How It's Going To Be [h.s.]

Chapter 83

"Are we wrong in thinking that you still care for Harry?" my mother asked.

"No."

"Then tell us, Kate. What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid that Harry doesn't want to get back together. I'm afraid that if I approached him, he would break me again."

There. I said it. My fear was finally verbalized. I thought I would feel relief being able to say it aloud, but the fear only multiplied within. 

____________

I sat at the kitchen table eating a small stack of pancakes that I desperately wished were waffles. My mother swirled around me cleaning and preparing for extended family and friends to arrive later in the evening for Christmas Eve dinner. I pushed pieces of pancake through the puddle of syrup on my plate in an effort to avoid having to help my mother. I was hardly in the mood to be out of bed let alone be cheerful at a holiday party.

Snow fell gently outside the window. The pine trees were thick with snow making for a picturesque scene. I loved being home for Christmas and seeing the familiar things I missed while away in London. I missed my family, my mother's cooking, my friends, the town I grew up in, and the scenery. But as I watched the snow accumulate on the ground, I couldn't help but feel as though the thing I missed the most was nowhere near me.

"Finished eating?" my mother called from the other room.

"Nearly," I sighed.

"Something was just delivered for you."

I pushed the plate of barely eaten pancakes away and stood up from the table. I found my mother standing by the front door staring at an envelope in her hand skeptically.

"What is it?"

"This came for you," she held it up.

"I don't understand," I said slowly. "Mail isn't delivered on holidays."

"Look carefully. It didn't come by post."

"Then how?"

"Not sure. It was slipped through the mail slot."

"Let me see it."

"Here," she handed it over.

I didn't even need to read the return address. I recognized the handwriting immediately. At first glance, the writing looked thoughtless and rushed. The letters were messy and looped strangely in some places. But I knew better. I could tell by the way he pressed hard with the pen and took care to write my name in the address that he cared deeply.

"It's from him." My mother wasn't asking a question. Her intuition never failed her and always impressed me.

"I'm going to go upstairs to read this."

"Go on," she smiled encouragingly.

I could barely make it up the stairs. My legs felt weak and my hands were shaky. My head was spinning and my heart was thrilled. I craved his words in ways I had never before known. I held onto some hope that perhaps Harry still felt something for me.

The bed dipped under my weight as I sat on the edge. A million possible words flew through my mind as I guessed what Harry had written. Finally, the anticipation grew to be too much and I gently tore along the fold of the envelope to remove the contents.

There was a Christmas card, not unlike the one I had found in my drawer while visiting home months before. The front was rather plain with embossed calligraphy spelling out "Happy Holidays." There was a small image of a snowflake just below the lettering.