Page 111 of Snowed Inn

Not to mention, Luca won’t stop giving me shit.

My notes app is filled with my completely contradictory internal monologue.

And here I go again.

Ellie’s right . . . it is an open invitation. Anyone is invited.

But what if he doesn’t want me there?

Or maybe he does—but only to show me he didn’t need my help. That he pulled this off without me. Or worse—in spite of me.

God, Maria, stop making this about you.

I exhale sharply and stand up, pacing my tiny apartment. I should just tell El I’m not going. I should politely decline, possibly post a breezy “Congratulations” comment, and move on.

But my brain is already spinning, imagining every possibility.

What if I go? What if he’s still pissed at me? What if it’s weird and tense, and we end up doing that awkward polite nod from across the room thing while I stand in the corner sipping a mocktail and counting down the minutes until I can leave? I won’t even have alcohol to sustain me.

Or worse—what if it’s not weird at all?

What if I show up and see him looking stupidly good in some button-down, all confident and happy, and know I made a huge, irreversible mistake by not texting him?

But if I go and it’s a disaster, I’ll have visual confirmation that we’re really over. That whatever we had died quietly sometime between my last deleted text and his last caption. But if I don’t go . . . I’ll always wonder. And wondering is its own kind of torture. I scrub a hand down my face. I cannot go.

I absolutely should not go.

I’m already looking in my closet to find the perfect cocktail dress.

Chapter 43

Day of the Grand Opening

There’s no way I’m going to be able to swallow this lump in my throat. First of all, it’s been in there for a month now. Ever since I saw the Mockingbird invitation online. And second, it’s way too big. It’s like a whole cake pop wedged in there.

El and Aiden are at my side. I made them promise to meet me in the lobby of the inn. We drove to Main Street together. I’m not alone, but still. I feel like I may puke. I’m already glancing around at the storefronts to see where I might be able to do so privately.

To make matters worse, my phone has been blowing up all day with texts from Monica Moss. Her movie came out last month and she is indeed Hollywood’s new IT girl. I’m proud of what I accomplished for her, but I already know I’ve created a (worse) monster. She hasn’t left me alone for an entire hour since the premiere. She’s on my last nerve, and I told her quite clearly that I was busy tonight. But do you think she cares?

I put my phone on mute a couple of hours ago so I can’t hear the text pings anymore. I press my hand to my middle. I’m definitely going to throw up, right here next to Mrs. Wilkins’s crocheted Uncle Sam.

El and I have had way too many talks about this night. She’s convinced that Jesse would truly like for me to show up. But I’ve spent the last three weeks steadily telling myself the opposite. That it’s a mistake. That he meant to block my account but forgot. That he’ll take one look at me and tell me to get out. Only, obviously I have some sort of either hope or masochism because here I am.

We’re standing just outside the entrance, and I take a deep breath.

“Ready?” Aiden asks.

“Ready.” I nod.

He pulls open the big, wooden door and holds it for us while we enter.

The interior is stunning—low-lit and buzzing with energy, every detail carefully curated. Edison bulbs dangle above the bar like golden fireflies, casting a soft, amber glow over polished wood and exposed brick. The air smells like warm oak, botanicals, and something subtly spiced—clove or orange zest. Maybe both. Everything feels intentional: reclaimed wood floors, rich leather stools, matte black fixtures that glint in the light. The space is packed, wall-to-wall, with guests dressed in their summer best, laughing over mocktails and nonalcoholic craft beers. It’s high end but grounded, like someone poured a Pinterest board into a whiskey barrel and made it work.

I don’t see Jesse.

I smooth my hands down my dress—a short, black silk cocktail number with strappy heels—because El was adamant that it wouldn’t be too much. “It’s a big event,” she reasoned. “You need to look hot, confident, and a little intimidating.” Normally, I would agree with her, but Jesse’s crowd is not exactly a black-tie group. I imagine they wear ball caps year-round and talk about hops. I took her advice anyway.

A waiter comes by with champagne flutes on a serving tray, and Aiden grabs two for El and me. I taste it. Mmmm. If it’s mock champagne, I don’t want to know. I’m going to go full psychosomatic on this and pretend it’s real. I down half of it in a single gulp.