Page 111 of The Crush of Christmas Past
As if realizing whom he brought up, Asher’s wide gaze shoots to me. Willow’s follows, brimming with just as much alarm.
I shrug one shoulder and take a slow sip of my cider. The goal is to keep my mouth too busy to react.
Things have been quiet on the Theo front. Just as I requested.
A single text arrived the day he left:
Take all the time you need, Sunshine. You're worth the wait. Always were. Always will be.
He gave me the space I asked for, but instead of finding peace and clarity, all I feel is regret.
The silence that crowds me is agonizing. Even more so because I chose it.
I’m unsure whether it’s the roaring fireplace or the surplus of candles, but every inch of my skin feels like it’s been set aflame.
My outfit—an ivory knit dress with long sleeves and a short hem—hits that sweet spot between winter practicality and New Year’s Eve cheer.
Or so I thought.
I set my uncomfortably hot cup down on the nearest table. “I feel dizzy. I need some air.”
Willow opens her mouth like she’s about to protest, then seems to think better of it. She simply nods, offering a quiet “Text for a pick-up if you stray too far.”
Promising to be good, I swing by the makeshift coat check before slipping out.
Though the air outside is cool, it lacks December’s usual bite. Its softness comes from something greater than the comfortable temperature. Big, fluffy snowflakes drift in lazy spirals. Some catch in my hair, others kiss my cheeks. A light, misty fog spreads across the path ahead, urging me forward. It’s the kind of winter night that belongs in a fairy tale.
I walk without stopping until I find myself in front of Sugarpine Sweets. The darkened windows of my apartment make my chest squeeze with discomfort. Still, I consider going upstairs and crawling into bed—or rather, onto the mattress on the floor that’s still waiting for a frame. It would be easy to dull the ache with sleep. Let the clock strike midnight without giving the rest of this day the fight it deserves.
My feet don’t let me quit, though. They keep moving—past the hardware store, the bookstore, and the toy shop with the crooked bell over the door. Then I’m standing by the streetlight in front of The Starlight Vault. When I was little, I had a slight obsession with the flickering lamppost. It would glimmer only on occasion, without any apparent rhyme or reason.
My mom, ever so creative, spun a story that it was carrying through messages from the fairies. She said the blinking was how they communicated with children who believed in the beauty of nature and the magic of imagination.
I got it in my head that the fairies lived at the springs and begged Mom to leave behind gifts. That’s how our longstanding tradition of decorating rocks began. Every few weeks, we’d paint a new one to place at the water’s edge. Each time we returned, the rocks were gone. As we passed the light, Mom would tell me the fairies loved their presents and were asking for more.
At first, I felt special to be chosen by these mythical creatures. But it was the painting that ended up being the best part—Mom’s undivided attention on me, our fingers sticky with a rainbow of environmentally-safe colors, chatting about her latest projects, laughing over something silly that happened at school.
That was the real magic.
It wasn’t until we were packing up my childhood home that Theo unearthed a large box in the attic, full to the brim withbedazzled rocks. Every single one we’d ever made was lovingly packed away inside. Evangeline ended up lining her garden with them so I can revisit the stories any time I wish.
The memory brings me to a sloping path that curves away from civilization. As if guided by an otherworldly force, I follow it, instinct pulling me toward wilderness. Snow muffles the sound of my footsteps, and the deeper I venture, the more hushed the world becomes.
The heat of the springs hits me before they even come into view. Steam rises in gentle swirls through the snow-speckled dimness, curling around the wooden bridge ahead.
As I walk toward its center, I no longer feel lost.
In fact, I feel like I’ve finally arrived.
Maybe magic dwells here, after all.
My boots scuff along the damp wood, thick heels slipping slightly where the snow has melted to slush. I catch myself on the railing, the sleeve of my coat brushing familiar initials.
Three tiny symbols I’d wished into wood as a teenager. A silly, romantic dream.
But they’re no longer the same.
Ten days ago, Theo stood in front of the etching and retraced the lines with his own hand.
