Page 40 of The Holiday Makeover

I’d love to explore her, but I kept that to myself. “I’ll take it.”

“Now that we have that settled . . . I think tonight you just need to be honest with them. Kind, but honest.”

“As you know—and as my mom demonstrated on Tuesday—being honest with each other isn’t exactly my family’s strong suit.”

Rory thought for a moment. “I think it’s because you’re all too busy pretending to be perfect. Coco once told me you can’t expect people to be vulnerable unless you’re willing to do the same.”

The last thing I wanted to do was tell my dad my show was in trouble. That he might have to tell his friends his son had screwed up again. But last night, after Rory told me to leave, something clicked into place that should have a long time ago. I knew I had to try to make peace with Aspen Lake. Not that I was ready to move here—I wasn’t. And might not ever be. But I knew this was where Rory wanted to settle—she loved this town.

And so for her, I had to face my demons here. I had to face my parents. I had to face myself.

“She was a smart woman,” I said. “So . . . does that mean you’re willing to be vulnerable with me again?”

“I’ve been vulnerable since the second you walked in the door. Let’s go,” she said, tugging me along a little too quickly, like she regretted admitting it out loud.

“Hey.” I gently pulled her back for half a beat and lifted her hand to my lips. I let the moment settle before meeting her eyes. “I promise I won’t take advantage of that. I’m going to try my best to be more vulnerable too.”

“We shall see.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Also, for the love, keep your lips off my skin for now.”

“Why?” I asked, probably sounding far too pleased with myself.

“You know what your lips do to me. And we will have none of that . . . you know . . . for now. Or maybe never,” she said, flustered. “Let’s just take it a step at a time.”

“As you wish. But if I know you—and I’m pretty sure I know you better than anyone—you’ll be kissing me in a few days. A week, tops.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are so full of yourself.”

I noted she didn’t disagree, but I kept that to myself. Especially since we were heading to the one place where I never felt full of myself. “Not where we’re going,” I said, choosing honesty over bravado.

She offered me a sympathetic smile. “Let’s go see if we can change that, or at least make some headway. And if we don’t succeed, we’ll come back here and use those sledgehammers on the cupboards.”

When she said things like that, I wanted to kick myself. How did any man let a woman like her go?

“I think that might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I doubt it,” she said, cheeks warming.

She wasn’t wrong.

It had been a long time since I’d been home. Even when Rory and I were dating, I always found some excuse not to come back with her. A new project, editing our last one. Anything that kept me from walking up this driveway.

I paused at the edge of the walk and looked up at the Georgian-style house my mother fell in love with and just had to have when I was ten.

The place looked even more formal in winter, its perfect symmetry outlined by snow piled along the roofline and frost clinging to the black shutters. The columns flanking the front door were wrapped in white lights, elegant and understated, because my mother didn’t believe in “gaudy holiday decor.” The whole house sat against the backdrop of the mountains, like it was trying to pretend it belonged here.

It didn’t. Not really. Not even Rory’s house was “normal” for Aspen Lake, but somehow it still felt like it belonged there. There was something warm and inviting about it.

This house looked polished and standoffish. A place where emotions were controlled and never messy. I was taught to smile and wave at the crowd, even when I didn’t feel like it. Especially when I didn’t feel like it. We were always the picture of perfection.

And standing there, hand in Rory’s, I felt every reason I’d avoided coming home settle on my shoulders.

I could hear the conversations after every one of my high school football games. After a brief congratulation if we’d won, Dad would treat me to a highlight reel of everything I’d done wrong. All in the name of wanting me to be my best.

You waited too long to throw that pass in the third quarter. You almost missed the snap after halftime. You could have run it into the end zone yourself on that final play.

Heaven forbid we lost. Then I was treated to a night of strategizing on how I could do better next time.

At Rory’s house, it was hugs and praise with a heaping dish of dessert, no matter if we’d won or lost. It was her place I always landed first after games.