Page 85 of Mistletoe and Mayday

The words burn in my chest as I walk away, each step heavier than the last.

Regret tastes like airplane coffee—bitter, lingering, and impossible to swallow.

“Home, sweet home.”

I drop my flight bag and head straight for the shower. Maybe scalding water will scour away the hollow ache expanding beneath my ribs. Maybe steam will erase the memory of how his eyes looked when I walked away two weeks ago. Maybe heat will melt the ice forming around my heart since Anchorage.

I scrub my skin raw, as if I might wash away the places his hands touched. The places his eyes lingered. The places his words burrowed under my skin and nestled there, waiting to sprout into something dangerous.

It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

My phone sits on the bathroom counter, silent. I’ve checked it seventeen times today. Twenty-three yesterday. I know because I counted.

The last message came a week ago. Just three words

Sebastian

I miss you.

Before that, there were others. Funny at first—pictures of snow globes with captions like “Vegas misses you” and “Seattle says hi.” Then more direct: “Talk to me, Bailey.” “Just one word so I know you’re okay.” “Please.”

And now, silence.

The silence cuts deeper than his pleas. The silence means he’s accepted my rejection. The silence means I drove him away. The silence means I’ve won.

So why does victory taste like ashes?

I wrap myself in a towel and grab my phone, scrolling through his messages for the hundredth time. My thumb hovers over the call button.

What would I even say? I can’t get you out of my head?

The apartment feels too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes my skin prickle and my thoughts race. I pace the living room, dripping water onto the carpet.

The Seattle snow globe sits on my bookshelf, surrounded by my collection. He’s home now. With his family.

I pick it up, shake it. The tiny flakes swirl inside the perfect little world.

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since I walked away from him. I should have moved on by now. Should have returned to my routine of cargo manifests and takeoff checklists and late-night TV with microwave dinners.

But every night I lie awake wondering if he’s sitting at a table with his parents, discussing charity galas and corporate mergers. If he’s already back with Rebecca, their perfect partnership restored. If he even thinks about me at all.

My phone chirps with incoming messages. The group chat—three dots bouncing as my friends bombard me with their usual chaos.

Cora

EMERGENCY WINE NIGHT. My place. Now. Non-negotiable.

Jill

Bailey Monroe, get your ass over here or we’re coming to you. With tequila.

Riley

I will kick down your door. I’ve been practicing my roundhouse kicks for exactly this scenario.

I smirk despite myself. My thumbs hover over the screen.

Not in the mood. Rain check?