Chapter 1

Sabrina

The first flake of snow hits my windshield and I flinch. Just a single, delicate starburst, but it might as well be a bullet. Another follows, then a dozen more, a silent, swirling ambush. My knuckles are white where I’m gripping the steering wheel of my trusty, ten-year-old sedan—a car I lovingly call “The Sensible Choice.” It’s a stark contrast to the life I’m driving toward.

“It’ll be fun,” Alexa’s voice chirps in my memory from our call last night. “Just like old times.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh that fogs the cold air in the car. Alexa, my sweet, eternally optimistic, ride-or-die best friend, has a terrible memory. “Old times” were a chaotic, beautiful mess of cheap beer, finals week panic, and a love so all-consuming it left scorch marks on my soul. This weekend will be nothing like that. This is the grown-up version. The reunion tour no one asked for, featuring more expensive wine and infinitely more scar tissue.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder. It’s Alexa. Of course it is. I tap the screen to answer via the car’s Bluetooth, bracing myself.

“You’d better not be calling to tell me you’ve faked a sudden, debilitating case of the flu,” she says, skipping the pleasantries.

“The thought has crossed my mind,” I admit, my eyes tracking the increasingly thick curtain of snow. “But my immune system, annoyingly, has never been better. How’s the cabin prep going?”

“Frank is attempting to build what he calls an ‘epic’ fire, which currently looks like a pile of sad, smoky sticks. I’m on mulled wine duty, and Noah just got here. He’s… well, he’s Noah.”

I can hear the affection and slight exasperation in her voice. Good old Noah. Loyal, kind, and carrying a torch for me for the better part of a decade with the subtlety of a house fire. It’s one of the many, many landmines I’ll have to navigate this weekend.

“Is he already trying to alphabetize the spice rack?” I ask, allowing a genuine smile to touch my lips for the first time today.

“Worse. He’s critiquing Frank’s log-stacking technique based on something he saw in a Scandinavian architectural journal. Pray for me.” She pauses, her tone shifting from light to careful. “So… you’re really okay with this, Brina? With… everyone being there?”

Everyone. The polite little euphemism for the six-foot-four, walking hurricane that is Thomas Rogers. The ghost of Christmas past, present, and every goddamn future I once dreamed of.

“I’m a big girl, Lex,” I say, my voice a little too bright. It’s my teacher voice—the one I use to reassure a nervous parent or a student on the verge of a meltdown. Calm, capable, and a complete and utter lie. “I’m here for you and Frank. The rest is just background noise.”

“You know, for background noise, he sure does take up a lot of space,” she mutters, and I love her for it. “Just… promise me you’ll stick to the buddy system. Me, you, and a bottle of my best Merlot.”

“Deal,” I say. “I’m about an hour out. Try to keep the boys from burning the place down before I get there.”

We hang up, and the silence in the car feels heavier than before. The fortress of calm I’ve so carefully constructed around my life feels miles away now. Back in my quiet apartment, everything has its place. My books are organized by color, my lesson plans are laminated, my heart is safely tucked away. I find deep, profound fulfillment in my work. Last week, one of my non-verbal students, a sweet little boy named Leo, pointed to a picture of a star and whispered the “s” sound for the first time. The look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face—that’s my reality. That’s the good stuff. It’s quiet, it’s earned, and it’s a world away from the chaotic, high-stakes glamour of Thomas’s life.

A life I only see in headlines now. “Rogers Leads Team to Victory!” “NHL Superstar and Captain Thomas Rogers Spotted with Model.” He’s not the boy I loved anymore. He’s a brand. A product. A stranger with a familiar face.

To distract myself, I pull into a tiny town for a hot chocolate break. The bell on the door of the quaint little coffee shop jingles merrily. It’s aggressively festive inside—all gingerbread-scented air and twinkling lights. I order at the counter, and while I wait, I watch a young couple at a small table near the window. He’s tracing patterns on the back of her hand, and she’s laughing, her head thrown back in that careless, unguarded way of someone who has never had their heart detonated. A bitter, unwelcome pang of envy hits me so hard I have to look away.

I take my steaming cup back to the car, the warmth a small comfort against the encroaching cold. I turn the radio back on, seeking a distraction. And of course, that’s when he starts to sing. Nat King Cole. His voice, smooth as velvet, crooning the opening lines of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

And just like that, I’m gone.

(Flashback)

The air in our tiny, off-campus apartment smells like cheap pine and burnt sugar from my failed attempt at Christmas cookies. We have exactly one string of multi-colored fairy lights, half the bulbs are dead, and they’re tangled around every available surface, including me. Thomas is laughing, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through the floorboards.

“You look,” he says, his blue eyes dancing as he carefully unwinds a strand from my curls, “like a very festive fire hazard.”

“It’s a look,” I retort, swatting his hand away playfully. “We’re aiming for chaotic Christmas chic.”

He grins, that easy, heart-stopping grin that makes headlines now but was all mine then. He steps back to admire our pathetic little tree, which is leaning precariously to one side. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s crooked.”

“It has character.” He pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around my waist. He’s warm and solid, my anchor. “All it needs is the star.”

He holds up the cheap, glittery plastic star we bought at a dollar store. I stand on my toes, reaching for the top branch, but it’s just out of reach. Without a word, he bends down, his hands finding my waist, and lifts me as if I weigh nothing. My squeal of surprise turns into a laugh as I place the star on the drooping branch. It immediately makes the whole tree lean even more.

“There,” I say, my hands braced on his strong shoulders. “Perfectly imperfect.”

He doesn’t put me down. Instead, he holds me there, his face buried in my hair. His voice is a low, serious murmur against my ear, a secret just for me.

“One day,” he whispers, the promise a warm breath against my skin, “we’re going to have a real house. A massive tree, right in front of a big window, with a real fireplace. And I’m still going to lift you up to put the star on top. Every single year.”

The song ends. The memory shatters, leaving jagged edges. My hot chocolate is cold in my hands, and there’s a single, hot tear tracing a path down my cheek. I swipe it away angrily.

That was the boy who made promises. The man I’m about to see is the one who broke them.

I put the car in drive and pull back onto the highway, the fortress walls going up, brick by painful brick. I am not that girl anymore. I am a thirty-year-old special education teacher who finds joy in small victories and predictable routines. I am a woman who built a life from the ashes of his promises. I am fine.

I repeat it like a mantra for the last twenty minutes of the drive. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine.

The final turn onto the long, private road to the cabin is always the worst. The trees press in, their branches heavy with snow, creating a silent, white tunnel. It’s beautiful, but it’s the kind of beautiful that feels isolating, like you could disappear in here and no one would ever find you.

Then, the tunnel opens up, and there it is. The A-frame cabin, smoke curling from its chimney, looking like a postcard for a life I don't lead. For a second, relief washes over me. I made it. I can do this.

And then I see it.

Parked near the front steps, in the spot I always used to take, is a vehicle that doesn’t belong in this rustic, mountain setting. It’s a sleek, impossibly black SUV, the kind that doesn’t get dirty, it just acquires a distinguished layer of dust. It’s a declaration. A billboard of success and untouchable status. An F-U to the beat-up sedan he used to drive, the one where I first told him I loved him.

It’s his car.

He’s already here.

My breath is stuck in my throat. The mantra of “I am fine” dissolves into dust. The careful fortress I’ve spent five years building crumbles in an instant, and my heart doesn't just plummet.

It craters.