“I lied to someone.”
Fitz mulls this over. “Last night you made me promise not to lie to spare your feelings.”
“What about … lying to save someone from making a decision that has the potential to ruin their life?”
“Who decided that this thing would ruin their life? Are you stopping them from committing a crime?”
“No. But it’s something they’ll regret eventually.”
Fitz narrows his eyes. “What’d you do?”
“Jay has an engagement ring, and I told him not to propose to Clover.”
“Because you think she’ll say yes.” Fitz slowly pulls the car into the long driveway and shuts it off.
I nod once, because I don’t want to hear how it sounds out loud, and I don’t particularly want to hear Fitz’s rosy-tinted view of the situation.
“I’m not gonna lie, Paige. That’s pretty messed up.”
“I shouldn’t have asked you.” I lean against the window, toward the cold and away from the warmth radiating off him in waves. “Of course you would think it’s a good idea. What’s more romantic than graduation slash wedding?”
“That’s not fair.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend like you don’t think a Christmas Eve proposal is wildly romantic. You’d have probably proposed to Molly if she hadn’t dumped you.”
“And don’t pretend like you’re not projecting your fear of commitment onto Clover. Did you ever stop to think that some people like living in Gilbert, and that staying there isn’t the punishment you make it out to be?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Get real. Clover and Jay are in love. And maybe getting married at eighteen and nineteen is the stupidest thing they’ll ever do. Or maybe they’ll be happily married for seventy years and they’ll die together in their nursing home, The Notebook style. It’s their life. They can do whatever they want.”
“I didn’t break them up. I told him to put the brakes on, to wait until after graduation.” Or one or two or five more years.
“It’s not your decision to make!” he yells. His chest heaves as he shoves the sleeves of his sweater up to his forearms. I’ve seen him upset like this. The time Ruby broke up with him for Bryson Black, and then a week later Bryson sent a picture of her in her bra to all the guys at school. Or when Jane was moving away for college and Fitz picked a stupid fight with her over a game of Scrabble (yowza was not an acceptable word, it turns out) because he was sad that she was leaving. You don’t spend five years of your life as someone’s best friend without seeing him lose his cool, is what I’m saying. But his anger isn’t usually directed at me, and it makes me feel sad and furious. I’m torn between the desire to apologize and the urge to tell him to go to hell.
In the end I do the thing I’m best at, which is nothing at all.
An awful silence follows his outburst. We make timid, miserable eye contact a couple of times, but mostly he fidgets with the radio and the heater while I stare out the window, wishing I’d never found that ring. My head and heart are full of regret, which is ironic, because all I really want in life is to avoid regrets at all costs.
We stay in the car until my stomach growls loudly. We’re both sullen as we head inside for dinner, and no matter how many times I try to catch Fitz’s eye between bites, he keeps his gaze steadily on everything and everyone but me.
* * *
It’s four a.m. on Christmas morning, and I’m out of time.
Mrs. Wilding shooed everyone to bed early last night, once again denying my offer to help with presents, thereby thwarting my opportunity to find and destroy the letter. I tossed and turned for the rest of the night.
If I let Fitz read it, he’ll know exactly how much I love him and how much I hate him and I’ll be left to salvage what I can from the wreckage of our friendship. If I don’t let him read it, well. I can try to fix things, at the very least. Stop acting like a jealous ex-girlfriend and start acting like a normal human.
What do I do?
What
Do
I
Do?
What do I do what do I do what do I do what do I do?
I’m paralyzed by indecision. And I hate that about myself. I open Magic 8 and ask the question I’ve been too afraid to ask this whole time.
Should I let Fitz read the letter?
The ball on the screen lights up the dark as it spins. My emotions are dangerously close to the surface this morning. I’m confused about what happened on the train and guilty about meddling in Clover and Jay’s relationship. I’m still convinced—at least 90 percent—I did the right thing but everything feels just out of my grasp. Beyond my control in a way I’ve never been comfortable with. I curl into a ball, arms wrapped around my aching stomach.
Reply hazy, try again.
Should I tell Fitz that I’m in love with him?
Better not tell you now.
Is this a joke?
Is Fitz in love with me?
Don’t count on it.
Well, obviously. At least it can get something right.
Tears spill over my cheeks. I drag myself out of bed, pulling the warm blanket around my shoulders.
I have a letter to steal.
And look, I know it’s stupid to base my decision on this random app. But the random app told me Fitz is not in love with me, and I’m crying actual tears. If this hypothetical situation makes me cry, there’s no way I’ll survive him reading my letter, finally understanding how I’ve felt all these years, seeing my heart spilled across the page.
He’s sleeping deeply as I walk past his couch. I’m tempted to reach out and brush the hair off his forehead, but I can’t go down that route. I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from crawling under the blanket next to him and burrowing my head in his chest.
The house is quiet as I tiptoe up the dark steps. The white lights from the Christmas tree cast a hazy, magical glow over everything. I pause, alone under the mistletoe, and appreciate how enchanted the room looks at this hour. The porcelain Christmas village is aglow, tiny yellow lights streaming from tiny windows. It makes my tender heart ache.
I scan the packages under the tree, searching for an envelope with Fitz’s name.
“Paige?”
I startle, nearly falling down the stairs as Fitz’s mom approaches from the hall where her bedroom is. In one hand is a mug, in the other, a book.
“What are you doing up so early?”
I open my mouth—to say what?
The truth?
“What are you doing up?” I deflect.
She smiles and takes a seat in the recliner, facing the tree. “I love this holiday. The quiet magic of Christmas morning. All the hopes and wishes and possibilities. I like to sit here and savor that feeling before the chaos begins.”
I glance at the stack of presents under the tree. It’s sprawling and deep and I’m hit by a wave of embarrassment over having nothing for anyone in Fitz’s family.
“I wrote Fitz a letter and I need it back.”
Her face scrunches in obvious confusion. I rush to explain. “It’s not a big deal, it’s just kind of embarrassing. Please don’t tell him. Not that I’m asking you to keep secrets from your son, but we got into this fight and—”