Page 71 of Pretty Thing

I limp closer and straighten the collar of his jacket just to have an excuse to touch him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Eden.” His gloved hand brushes gently against my cheek. “You never have to apologize for wanting your people.”

He’s one of my people.

Felix leans down and kisses me. His touch is tender, unhurried and I savor every second. Then he presses his forehead against mine briefly before stepping back.

“I’ll call you later,” he says, opening the door. Cold wind rushes inside, and then he’s gone.

I stand at the window, staring out at the falling snow with the vintage camera clutched tightly against my chest while something painful twists inside me.

Today suddenly doesn’t feel complete without him.

nineteen

​. . .​

Eden

The Newman house glows brightly against the snow, with smoke curling from the chimney. Christmas lights blink lazily along the roofline while Kyle helps me out of the truck. It’s perfect…too perfect. It’s a snow globe come to life and reminds me way too much of what I’ll never have again, at least not in the same way I once did.

“You good,” Kyle asks quietly.

I nod even though the grief still feels lodged beneath my ribs like broken glass.

“Does your mum still make that weird marshmallow salad thing?”

Kyle snorts.

“Unfortunately, yes. But don’t worry, Nana is here, and she loves it. Sit by her, and you can pretend to take a scoop and put it on her plate. She has like no teeth and can only eat soft foods anyway.”

That gets a chuckle out of me.

The front door swings open before we reach it.

“There’s my birthday girl!”

Mrs. Newman pulls me straight into a hug, and I bite back the wince as my ribs complain. The house smells like cinnamon and vanilla mixed with roast chicken and beef. Mrs. Newman hates turkey, which always worked great for me. Turkey at home, and chicken and beef with the Newmans.

In a blink, everything that used to make me so happy is now just a reminder of what I’ve lost. The singing, the crowded kitchen, too many voices overlapping. Tears prickle my eyes, but I manage not to let them fall.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers immediately. “Come in.” Mrs. Newman holds me as if I’ll disappear and a stupid tear leaks free. “I loved your parents so much. I can’t even imagine what today is like for you,” she says, rubbing circles on my back.

Why is it that kindness feels unbearable lately?

She steps away, and Kyle helps me with my coat and boot before escorting me into the living room.

Everything is loud, warm, and alive. Christmas music drifts in from the kitchen while Mr. Newman argues with football commentators from his recliner. I recognize their aunts and uncles, the cousins and children, but rather than heading over to the large group, I wave.

Kris runs in, stunning in her red Christmas dress that pairs well with her black hair and eyes.

The dining table is covered with food. Three different types of potato, salads, glazed carrots, warm bread, and so much more. Mrs. Newman must have been cooking all day to get this done.

My stomach growls before I can stop it.

Mrs. Newman points aggressively toward the table.