Chapter 3
Holden
I sit back on my leather couch, looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the mountain creek that runs through my property. My neighborhood isn't a typical city neighborhood, but large plots of land with a mix of old and new homes.
I designed this home with the intention to sell someday. It's a great three-bedroom mountain contemporary, a redesign that's a mix of mid-century modern and farmhouse. The graduated slope down to the creek is what sold me, Hope Peak as a backdrop.
I have design ideas for my future home, but I'm a single guy. I don't need a large space for kids to run around in or extra rooms for my wife's hobbies. I picture Atlanta, her pretty hazel eyes filled with disappointment when I suggested talking about the promotion at the first of the year.
I knock my head back on the headrest several times and take a sip of Moose Drool Brown Ale. I can't keep putting her off, and a knot forms deep in my stomach. I don't want to lose her the way I lost my last design lead, but if I'm not careful, I may. She might make the choice for me.
My phone pings with a text from my sister.
Tiffany: Can you talk?
Me: On a call.
I don't feel like talking to my older sister.
She's been on me about attending my niece's Christmas recital.
It's not that I don't love Bailey. The day she was born is one of the best of my life.
But the thought of sitting shoulder to shoulder for an hour and a half watching little kids dance sounds like a special form of torture reserved for Tiff, not me.
The lights in the house flicker, which is unusual, being that there's not a storm. There's not really any wind.
Tiffany: Are you lying about the phone call?
Me: No. Now quit interrupting my meeting to—Sis, I've gotta text later. The power just went out.
Tiffany: On a call and the power’s out? You have a backup generator wired to the house. You’re a better liar than that.
Me: It's not working.
Tiffany: How is that possible?
Me: Fuck if I know.
I can picture the disappointment crossing her face, the same as our mother.
I grab a flashlight and head to the control panel for the electricity and flip breakers, hoping that will fix the problem. When it doesn't, I fiddle with the generator. Nothing. It's impossible. I just upgraded it in the summer, so it's practically new.
My phone rings. My sister.
"What, Tiff?"
"Uncle Holden? It's Bailey."
"Hi, sweetheart. I'm gonna need to call you back."
"Are you mad at me?" Her five-year-old voice is thick.
I stop cold. "No, honey. I am not mad at you. What would make you think that?"
"You're not coming to the recital. Everyone is coming but you."
I picture her sweet brown curls, her big brown eyes, the dusting of freckles on her nose.
"I will absolutely be there, munchkin. I wouldn't miss it."
"Yay!" I can practically hear her bounce.
The lights flicker back on. I'm getting an electrician out here tomorrow to check everything.
I turn on the TV, looking for something to watch, deciding it's probably an old, and settle on an old showing of The Godfather.
At the commercial break, I get up to make some popcorn.
I'm ticked off that I even have to stop for a commercial, but it wasn't on the satellite, so there's that—when a holiday commercial catches my eye.
I swear it's the same Santa from earlier, giving a little girl a soda.
He turns to the camera, and I would swear he is looking right at me with that same intense stare before turning back to the little girl.
I must be out of my fucking mind. But how did he know that I didn't vote for the holiday parade? No one could know that.
I don't believe in curses.
I. Don’t. Believe. In. Curses.
I turn onto Main Street, the twenty thousand things I've got to do for the office hijacking my mental bandwidth.
Running my own business is a challenge, one that I used to love, but lately it's a burden.
My VP, Carter Jameson, has been pushing me to trust the team and delegate more.
But slowing down means thinking about what I really want.
And what I want is the curvy redhead sitting in the office down the hall from me.
Which can’t happen.
Besides, I know that Big Sky Architecture and Design can become one of the top architectural firms in the U.S.
I recruited the best talent, including my VP, Carter Jameson, who is a much better architect than I am.
We all have the drive. We even won the AIA Gold several years ago, and the surge of pride I felt topped anything else I had ever accomplished.
Do we need to go national? Do I really need offices in Texas, California, and New York? I'd likely spend the rest of my life on an airplane. Forget the family I dreamed about when I set my roots here in Hope Peak.
It’s like I’m trying to recapture those accolades, which is ridiculous.
