Page 71 of Held-

Brayden's hand pauses momentarily in its gentle stroking. “You don't talk about her much.”

“It's still hard sometimes.” I focus on the TV, where Clark Griswold is struggling with Christmas lights. “She was the buffer between my father and me. After she died, everything got...stricter.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty. Breast cancer. It was quick—diagnosed in February, gone by October.” I swallow against the familiar ache that rises whenever I talk about her. “My dad threw himself into the church.”

“And you threw yourself into your marriage.”

“It seemed like the sensible thing to do at the time. I thought maybe if I did that one thing right, it would fill the hole she left.”

Brayden's fingers resume their gentle patterns on my skin. “Did it?”

“Not even close.” I close my eyes, the movie forgotten. “It just made a different kind of emptiness. One I didn't recognize until it was too late.”

“That’s all in the past now, princess. You can be whoever, whatever you want to be. Maybe steer away from table dancing, though.”

I smack his arm hard. “Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Hush,” I tell him, pressing a finger to his lips. “It's getting to my favorite part.”

On screen, Aunt Bethany stands with her hands folded, ready to say grace over the family's Christmas dinner. I find myself mouthing the words along with her as she launches into the Pledge of Allegiance instead of a prayer.

Brayden's chest rumbles with silent laughter beneath my cheek, but he doesn't interrupt. His fingers resume their gentle stroking through my hair, each touch somehow easing the persistent throbbing in my temples.

I smile against his skin as the Griswold family awkwardly joins in Aunt Bethany's misguided patriotism. There's something deeply comforting about this scene—the family's chaotic love for each other despite all their dysfunction. Maybe that's why I've always loved this movie. It reminds me that families come in all shapes and sizes, messy and imperfect, but still bound together.

“My mom would laugh so hard at this part,” I mutter, not really expecting a response. “She had this ridiculous snorting laugh that used to embarrass me as a teenager, but now…I'd give anything to hear it again.”

Brayden’s hand pauses momentarily in my hair before continuing its soothing rhythm. He doesn’t offer platitudes or try to fix my grief. He just holds me a little tighter. And somehow, that’s exactly what I need.

We finish the movie in silence. It’s not until the credits begin to roll, soft music filling the quiet room, that I notice his hand has finally stilled.

When I glance up, his head is tilted back slightly, breathing slow and even. He’s fallen asleep.

A small smile tugs at my lips. “She would’ve liked you,” I whisper to the quiet room.

The screen fades to black, and before I can think too much about it, my own eyes drift shut, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pulling me under.

CECE

The sunshine streamingthrough the diner window feels like it's personally attacking my brain from the lingering hangover headache, but the smell of melting cheese is slowly bringing me back to life. I'm hunched over what might be the greasiest pizza in San Salona, and it's exactly what my body needs.

“I can't believe this place is still here,” I say, tearing off another slice. “I thought for sure they'd have gone under by now.”

Brayden smirks across the red vinyl booth. “Tony's pizza has survived three recessions and a health inspector with a vendetta. Pretty sure it'll outlast us all.”

I look around Tony’s Pizzeria, taking in the chipped Formica and the ancient jukebox in the corner still committed to its five-song Bon Jovi playlist. The walls are covered with faded team photos and yellowing clippings, all frozen in time. Walking in feels as though I’ve stepped straight back into high school.

“God, I haven't been here since senior year,” I muse, dabbing at a string of cheese dangling from my chin. “Remember when this was the only place anyone ever wanted to hang out?”

“Not much else to do in this town,” Brayden says, reaching for his soda. “Unless you count getting drunk at Miller's Pond or making out behind the bleachers.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” I catch the knowing gleam he doesn’t bother to hide. “What, you think I spent my Friday nights behind the bleachers?”

“I think every teenager in this town spent at least one night behind those bleachers.”