His expression suddenly changes, hardness giving way to confusion. He shakes his head. “You what? What do you mean, you—”

I toss my hands up in the air, and his jacket slips off my shoulders and falls to the sidewalk in a crumpled heap. It doesn’t matter; I’m immune to the cold now. “That was me!” I slap my chest. “Me sneaking down from my room so I could watch you swim night after night. I was obsessed with you. You gifted me those books on your last day at St. John’s, and you know what? I never returned them, not even when I graduated. I paid the fines and took them home and I still have them. They’ve felt like such treasures and I was so embarrassed to admit it, but now I can’t seem to care at all.”

A wild, end-of-the-road laugh tumbles out of me. I think I’ve gone crazy. I feel crazy.

“The last few months have left me with no ego at all so, in a way, it feels freeing to finally come clean about my silly infatuation with you, because it’s done.” I step back. “You’ve ensured that.”

I’m turning back toward the hotel when he says my name, just once.

“Lainey.”

There’s a poem in that word. It’s gentle and heartbroken and pleading enough that it brings forth a fresh batch of tears, but it doesn’t convince me to turn around.

Unbothered by my bare feet and mascara-covered face, I pull open the door to the hotel and go to find my grandmother. We have a lot to discuss.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lainey

It’s late, and we should both be in bed. Christmas Eve is about to become Christmas Day, and yet my grandmother and I are in the sitting room, cast in the twinkling glow from the Christmas tree proudly posed in the corner. When we got home from the Four Seasons, I asked if we could talk, privately. She had the forethought to tell Jacobs to bring us each a spiked hot chocolate, complete with a tiny candy cane dangling over the side of each mug.

Though it’s cheery and delicious, I haven’t had much more than a few half-hearted sips of mine.

I tentatively peer over at my grandmother and find she hasn’t touched much of hers either. She sits facing the tree wearing a wistful expression as she studies the delicate white lights and heirloom ornaments we hung together earlier in December. That easy winter day seems a thousand miles away now.

She’s never one to sit in her emotions, but tonight, she seems fragile and sad. Her austere mask isn’t in its usual place.

I feel bad for what I’m doing. I’d much rather continue to sweep our problems under the rug, but leaving well enough alone just doesn’t seem possible any longer. The rug is overflowing at this point. Besides, I’ve already come this far, and it seems silly to back down now.

I set my mug carefully on the side table and turn toward her. The ominous sound of china hitting wood draws her attention as I begin to speak. “This will not be a pleasant conversation, I’m afraid.”