Page 71 of The Christmas Arrangement

We follow her down the hall and stop at our old bedrooms to forage through storage trunks for vintage neon pink and green sweaters and acid-washed jeans. I know a night of gliding around the roller rink to cheesy hits from the 80s isn’t going to change anything. But it’ll take my mind off the rock lodged in my chest where my heart should be, and that’s better than nothing.

Chapter 28

A Visit from Vlad

Dash

* * *

I wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like I licked the bottom of a fishing cooler. Which, given last night’s activities, isn’t entirely out of the question.

Fragmented memories surface: Nick dealing cards. Titus telling stories about Dancing Ladies that I’m ninety percent sure were completely fabricated. Jack teaching me some complicated fishing knot that I’ll never remember. And beer. So much beer.

I sit up slowly, testing whether my skull is going to split open. It holds. Barely.

The bedroom is flooded with pale morning light. I’m still wearing yesterday’s jeans and sweater, minus my shoes. There’s a vague memory of Titus and Jack half-carrying, half-dragging me through the front door of the cottage and dumping me on the bed while Nick called out helpful instructions like “don’t let him hit his head” and “make sure he’s on his side in case he pukes.”

I didn’t puke. Small victories.

I shuffle to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and avoid looking at my reflection. Then I make my way to the kitchen, drawn by the desperate need for something—anything—to make me feel human again.

My travel blender sits on the counter, exactly where I left it. I pull ingredients from the fridge for my hangover smoothie on autopilot: spinach, kale, frozen mango, almond milk, matcha powder. No wheatgrass in this one, but the secret ingredient: a shot of hot sauce. The routine is soothing.

As I’m setting the blender pitcher on the base, I spot the folded piece of paper on the counter, one corner sticking out from underneath the base.

I slide it out and unfold it. It’s a note in Ivy’s neat, precise handwriting, the letters slightly rounded.

Dash—

I’m at the flower shop. I have a delivery to the children’s hospital in the valley this morning. Good PR for you, and it would mean a lot to the kids if you came along. Meet me at Blooms by ten if you want to go.

—Ivy

I read it three times, searching for subtext. The tone is friendly but careful. Professional. Like we’re business partners, not whatever we were before I ruined everything.

No. Before she ruined everything. Or before my mother ruined everything?

Before everything was ruined.

I lean against the counter, thinking. She must have come back last night and slept on the couch. Must have woken up early and left before I stirred. I feel a pang of guilt imagining her sleeping in the living room while I sprawled across the bed, dead to the world.

I fill the pitcher with ice and dump in the ingredients. Press the button, and the blender whirs to life. I drink my green hangover cure standing at the counter, barely tasting it. My phone says it’s just past nine. If I hurry, I can catch her before she leaves.

I shower in record time, throw on clean clothes, and I’m out the door in under fifteen minutes.

The walk to Blooms takes seven minutes. The photographers are already stationed outside the shop. They perk up when they see me approaching.

“Dash! Any comment on your mother’s visit?”

“What does your mom think of Ivy?”

“What’s next for you after Mistletoe Mountain?”

I give them the practiced smile and the casual wave, and push through the door without answering.

Inside, Ivy’s behind the counter, wrapping a massive arrangement of red and white flowers in cellophane. She looks up when the bell chimes, and for a split second, her face contorts in—relief? pain? hope?—before she smooths it into a pleasant smile.

“Hi. You got my note.”