And look. I know Clover urged me to let Fitz read the letter. And I did consider it, honestly. For a good, solid ten minutes this morning I allowed my mind to wander down that path—the one where he reads the letter, ignores the part about how I hate him, realizes he loves me, and kisses me under a thousand gently falling snowflakes.
Almost every single day of this last year, I was convinced I needed to tell Fitz the truth. When I’m not with him, I can’t imagine anything worse than continuing to live this carefully constructed lie, pretending that I don’t love him half as much as I do.
And then I see him. I’ll spot a glimpse of him through the crowd at school, or he’ll catch my eye when our econ teacher says something painfully embarrassing, and the force of his attention on me is like a drug. I can’t imagine any better feeling in the world.
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from Clover.
How’s Magic 8 working out?
Right. That. The reason I’m here and not in New York.
The question of the letter is exactly the type of thing Clover would want me to ask, but I’m 100 percent certain I’m not prepared for the potential response.
TBD, I reply.
Do I need to come up there and smack some sense into you?
“You ready for dinner with the fam?” Fitz appears at my elbow, his eyes on my screen.
I stash my phone in my pocket and glance at Whit. “Hardly.”
“You don’t have to try to impress them,” he says.
Another casual reply, a second unintentional bruise. Of course, I don’t need to impress them. How silly of me. That’s something only girlfriends or potential girlfriends need to worry about. No one cares about the best friend, especially not the best friend who is definitely not romantically interested.
Right?
* * *
I sit between Fitz and Gray at dinner. Gray wiggles next to me on the bench, swinging his legs and bumping his feet against me under the table. I’m a bit terrified of him and his little-kid strangeness, but also, he’s cute. I cross my eyes and stick my tongue out, which he seems to like. I try it on Sienna next, but she squawks unhappily in response.
“It’s not your fault,” Meg says to me. “She’s been fussy all day.” Whit hands the baby a sippy cup, which she promptly swats away. “I don’t know if we should take her on the Polar Express tonight.”
Whit places his hand on Sienna’s forehead. “She feels okay to me. What do you think?”
Meg touches the baby’s neck with the back of her hand. “She doesn’t feel warm, but I’m not sure she’ll make it through the ride without throwing a fit. Do you two want our tickets?” She looks from Fitz to me.
“Tickets to what?” I ask.
“I’ll stay home and watch her,” Mrs. Wilding says. “Gray’s so excited to meet Santa. Aren’t you, Gray?”
“Santa!” Gray cheers, both fists in the air.
“But Paige has never been, and the tickets have been sold out for months.” Meg frowns.
“Don’t worry about us,” Fitz tells his sister. “I have something else planned.”
“You do?” I ask.
He winks, sending happy bursts of electricity straight through my veins. Then he wolfs down a dinner roll in two bites. “Not bad, but yours are better.”
“You bake?” Meg asks me.
“Yeah! I really love it.”
“Have you seen The Great British Baking Show?”
“That’s actually how I started.” On my worst days, I’d binge-watch entire seasons of the show on Netflix. Everything about it soothed my chaotic brain. Once I’d been through the entire series three times, I decided to give actual baking a try. Turns out, it’s even more relaxing than the show.
“We love that show! You’ll have to show us what you can do, Molly,” Whit says.
“Whit!” A chorus of groans erupts.
“I’m sorry! I suck at remembering names, and I drilled Molly into my head. Sorry, Paige.” He shrugs, not looking particularly sorry. I suspect he’s doing it to mess with Fitz.
“Don’t worry about it, Whitney,” I say.
He blinks, and I swear the room stops breathing.
Maybe I didn’t think this through. Fitz told me how much Whit hates his full name. I’m opening my mouth to grovel when Meg howls with laughter, followed quickly by the rest of the family. “You so deserved that,” Meg says to Whit as she wipes tears from her cheeks.
“I like anyone who has the guts to take on this guy,” Mr. Wilding says as he claps his son-in-law on the shoulder. Heads around the table nod in agreement. Fitz squeezes my knee under the table, nearly giving me heart palpitations.
The front door opens and Darcy glides in, looking as beautiful and chic as she does in photos. Her shiny black hair is cut in a long, A-line bob, the ends grazing her collarbone. Her pointy, upturned nose and sharp cheeks are both red from the cold. She looks like a dainty, elegant Christmas mouse.
“Darcy darling! You made it!” Mr. Wilding springs from his seat to help his eldest child with her luggage.
“It smells delicious, Mom,” Darcy says as she sheds layers of winter clothing.
“I’m glad you made it!” Mrs. Wilding smiles, but there’s an unnatural tightness to it. Looking around, her expression is mirrored on Meg’s and Whit’s faces. Only Mr. Wilding and Fitz look truly happy to see her.
“Paige! I’m so happy you’re here!” Darcy smiles warmly as she takes the seat across the table. “Fitz’s told me a lot about you.”
I raise an eyebrow at Fitz but he ducks his head, avoiding my gaze. “It’s nice to meet you too.” I pass her the salad, and as she accepts it, the diamond ring on her left finger catches the firelight, sparkling brightly. “Oh! Congratulations on your wedding. Fitz showed me a picture. You and April both looked gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” Darcy says as her eyes dart to her sister.
Meg stands, blinking away tears. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” She darts into the bathroom off the hall. Everyone around the table frowns sympathetically.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“It’s not you. This is the first time Darcy’s been home since the wedding,” Fitz explains.
“But it was over Thanksgiving, right? It hasn’t been that long …”
Mrs. Wilding dabs her eyes with a napkin as Whit becomes invested in cutting the lasagna into tiny bites for Sienna.
“Ignore your sister. She loves you, but she’s being selfish,” Mr. Wilding says to Darcy.
“That’s not fair—” Whit begins. Mr. and Mrs. Wilding cut him off at the same time, arguing amongst themselves.
Darcy leans toward me over her plate. “April and I eloped, so we didn’t invite our families. Meg hasn’t forgiven me for that, and I don’t really blame her.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry I brought it up. Fitz didn’t tell me—”
“I didn’t realize how upset she was.” Fitz frowns in the direction of the bathroom door. It opens and Meg walks out, her neck and chest blotchy red. The room falls silent as she joins us back at the table, and I feel a weight of responsibility for ruining dinner. I take a cue from the others and pick silently at my food.