to-be, Dina. This conversation is far from over.

I make room for her to walk ahead of me, but she doesn't move immediately—even as the rest of the group forms a circle around the happy couple. “Can we talk? Later, maybe?” I say before we're swept into the gathering crowd.

She nods, a faint glimmer of unease flashing across her features. A waiter appears and offers us two delicate glasses of champagne in preparation for Owen’s toast, but she waves him off. Winter turns away, unable to meet my gaze. “Chelsea’s asked me to sing, but we’ll talk later,” she says softly, her voice barely audible above cheering voices. “We’re here to celebrate our friends, not tiptoe down memory lane.”

I’m utterly captivated by the ethereal sound of her voice, like colorful streams floating through the air. Her eyelids flutter shut, a blissful expression on her face as she tilts her head skyward, pouring all her soul into the serenade for the newlyweds-to-be. The music radiating from her lips is like a magical spell, enveloping the couple in a warm hug.

These are the melodies she was meant to sing—timeless jazz standards that showcase the range of her voice. Every note is flawless, every word bursting with emotion that tugs at my heartstrings. I can't peel my gaze away from her enchanting performance, feeling like I'm witnessing something otherworldly and sacred.

When we were young, the mere thought of losing Winter to the all-consuming embrace of her audience always gnawed at me. Eventually, life would sweep her away—to stages much grander than anything Bixby, Colorado could offer. There were no certainties or promises that I would make it in show business, but I had faith in her undeniable talent. She was destined for the glitz and glamour of big city lights—a brilliant star blazing across the velvet night sky while I would remain tethered by my insecurities and past failures.

And boom, here she is, bringing the fire to this low-key reception like she used to do on choir nights. Every note she belts out carries all the memories of what we once were—everything left unsaid and unspent between us. As I watch her, those old fears seem like a big joke. Life took her on a wild ride into worlds I’m still trying to reach.

The song ends, and the crowd goes wild. She opens her eyes, scanning the small crowd until she meets my gaze. A spark of recognition and shared history passes between us, warming me from within like a cozy fireplace. Maybe this is what it means to let go—watching her shine is worth every fear and anxious moment that crawls inside me and plays with my head. I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but the breakup was entirely my doing.

Winter believed in me and us, but I was terrified another guy, one more worthy than me, would steal her away. I wanted to control her and make her move to Los Angeles to keep an eye on what I believed belonged to me and me alone. That’s not love. Love is letting your person fly, safe in the knowledge they’ll come home to you. I’m such a fucking idiot. How will I ever make things up to her?