Page 2 of Holly Ever After

“Oh, Holly! This place is so…rustic!” She casts a judgmental eye around, her voice a pitch higher than usual.

“And by rustic, you mean…?”

“I mean, you’ll need a Christmas miracle to have this place ready for a tree.” She’s already fussing over the throw pillows as if their arrangement will transform the room.

I’m slightly offended on behalf of my old cottage. “It just needs a good clean and a lick of paint.”

She nods, unconvinced. “Sure, honey.”

Dad lumbers in after her, his presence instantly calming like a weighted blanket. He gives me a bear hug so tight it nearly cracks my spine.

Ah, relief.

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart,” he says, smiling.

“And you, Daddy.”

Just when I think we’ve reached maximum occupancy, my brother, Mark arrives, balancing his three-year-old, Mia, on one arm and holding the hand of his very pregnant wife, Rachel, with the other.

“Hey, sis.” He grins, navigating the toddler minefield that is my living room with surprising grace.

“Hey yourself.” I lift Mia into my arms. “Missed me?”

Mia giggles, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Cookie? Play?”

Ah, yes, the universal language of nieces everywhere—sugar and playtime.

Before I can offer her some chocolate, Mom chimes in: “Speaking of play, you have to participate in the Christmas games this year. You haven’t been home for Christmas in years. We need you for the treasure hunt, and you know how competitive the Johnsons get.”

Christmas games? Treasure hunts? Competitive neighbors? What parallel Christmas universe have I moved into?

I glance at Dad for support, but he simply shrugs, his eyes saying, “You’re on your own for this one.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, wiggling out of commitment like a seasoned politician.

Mark smirks, clearly amused. “You might as well say yes. She’ll badger you until you do.”

Traitor.

But before I can open my mouth, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. The screen lights up with yet another text from Adam.

Adam: You moved? What the actual fuck, Holly?

More texts come streaming through.

Here we go again.

He obviously doesn’t know the meaning of “I never want to see you again.”

It’s been three months and he’s been relentless.

I don’t have the mental compacity to deal with any of this today, so I silence it and turn it face down before my mother gets a chance to peek. The last thing I need is her grilling me about it.

I've been dodging the truth, tangoing around the reasons behind the sudden end of my engagement. My family has always been there for me, a tight-knit circle of trust and support. So why haven't I told them the real reason I ended my engagement?

Embarrassment. That's the root of it. I've built a career around penning romance novels, crafting tales of perfect couples and grand love stories. Admitting my own has crumbled, that it wasn’t the fairy tale I’d hoped for, makes me feel like an intruder. Like I’m failing not just at love, but at understanding it.

And I don't want their pity or theI told you solooks. I don't want them to dissect every memory, trying to pinpoint where things went wrong. It’s easier to keep them at arm's length, to deal with the heartbreak in solitude.

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