Page 8 of The Holiday Makeover

I didn’t dare say Tate’s name. George would have launched off the chair and started searching the house as if his long-lost dad had finally come home. And I couldn’t handle that level of emotional damage after the last few days.

This was not the holiday season I’d envisioned. Coco was supposed to come to Nashville for Thanksgiving. We were going to drive to the Smoky Mountains, wander through all the little Christmas shops she loved, drink overpriced cider, and giggle at some of the world’s most aggressively festive ornaments.

Then I’d come home for Christmas. I never missed Coco’s Christmas Eve party. It was a neighborhood tradition. A family tradition. One I fully intended to carry on.

But instead of wearing the matching reindeer Christmas pajamas we’d already picked out, I was just trying to breathe. How was I going to make her Christmas party magical when she was the magic?

And seeing Tate today hadn’t helped any.

“I should probably read Coco’s letter, huh, boy?” I asked George as if he could actually answer me. George, along with a healthy dose of denial, was the backbone of my emotional support system.

Not sure why I hadn’t already read the letter. I’d left Lily’s office a few hours earlier. Maybe it was because it made it all seem so final. These were her last words to me. I didn’t want last words. I wanted her here, telling me I should eat more and chasing me down with her special cocoa and homemade sugar cookies.

That, and because after her little bombshell in Lily’s office, I was half afraid of what she had to say. I wouldn’t put it past her to make me swear I would procreate with Tate.

Coco always said we would have the cutest kids ever.

I mean, hello, with Tate’s genes, that was a no-brainer.

But I couldn’t think about it. Even though I’d already named those hypothetical kiddos and I mourned never getting to have them.

George nudged my hand, sensing the emotional spiral like the goodest of good boys.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I whispered, reaching into my cardigan pocket for the envelope. It felt heavier than paper should. Like grief added actual weight to it.

Carefully, I lifted the flap and pulled out the several-page letter. I unfolded it, doing my best not to fall apart. George pressed closer, his warm body offering support.

I began.

To My Sweet Girl, these first few pages are just the guest list and suggestions for catering and where I keep all the decorations. I say suggestions, but I really think you should use Eden Russo for catering. You know, the woman who does A Dance in the Kitchen. Her food is second to none, and she was my swing dance instructor, so I think she would be hurt if you asked anyone else. Now skip to page four.

A laugh bubbled out of me—small, shaky, but real. Coco was such a character. Of course she’d start her “last words” with a guest list and a guilt trip.

And I knew exactly who Eden Russo was. Not only did she grow up in Aspen Lake, but I followed her on social media. Coco had been thrilled when Eden started teaching swing dance at the rec center. Especially considering Eden was a world-champion dancer.

I wondered if she did private catering. I supposed I was going to have to find out.

But first . . . Coco.

I skipped to page four.

I love you, Rory.

And just like that, the tears came. Soft at first, then harder, as if my body needed the permission.

We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we, kiddo? And I wish I could be there for you and get you through this. But I’m giving you the next best thing.

Before I even read his name, I knew she meant Tate.

Oh, I can see you rolling your eyes right now. But deep down, you know I’m right. You need Tate. And he needs you.

I didn’t want to believe that. How could I? He’d left me. And he was probably halfway back to LA by now. He hadn’t even bothered to offer condolences. Not that I gave him much of a chance—but still. He could have tried.

I know you still don’t believe me. And I can’t say that I blame you. I know he hurt you and you think he never really loved you, but I don’t believe it. Sure, he’s been stupid, there’s no denying that, but you know how he was raised. You know I love Veronica and Dominic.

Those were Tate’s parents. They still lived next door. And their relationship with Tate was strained. Especially Dominic’s. They were good people. Truly they were. But Dominic was a Super Bowl and Pro Bowl champion. And Veronica had been a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Being in the spotlight was in their blood. But they were also the kind of people who would do anything for you.

Veronica had already been over several times since I’d been back to check on me or to bring me food. And I knew she would be devastated if she knew Tate was in town and he didn’t stop in to see them. Knowing him, he probably didn’t even tell them he was coming.