Page 57 of The Holiday Makeover

“I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to interrupt. Actually, I would love to help. Please,” she cried.

She didn’t give us time to respond. “I know what you’re thinking—that I only care about how things look. How you look, Tate.” Her voice broke. “But that’s not it. I just want to spend some time with both of you. And fix things between us.”

I tilted my head, not sure I was hearing her right. “You know that’s probably going to get uncomfortable, right?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “And I’m ready for it,” she stuttered.

“How does Dad feel about this?”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Truth be told . . . we aren’t really talking right now.”

That admission alone felt momentous. I couldn’t remember a time when Mom had ever admitted she and Dad weren’t getting along.

“I’m so sorry about Thanksgiving. And mostly, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. Tate, I’m proud of you.” Mom rushed toward us and threw her tiny arms around us the best she could.

A look passed between Rory and me that said, What just happened?

I wasn’t sure. But it gave me hope—hope that maybe I could change. Hope that maybe coming back to Aspen Lake wouldn’t always feel like stepping back into a version of myself I didn’t want to be anymore. Hope that one of these days, it might actually feel like home again.

Chapter Twenty

Rory

Walking across the parking lot of the hardware store—which looked more like a Pottery Barn storefront—hand in hand, the fishbowl feeling hit me. It had been a hot minute since I’d felt like I was in a display case with a plaque under my name that read: Band geek who somehow snagged the hot quarterback and most popular boy.

She’s a rare specimen, folks, but don’t gawk too hard. She scares easily. And, yes, he really did pick her—even though he’s dated supermodels and a certain hot actress with the initials S. S. once popped into his DMs.

While Tate and I were together, no less.

That’s right, I’m talking to you, Sheridan. P.S. I will never watch another movie of yours, even if it has Glen Powell or Jack Holiday in it. And that’s saying something.

Anyway—I digress.

I had to think better thoughts.

If this was going to work, I was going to have to feel confident and be confident. Hadn’t I told Tate not to care what other people thought of him? That was a lot easier when we were just at home or, you know, out sledding in the middle of the night.

A little harder when all eyes seemed to be on you.

Granted, most of them were probably just curious. Tate hadn’t been home in years, and our breakup two years ago had made a few headlines. Yeah, that was fun. We’d even had to put out some bogus joint statement because the studio didn’t want a cloud over Tate’s new show.

One of those we will always care for each other but we’re just going in different directions right now statements. Translation: We plan to never see or speak to each other again.

And that had been the plan. But fate and Coco had something else in mind.

I tried to keep my mind off all the lookie-loos by leaning in closer to Tate and whispering, “I still can’t get over your mom.”

We’d talked about her nonstop on the drive over, but I was still in shock.

As was Tate. “I know. I just hope it’s for real.”

“Me too.” For his sake and for ours. There was something about unconditional love that was so healing. Especially from your family. I’d been lucky to have that my entire life. And even then, I still had insecurities. But I always knew I was loved. That I didn’t have to search for it in things that could never love me back.

We walked into the store, and I blessed the warmth. I could finally take a breath without worrying my lungs might freeze in the process. Living in Nashville, I forgot how bitterly cold Aspen Lake could get.

The store was busy with shoppers buying everything from real pine boughs and Christmas lights to appliances. I loved the old wooden ceiling rafters and how it smelled like lumber and cinnamon—like someone had combined a workshop with a bakery and decided that was the vibe. Even the lighting was cozy and warm, casting everything in a soft glow. It was far superior to any other hardware store I’d ever shopped at. And believe me, there had been plenty.

“Paint first?” Tate asked while grabbing a cart.