Page 80 of Holly Ever After

“Great! Then I'm going to go hang these over the fireplace,” Jackie says, trotting back to the living room. “The more, the merrier!”

Mom turns to me, wiping her hands on a festive dish towel. “Brenda is going to love it.”

“Or have a heart attack from sensory overload,” I add, examining a candy cane I find in a dish on the coffee table.

“You think Sean will like it?” Mom asks, almost as if reading my mind.

“How would I know what he thinks?” I say a bit too quickly, averting my eyes.

She just smirks, a look that says she knows me far better than I care to admit. “Oh, no reason. He's just been worried about his mom, that's all. I thought the festive atmosphere might lift his spirits.”

“I think the only thing that could lift his spirits is if the woods came alive and started serenading him with nature songs.” I immediately regret opening my mouth as her eyes narrow a little.

Uh-oh.

“You haven't been very fair to him, you know,” she says softly, not pushing but making a point.

“This is about Brenda, not Sean. Can we focus, please?”

What is it with mother’s and always being able to see through the bullshit?

I step away from the kitchen, wielding my duster like a wand as I move to the bookshelves that line one wall of Brenda's cozy den. This was always my favorite spot in her house growing up—a sanctuary of stories. She always had a book to recommend, whether I was dealing with teenage angst or a difficult math problem. Somehow, literature had all the answers.

Taking my time, I begin dusting each book, pulling some out slightly to wipe down their covers. I get lost in the titles, some classics, some modern, many with worn edges and cracked spines that speak to how well-loved they are. But then, as I reach the middle shelf, my heart catches in my throat.

There, stacked neatly together, are the books I've written. Every single one of them, from my first self-published novella to my most recent bestseller. I pull them out, holding them like fragile artifacts, each a piece of my soul laid bare. My heart pounds as I open the front cover of the first book I ever wrote. Inside is a small Christmas card from Sean to his mother.

“She's doing it, Ma. Merry Christmas. Love, Sean.”

I can't help but cover my mouth as I read it, my eyes stinging. Sean has been collecting my books for his mother.

I quickly flip through another, pulling out a Christmas card that reads: “Ma, this one is about a spy who falls in love. It’s a little far-fetched, but I’m sure you’ll love it. Merry Christmas. Love, Sean.”

I reach for my most recent book, my hands trembling. This was the one that made it to number one on several bestseller lists. I carefully open it, afraid of what I might find but unable to stop myself. Inside is another card: “Our girl did it, Ma. Number One. Merry Christmas. Love, Sean.”

I close the book softly, putting it back on the shelf, my hands lingering on the cover. I feel like I've intruded on a private moment, on something intimate and sacred between a son and his mother. Yet, at the same time, I can't shake the sense of warmth that fills me, chasing away the residual cold I've felt for too long.

Upstairs, I check each room, but my eyes are drawn to a door across the hallway. It's Sean’s childhood bedroom. A forbidden place during our teenage years, and even more so now. But something pulls me towards it, some mix of nostalgia and a burning curiosity.

I press my hand lightly against the door and slowly push it open. The room is bathed in a soft afternoon light. The walls are painted a muted shade of blue, with faded band posters and sports memorabilia dotting the shelves. A worn-out rug with intricate patterns covers the floor, and a wooden desk sits in one corner, cluttered with old notebooks and a dusty desktop computer. There’s a shelving unit filled with trophies, mostly from soccer and basketball.

Moving closer to the bed, I sit down on its edge, feeling the softness underneath. My fingers absently trace the objects on the nightstand—a leather-bound journal, a vintage alarm clock, and an old black and white photograph of a younger Sean with Brenda, both smiling. There's also a dog-eared copy of a book I recognize. It’s one of mine. The realization makes me smile, mixed with a twinge of embarrassment.

I remember all the whispered rumors from high school. How every girl used to fantasize about what it would be like to be in Sean Colson's bedroom. Back then, he was the guy every girl either wanted to date or wanted to be. He still is. The mysterious, bad boy allure he radiated made this room the epicenter of most teenage daydreams, including my own.

I lie back, sinking into his bed, staring at the ceiling.

My head hurts from trying to reconcile the man I thought I knew to the man who spent days in my bed and kept a close eye on my career.

Somehow, I feel like I know everything about him while knowing nothing at all.

There's a faint noise downstairs, muffled voices. I assume it's just Jackie and Mom, probably locked in another debate about where the furniture should go. But when the door creaks open, my heart stalls in my chest.

For a split second, he doesn't notice me. He’s a bit rough around the edges with his hand running anxiously through his tousled hair and then down his face. His jaw is tense, and there's a weariness in his posture.

But then, he turns.

Our eyes lock. The world falls away, replaced by a visceral connection so intense it steals my breath. The surprise in his eyes is quickly replaced by a look I can't quite place—pain, longing, and an undeniable heat. There's a vulnerability in that gaze, and it's directed at me while I lie sprawled out on his childhood bed.

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