The steady stream of customers is a direct reflection of our work and should be enough.
But it’s hard to let go of old shame. I wasn’t the strongest student in high school.
I did just enough to get by and gave my parents a hard time about pretty much everything.
It didn’t help that my brother and sister were perfect kids. Good grades. Followed the rules. Didn’t get caught on the football field with their buddies and a twelve-pack.
As the youngest of three, I’ve been in my older siblings’ shadows my whole life. This is why I moved to Hope Peak.
Logically, I know my parents love us all equally. Individually, but equally. But I’m willing to bet my parents shouted “Holden!” four times as much as they did the other two combined. I was filled with nervous energy and didn’t always know how to properly channel it.
And when I decided to attend college, nobody believed I would stick it out. But I’d always been interested in math and building things, so architecture was a natural fit.
My jaw clenches, shame edging just underneath my skin. I shouldn’t envy my siblings. I didn’t used to, at least not outside the typical sibling rivalry. But they started having kids, having monetary success, and the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head.
Bennett can’t help that he invented a computer component that increases memory speed or even that he sold the patent and will receive royalties for life. Tiff can’t help that she and her husband built a dude ranch that was featured in two films and is booked year-round.
Irritated at myself as well as the holiday traffic, I try to find music on the radio that matches my mood. Mariah's chirpy voice isn’t cutting it. I switch and find Vahvuus, a rock band whose hard music fills my brain.
In the quiet of the night, I'm lost in my thoughts / Searching for answers, but the questions won't stop / You're the fire in my veins / the spark in my soul
Fuck. That. I don’t need to think about Atlanta right now.
I shut off the radio and see a car backing out which is super close, so I can just run in, grab a I’m sorry gift for Atlanta, and run back out. I don’t want her to be mad at me. Before the car can even drive past, I whip into its spot, park, and jump out of the truck, frustrated that I’m even here.
Normally my assistant buys gifts from me and Carter, taking care to personalize each and every one. But for everything Atlanta’s done for me, I want to make her gift good. I’m thinking a cashmere travel wrap from the boutique near The Velvet Book. My sister’s been raving about hers.
As I step off the curb, a car honks at me, yanking me out of my thoughts. A woman in a green SUV rolls down her window and stares at me, her four-year-old daughter in the backseat.
"I've been waiting for that space. My blinker was on."
To be honest, I didn't notice the blinker, but I don't have time for this. I point to my watch then to a space opening up a few spots down and keep going. She shouts from her window.
"Santa's watching, buddy!”
I keep walking, a little spooked by what the woman said.
She'll find another spot. But as I open the boutique door, the Santa from yesterday catches my eye three stores down. Today’s he’s wearing green denim and a khaki coat, but it’s definitely him.
He points to the woman now parking her car, shakes his head, and pulls out a small notebook, making an exaggerated mark.
“Are you coming inside?” The salesperson rubs her arms to ward off the cold air that I’m letting in.
I nod, a strange sense of foreboding sitting low in my gut. I find the wrap, choosing a pale green that will fit all seasons, and have the store gift-wrap it for me, Mariah’s festive music taunting me as I leave.
A light snow has begun to fall, my boots crunching as I slide into the truck. Glad to be out of the cold, I press start, but nothing happens. I try several times before popping the hood and testing the battery. Dead. Which I don’t understand because I just got it last season.
“Need a jump?”
It’s the woman from earlier, the one in the SUV.
“Uh, no. That’s alright.”
She watches me with interest, her daughter’s bright blue eyes blinking from the backseat. “It’s the neighborly thing to do.” She puts on her hazards and pops the hood of her car.
“Thanks.”
I hook up the jumper cables, and head to her window, which she rolls down a crack. “Listen, about before. I’m sorry. I saw your blinker, but I was in a hurry. I should have been more aware of your time than mine and moved to let you have your spot.”
She smiles the same big grin as her daughter from the back seat. “Thank you.”
Her easy forgiveness makes me think of Atlanta, who I've been stringing along for months. She deserves better than my excuses. My truck starts immediately, and as I drive off, I swear that’s the Santa a few blocks down, in the same green pants and khaki coat, his judgmental blue eyes watching me from behind his round spectacles.