Becca

The second I walk through the door, I know something’s wrong.

The air in the apartment feels off, heavy. Almost like it’s holding its breath. The string lights on the little Christmas tree flicker against the walls, casting soft golden shadows that used to feel cozy. Now, without Shane here, they only make the room feel hollow and sad. 

I set my keys in the bowl by the door and shrug off my coat, trying to shake the ache in my chest that’s been there all day. It’s only our first night apart, and already I miss him like a phantom limb. 

That’s when I notice Nick.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, shoulders tense. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the floor like he’s bracing himself, like he doesn’t know what to do now that I’m here. His jaw is tight. Brows furrowed. He looks like he’s trying to work up the nerve to speak, but the words won’t come. 

My stomach tightens.

Did something happen?

Does he regret agreeing to stay here?

“Hey,” he says finally, his tone quiet, sounding almost apologetic.

My heart sinks.

“What’s going on?” I ask, already knowing something’s wrong, and that whatever it is, I won’t like the answer.

Nick shifts, uncrossing his arms. His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s something in them that makes my knees go weak. 

“Shane called. He needs to talk to you.”

Just like that, the ground drops out from under me. Something in Nick’s voice—soft, almost careful—sends my heart into a frantic panic. 

“What happened?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me for a long moment before he says, “Call him. He’ll explain.” 

He grabs his leather jacket from the back of the couch and slings it over one shoulder, still avoiding my eyes. “I’ll be downstairs. In the garage. Working on my bike.”

I blink through the worry burning a hole in my stomach, latching onto the only thing he said that feels remotely safe. “You brought your bike here?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Something to keep me busy.”

I nod, even though my brain’s too scrambled to fully process what he means. My throat’s too tight to say anything else. 

He gives me one last, sad look before heading for the door. “I’ll be right downstairs. Just… text or yell down if you need anything.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows feels like a warning.

Nick said I need to call Shane, but all I can do is sit on the couch and stare at my phone like it might bite. My thoughts won’t settle. 

What could he possibly have to tell me?

When we said goodbye this morning, we were sad. Heartbroken to be apart. But we were good. Weren’t we? Or at least I thought we were.

I press the phone to my chest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to steady the shaking in my hands. Then, with a breath that doesn’t feel like enough, I tap his name and make the call. 

He answers on the first ring.

“Becca.” His voice is hoarse, rough, but I can hear his relief at the sound of my voice. “Pretty girl. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I breathe, the words slipping out on a sad sigh. It takes everything I have not to break down. The ache from this morning—those last moments tangled in his arms—comes rushing back in a tidal wave of pain.

“Oh, my sweet pretty girl…” His voice drops lower. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry.” I try to smile, hoping it hides my heartbreak, but I’m sure it’s hopeless. “I don’t mean to be so emotional.”

“It’s okay.” His breath catches, like he’s trying to steady himself too. “I feel the same way.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Then a quiet, pained… 

“I wish I didn’t have to do this over the phone. I wish I were there with you.”

My stomach tightens. 

“Do what?” I ask, even though everything in me screams that I’m not going to like the answer. “Shane… what’s going on?”

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

The silence that follows stretches. Thick. Suffocating. One of those silences that makes your body brace for impact before your mind even knows why. 

Then he says it—low and ragged, like the words scrape his throat on the way out.

 “During tonight’s dinner… my parents gave me an ultimatum.” He exhales hard, the sound shaky and pained. “Either marry Amanda this coming June, or propose to her tomorrow. The wedding would happen four years from now. After college graduation.”

The room tilts.

“What?” I whisper, though it sounds more like a whimper.

“I don’t have a choice, pretty girl.” His voice cracks. “I have to propose to Amanda. Tomorrow night. During Christmas Eve dinner. In front of everyone.”

I go still. 

Completely still. Like if I don’t move, maybe I won’t fall apart. 

He keeps talking, but the words blur.

“There’s a whole plan. A speech. One my mom wrote for me. The press has already been tipped off. Photographers. Guests. The magazines she’s sold the story to. Everything’s locked in. She even picked the headline: ‘Heir to the Montgomery Empire Makes Holiday Proposal.’”

I still haven’t breathed. I don’t think I can. Because my mind can’t get past that one sentence, “I don’t have a choice, pretty girl.” 

My voice shakes. “Tomorrow. You’re proposing to her tomorrow?”

He doesn’t answer. 

The silence that follows is louder than anything he could’ve said.

I take a step back—I don’t even remember standing. Don’t realize I’m moving until the edge of the kitchen counter clips my hip. 

My gaze falls to the little Christmas tree in the corner of the room. The one he bought for me. The one we decorated together, laughing while I cursed at the tangled lights and he kept sneaking candy canes before they ever made it onto the branches. 

Putting up that little tree… it was the first time in years the holidays felt like something to look forward to. 

Hope. 

That’s what it gave me. What he gave me. A reckless, beautiful kind of hope. And now, staring at it, that same hope turns my stomach. It feels poisoned.  

I wrap my arms around myself on instinct. I’m shaking. I don’t even know when that started.

“You made me believe in this,” I whisper. “In us. You made me believe I wasn’t stupid to hope.” The lump in my throat swells, rising until it presses hot behind my eyes. “And now you’re telling me that while I’m sitting here tomorrow night… missing you. Loving you. Wishing we’d be spending our first Christmas Eve together… You’ll be out there, on one knee, proposing to someone else?”

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