Page 38 of A Love That Saved Us

I don’t text back. Not yet.

A grin spreads wide.

She still fucking loves me.

Chapter Ten

ALLEY

The smellof wassail fills the air, grounding me in familiarity—in tradition. My hands wrap around the warm mug, a smile pulling at my lips as I watch the complete and utter chaos of excitement unfold before me.

I’ve spent a lot of Christmas Eves with Michael, but this is the first at his house with Stella and the kids. My dad’s here too. I haven’t spent Christmas with him in fifteen years. Watching the kids unwrap their gifts from me and Grandpa masks the ache in my chest, the feeling that something’s missing.

The wassail is the only thing that feels the same. Christmas Eve was always spent at Jensen’s parents’ house—playing games and laughing until it hurt. Last year, though, the laughter was minimal. There was tension with his mom, and unspoken awkwardness. No one really knew how to act around him. He was there… until he wasn’t. But Matt, Megan, and the rest of the family did their best to make up for it.

I’m trying hard not to think about it—that Jensen’s there right now, playing charades, having fun, living life.

And then he goes and sends my favorite bagels and coffee to the house this morning with a note that said,Thanks for the text. Hope the bagels aren’t stale.

It was sweet. It even made me smile, then cry. But it doesn’t erase anything. I’ve had to crawl through the fire to get where I am—scarred, bruised.

Bagels can’t undo the damage that’s been done. Even when your heart’s breaking. Even when someone still loves you. Even when you still love him.

Life just goes on.

There’s something both peaceful and terrifying about that—knowing everyone has their own lives. Their own grief and joy. Their own challenges. We all live at the center of our own universe, with people and moments spinning in and out of orbit.

People come and go. Jobs change. Tragedies happen. All the while, you’re just sitting in the middle of it, realizing maybe you don’t matter as much as you thought you did.

Sometimes you stay in someone’s orbit for years. Sometimes it’s just a season. But eventually, everyone leaves, and they move on—whether you’re there or not.

Savannah, Michael’s oldest, who’s seven, screams with joy as she opens her gift from me—a gymnastics set with a matching leotard from the American Girl store. She recently got into American Girl dolls and just made the competitive gymnastics team.

She runs over and throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you, Alley.”

I squeeze her, the simple act nearly bringing me to tears. I needed that.

“Ah, you’re welcome, sweet girl.”

I had the best time shopping for it. The American Girl store in Chicago is huge. Being there brought back so many nostalgicmemories—me and my mom shopping for my Samantha doll, then having tea together for my birthday.

Savannah disappears into her room and comes back with a doll, immediately stripping it down to put on the new leotard. I watch her, awestruck. The weight of sadness begins to lift, and I let out a laugh. A real laugh. No alcohol. No pretending. Just joy.

My dad’s hand falls to my knee with purpose, giving it a squeeze. He grins at me, and I can’t help but smile as I look around the room, my heart suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for the love and support surrounding me.

And for the first time in a long time, I think I’m going to be okay.

I can do this.

I finishup the last of the dishes just as my dad walks down the stairs after saying goodnight to the grandkids. Michael and Stella are tag-teaming bedtime duty, so I’ve been cleaning up the mess left behind in the kitchen.

Michael cooked an incredible dinner, as usual—prime rib with butternut squash and a salad that tasted like it came straight from a Michelin-starred restaurant.

My dad pulls out a barstool and slides into it, settling opposite me at the sink. I grab a pot and towel it dry, watching him.

“What?” I ask, giving him a sly smile.

“Hmm?”