Page 148 of My Favorite Holidate

His brow furrows in confusion. He didn’t come here to give me a gift. “What’s that?”

“I’d like for you to go to rehab.”

He flinches. “But what about the debt? What about the money I owe Desert Springs? That’s going to be haunting me. I’ve got to take care of that first,” he says, desperate for another hit, another game, another gamble.

They say an addict needs to want to change. I’m not sure he does. But maybe the change will come if he no longer has a safety net.

“I’m not going to pay your debt.”

“But you have the money,” he says, his voice pitching up.

“I do, and I’m going to use that money to send you to rehab. I’m going to find a great facility for you. A program where you can check in for a month or so and get real help day in and day out. Someplace where you can get help so that next year I can actually invite you to Christmas and you can see your granddaughter and show us all your one-year chip.” I stop when my throat clogs with emotion.Deep breath. “I’ll handle all of that. I’ll take care of all of that. I’ll set it up.”

His jaw ticks, and he seems to fight off a traitorous tear. “But what about the money I owe?”

I hear Fable’s voice again, asking me if paying it off is going to solve anything.

I don’t have to solve it either. But perhaps I can help in a new way. A better way. A way that matters. “I am going to call Desert Springs, and I’m going to ask for a grace period. I’m going to arrange a payment plan for you so that you have plenty of time to get yourself together and then to pay it off. When you get out of rehab, I’m going to get you a job with my company. Maybe you’ll be a ticket taker at the Renegades. Maybe you’ll be an usher. Maybe you’ll restock the vending machines at one of my hotels. Or maybe you’ll find your own job. But you’re going to get a job and pay it off yourself. I’m not covering for you anymore.” I pause and collect myself. “And it’s not because of the money. It’s because I love you. And I want you to get well.”

He swallows, his throat working as more tears fall down his face. For a few seconds, he seems at war with himself. Like he wants to run to the door and hit the tables. He probably does. But, finally, with a shrug of resignation, he simply says, “Okay.”

It’s enough. Because it’s a new start.

He heads to Brady’s former cabin to take a shower, and I stand at the counter with my phone, searching for the closest and best rehab facilities for gambling addiction.

The soft pad of fuzzy socks registers, and seconds later, the smell of strawberries and champagne floats past me. My whole soul calms down, and a voice in my ear says, “I heard the end of that. I’m so proud of you.”

I don’t waste another second. I turn around, cup her cheeks, and say, “I love you.”

That was terrifying but it was wonderful too. I suppose both things can be true at once. Love can hurt you, and love can heal you.

Before she can answer, I say it again, “I love you so much, Fable. I should have said it last night. I should have said it the night before. I should have said it every second we’ve been here because I was falling in love with you when we walked through that door. And I’ve fallen harder and faster every second I’ve spent with you. I love you,” I say again, unable to stop. “I love you so much. You are extraordinary, and I want to love you that way too. I want you to be mine for real, for today, for tomorrow, for New Year’s Eve, for all the days.”

I wait for her answer.

52

MY TOO MUCH

Fable

“You beat me to it! That’s not fair.” But it’s hard to be mad. Not when I’m overjoyed and bursting with big, scary, incredible feelings.

“Did I now?” he asks, wrapping his arms around my waist.

“You did. And we’ll have to fight about it,” I say, and I don’t try to hide the happiness that floods my cells.

“I would love to fight with you.”

“You’ve got it because I love you, Wilder Blaine,” I say, making myself vulnerable at last, but he’s worth it. He’s so worth it. “I love you so much, and I came out here this morning determined to find you and to tell you I was ridiculous for saying we should stop. I was so scared of telling you how I felt for real. And I thought you wanted to end things, and I didn’t want you to hurt me, so I chose the coward’s way out,” I admit, finally serving up all my fears.

“I never want to hurt you, honey. I’m sorry I did,” he says, gripping me tighter, holding me closer.

I shake my head. “It was my fault. I wasn’t honest about my feelings.”

“I wasn’t either. It was my fault,” he says, adamant.

And I laugh. “Are we fighting about whose fault it is?”

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