Page 41 of Worth the Shot

I nod, even though a part of me wants to stay right here, suspended in this moment where everything feels simple and complicated all at once. Where it’s just us, and the frozen pond, and the quiet hum of something growing between us.

We make our way carefully toward the edge, his hand hovering near my waist like he doesn’t quite trust the ice—or me—not to send me sprawling again. When I step off onto the snow, I wobble slightly, and his hand lands there for just a second.

Neither of us pulls away.

My breath catches, the space between us shrinking again, the air thick with everything we’re not saying.

“Careful,” he murmurs, though his voice is softer than necessary.

“I’ve got it,” I whisper, even though I don’t move.

His hand lingers another second, then two, before he finally lets go, like he’s forcing himself to. We walk back toward the path in silence, our shoulders brushing every few steps, neither of us bothering to create more distance. When we reach my car, I turn to him, suddenly aware that I don’t want this night to end. That I don’t want to lose the quiet, fragile thing that settled between us on that ice.

“Thanks,” I say softly. “For the lesson. And…everything.”

“Anytime,” he replies, and something in his tone makes it sound like a promise.

I open my door, then pause, glancing back at him. He’s standing there under the soft glow of the overhead light, hands tucked into his pockets, breath curling in the cold air.

“Hey, Brennan?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad I met you.”

His smile is small, but it reaches all the way to his eyes. “Me too, Laney.”

“Don’t let it get to your head, though.” I wink at him and hear him laugh before I disappear into my car.

I slide into my seat, my heart beating louder than it should, and as I pull away, I catch one last glimpse of him in my rearview mirror, still standing there, watching until I disappear down the road. I’m so screwed, and I’m not even mad about it.

Chapter Sixteen

Delaney

Every Christmas Eve for the last twelve years, we’ve eaten dinner at Via Roma. It’s an old, upscale Italian restaurant with a vibe that feels timeless. It’s moody, elegant, and a little romantic with soft amber lights that flicker from candles burning on every table, each one dressed in crisp white linen and heavy silverware. Vintage wine racks line the far wall, accented with strings of beads and evergreen garland.

Somewhere in the background, soft Italian music hums through the speakers and there’s already a bottle of both red and white wine waiting on the table. The owner knows us by name and the servers know our orders by heart. It’s one of the few things that hasn’t changed, and probably never will.

Dinner flies by faster than I want it to. When we’re done, Mom gathers her coat and scarf, saying she needs to get home to finish her Christmas cookies. She mentions bringing a tray over to her neighbor, Rick, who apparently is spending Christmas alone this year.

I already know how this will go. Mom will insist “the more the merrier” until he ends up sitting at Emma and Shayne’s table tomorrow. The thought of the seat beside her not being empty this year twists something deep inside me and I’m not sure if it’s guilt, sadness, or maybe both.

My mind drifts to the last Christmas before my dad got sick, and I let myself live in that memory for the car ride home. I can still picture the table with his homemade dinner spread across it like a feast, the old-school stereo on the counter playing Christmas classics we all sang along to, usually off-key. He’d tell the same old stories, and we’d pretend they were brand new just to hear him laugh again. But the best part, the part that always felt like magic, came at dessert.

He couldn’t bake to save his life, but every year he’d make homemade gingerbread cookies, each one decorated differently. There were always four: one for me, one for Emma, one for Mom, and one for himself. He’d decorate them with our favorite colors, trying to capture our features like my dark curls, Emma’s bangs (it was a phase), and his too-big smile.

They were imperfect, a little wonky, and always the star of the show. Emma and I would argue over whose was the prettiest, but he’d assure us that both of his girls were equally as beautiful, just like their mother.

“Hey, you good, Laners?” Shayne’s voice cuts through my thoughts halfway through the eight-minute drive home.

“Yup,” I say, blinking back to the present. “Food coma.”

He laughs. “Same.”

I’d rather not explain why I was quiet. Some memories are better left alone for now.

Luca’s eyes are heavy in his car seat, his head bobbing with every turn. We’re minutes from the house, but I know if he falls asleep now, that’s it. He’ll think his five-minute nap counts as bedtime. So I keep talking to him softly, pretending I’m just trying to keep him entertained when really, I just don’t want the silence because it’s too loud right now and I need to fill it with something.