Page 154 of Fated

I scrub my hand over my face and try to clear away the cobwebs in my mind.

I had a dream.

A strange dream tugs at the corner of my mind. I stare at the wavy ripples of my bedroom window. The sky is a dull blue-gray and clouds hang low in the sky. The cold, drafty air wraps around me. I shiver and rub my hands over my arms.

There’s something?—

Something I need to remember.

I watch the ripples of the old glass while the cold of the bedroom wraps around me. There’s something about the waves that’s tugging at me.

But then the door bangs open and jars me out of the swirling eddy. Mila charges into the bedroom, her nightgown flying around her, an exuberant light in her eyes.

“Mummy! It’s Christmas Eve!” She jumps onto the bed and throws herself into my arms.

I laugh. “It is!”

She grins at me then scrambles upright and bounces up and down on the mattress. Her red hair flies in the air with each leap, and she sings, “It’s Christmas Eve!”

“Happy Christmas Eve.” I smile up at her and rub my chest. There’s an ache there. A heavy, hollow ache.

I don’t know.

I don’t understand why I’m so glad it’s Christmas Eve, but also so desperately sad.

I don’t know why it feels like I’ve lost something infinitely dear. I don’t know why it feels like I’ve lost a love I’ve never had.

55

I spin around the ballroom.The world is a glittering wonderland, and as I whirl in the warmth of Max’s arms the gold and silver sparkles and shines. I’m dizzy with the glitter of snowflakes and ice crystals and diamonds lighting silver Christmas trees.

Max holds me close, his hand settled in the curve of my spine. The pressure, the heat of his hand through the silky waterfall of my gold dress, keeps me anchored in the moment. I lean my head against his shoulder and breathe him in. The warm leather and spiced shaving soap, the sophistication and humor. He’s in a tuxedo, and the black brings out the dark loneliness that still lurks in him. I can see it there. He’s like his family’s estate—a giant, cavernous home, stately and magnificent, but empty. It echoes with the footsteps of ghosts and the breeze of forgotten laughter. Someday someone will step inside, throw on the lights, and burn away all the dust and all the ghosts. They’ll fill his home and his life with love.

But that person, it’s not me.

I press my hands into the warmth of his wool tuxedo and close my eyes as we slow to a quiet, rocking dance. We’re near the ice sculpture garden at the edge of the ballroom. There are snowflakes, Christmas trees, presents, and ice trains. And there’s a giant, twelve-foot-circumference pocket watch carved from ice. The glitter-coated silver hands tick the minutes away. It’s nearly midnight.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” Max says, his cheek brushing the top of my head. His chest rumbles as he speaks, and I press my face to his shoulder, closing my eyes against the brightness of the ballroom.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” I whisper, my throat thick with emotion.

Around us the ballroom glistens with lights and sounds. Everyone kept to the theme and wore black tuxedoes or ballgowns of silver and gold and white. Sequins and diamanté and diamonds abound. The lights catch the sparkles and shoot prisms around the room.

The world is alight with glitter and gold.

The orchestra plays a sweet, lilting song—one that reminds me of sitting at a frost-covered window watching the snow fall over a great, lonely field, where there are no birds, no people, no trees, nothing but snow, covering the memories of summer.

“I was wondering,” Max begins, tilting his head and speaking in a low, quiet voice, “if you had an answer.” He looks around the ballroom, at the dreamland around us. The sparkling scent of champagne and white-chocolate-dipped gingerbread swirls past.

I look up at him then. At the depths of his brown eyes, at the hawkish line of his jaw, and the softness of his mouth as he stares down at me. His hand rubs a slow circle over the curve of my back.

He holds me close.

And it’s strange, because even though he’s holding me, I feel alone.

How is it that you can be in the arms of someone you love, yet feel so lonely?

I hold onto him—the friendship I rely on, the love we share—and I reach up and brush a hand across his face. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

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