Page 99 of Holiday Friend Zones
“Bullshit,” I whisper.
His head jerks up, eyes narrowing.“Excuse me?”
“Bull.Shit.”My voice is louder now, shaking.“If you don’t believe me, fine.That’s your problem.But don’t you dare for a fucking second think my mother wasted her breath on you if you weren’t exactly the kind, incredible man you are.Don’t you dare rewrite her love just because you can’t stand to accept it.”
Don’t you dare act like mine is, either.
“Willow—”
But I can’t.If I stay, I’ll break.My feet move before my brain catches up.Out the door, down the street.
The cold tears into me, wind slicing my cheeks, my coat no match for the December air.I scrub at my face, furious at the heat of tears slipping free anyway.The Christmas lights strung across Main Street blur, little halos against the darkening sky.My heart is an ache I can’t swallow, too full of grief, anger, and love to fit inside my chest.
“Fucking impossible,” I breathe into the winter air, words turning to steam, vanishing before I can take them back.
ChapterSeventeen
WILLOW
Tip 10: Be yourself.
This one cuts the deepest.If being myself were enough, Roman would’ve noticed years ago.He would’ve looked at me and seen more than his best friend, more than the girl who patches shelves and strings garland until her fingers ache.He would’ve seen someone worth choosing.
But he doesn’t.Not like that.Not yet.
So what does that say?That maybe, I’m not enough.
By the time I lock up, the street is lit with Christmas lights—strings of gold and red crisscrossing above Main like the town is trying to convince itself magic still exists.I stop outside the glass storefront, my reflection framed by tinsel and a painted wreath, and I don’t recognize myself for a second.My smile looks forced.My eyes look tired.And the worst part is, I look like someone still hoping.
If Christmas is supposed to be about miracles, then I guess mine got lost in the mail.
In conclusion: the internet is trash, and so am I—pathetically googling my way through heartbreak like it’s a DIY project.
ChapterEighteen
WILLOW
After Tip Ten, I don’t sleep.
I lie on the couch in the back office with the shop’s old wool blanket thrown over me, watching the ceiling fan tick-tick-tick like it’s counting down to the part where I finally give up.Outside, Main Street blinks through the front windows—gold, red, a handful of blue bulbs someone insisted would “add dimension.”It should feel like magic.It feels like pretending.
By dawn, the heat sputters.I tug on boots and shuffle out front, breath fogging as I flip the lights and start the opening routine.That’s when I hear it: a faint hiss from the stacks, followed by the soft patter of something I really, really don’t want to identify.
Water.
I round the corner and stare.A hairline split in the copper line above the Classics section is spraying like a possessed sprinkler, mistingLittle Womenand turningA Christmas Carolinto pulp fiction.The rug is soaked.The garland droops.I’m two seconds from throwing something and three seconds from screaming.
“Not today,” I tell the ceiling, like the building is a person who can bargain.“Please.Not today.”
I haul the ladder, climb two rungs, and reach up with a dish towel.It does absolutely nothing.The towel darkens.The leak laughs at me.I scramble down and grab the shutoff hidden behind the register.It jams.My hands are numb and slick, and my brain decides now is the perfect time to replay every humiliating moment of the last week.The tips.The failed compliments.The way Roman looked at me last night when I told him to stop rewriting my mother’s love like it was optional.
“C’mon,” I beg the valve.“Please.”
The bell over the door jingles.
“Wills?”
He fills the doorway with cold air and morning light, a thermos in one hand, tool bag in the other.His hair is tousled, like he ran a hand through it a dozen times and gave up trying to tame it.He takes in the scene in a breath—the ladder, the drip, the drowned Victorians.
