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It took me forever to fall asleep. The mattress wasn’t right. I’d grown used to the silence and now the hum of the heater kicking on startled me from sleep, the noise outside kept me up, and I had the staggering thought that I just wanted to go home.

As the weeks passed, it settled.

I painted my living room a deep, hunter green. I hung up the pictures I took around the living room in pretty golden frames. Marissa came to help, cautiously asking me questions about my time on the coast.

I gave her the bare bones of it—that I had met someone, had fallen in love, and he—

“It didn’t work out,” was all I said instead.

“He gave you the ring?” she asked, nodding toward it.

I touched the gold band, thumb spinning it around. “Yes.”

“Then why—”

“Please,” I’d said, voice quiet. “I can’t—”

She dropped it after that.

Thanksgiving came and went and I continued writing, finishing the first draft of my manuscript the first week of December. I handed it over to the editor glad to be rid of it. Now I waited for her corrections and feedback.

Juliet was a part of me, a bruise given flesh. Part of me was nervous, hesitant, to unleash so much of my inner turmoil into the world but she was brave and strong, and she battled back her demons and stepped into the light.

She came from me, which meant that her bravery lived inside me too.

She took her chance, her leap of faith, and was rewarded for it.

A mad dash to the airport. A full-out sprint to reach the love of her life before she lost him for good. I listened to songs that made me think of that night on Samhain, when Wolfe and I sprinted to each other across an open field.

Write us, he’d said. Give us the ending we should have had.

I did as Wolfe had asked me to and I clawed my way back into my life. Marissa and I had a weekly hangout session planned for every Thursday and could only be cancelled under duress. I found that I didn’t mind and as Christmas crept closer, I grew to look forward to it.

I wondered why I had held myself back so much. We’d gone through so much together and still, I had kept her at arm’s length. I apologized to her again and again. She brushed it off, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

“I’m just glad we’re here now.”

Even though my heart was bruised and aching, I was glad too.

Alone, I decorated my place for the holidays. I went out and bought myself a real tree and a handful of ornaments. It was then I realized I’d bought no souvenirs for myself from Ireland. I found a small wolf ornament, a pint of beer, and a whale and hung them on the front of my tree.

“Merry Christmas, Wolfe,” I murmured, hefting my mug of tea to the ceiling.

I hoped he heard me. Hoped he was proud of the small steps I’d been able to take over the last few weeks of being home.

I spent Christmas with my parents. Well, with my parents and sixty of their friends and colleagues. I stood in the kitchen—white counters, white cabinets, silver bar stools—and wondered how someone could have grown up in that and managed to see all the colors that I did in my mind.

The comments about my ‘cute little romance’ novels fell on deaf ears and I smiled blandly, sipping my champagne.

They were so much more than that and for the first time, I was sorry for them that they would never be able to experience it.

This place—these people—had no power over me now.

I had been changed for the better.

I went home to my cozy apartment, candles burning, lights strung up, life and color and joy on the walls, and smiled.

He would have loved it.