With a minor success under his belt, he went for the rest. In a snowstorm of rough pulls and tugs, he yanked and pulled and ripped at each one in turn. By the fourth, his arms ached and when he fell backwards, he landed flat on his back with a face full of wreath pressing him down into the damp grass.

Fine. He could stay in this house for one night. One night in a house where every ware reminded him of Kate Buckner wouldn’t kill him.

It might break his heart even worse. It would no doubt keep him up all night. He wouldn’t be able to escape the pain. But it wouldn’t kill him.

He abandoned his pursuit of a fresh, un-Jack Frosted house. The wreaths stayed on the front lawn or at their window-side post and Clark took himself inside, where the fires Kate tended still burned hot and her decorations twinkled even more brightly as the night darkened and grew denser around the house. Room by room, Clark made the journey of extinguishing Christmas from the place. He took nothing down—he didn’t want to touch anything, while the memories and pain burned fresh—but he unplugged the lamps inside tiny porcelain villages and flicked off breakers controlling scores of hung fairy lights. The formal dining room. The kitchen. The downstairs study. The hallways. One by one they fell to his power until Clark reached the closed French doors of the living room, the one room he’d been dreading all along. Where Kate told her story about her family and how much the festival meant to her. Where they watched It’s a Wonderful Life and laughed at the plot holes while debating if George Bailey was a real romantic at heart. Where they decorated the tree.

Where Clark realized he was falling for her.

He considered leaving it, but knew it would only hurt worse in the morning. Might as well rip it off, Band-Aid style. The doors spread for him, spilling golden light into the hallway.

All at once, his body deadened. He couldn’t lift his arms. His feet refused to obey commands. His own skeleton revolted against him, forcing him to stand in the frame of the doorway and revel in all the ways he failed himself today. Ghosts of them together flitted around the room, teasing him with the promises of what might have been.

If he hadn’t believed her. If she hadn’t been lying. If he’d just listened to her explanation. If she’d said sorry. If. If. If.

Maybe he wouldn’t have tried to tear down all remnants of her and maybe they wouldn’t have spent Christmas apart from one another. Maybe he still would have believed everything she told him, about love and Christmas and all the rest of it.