7. Holden
7
HOLDEN
T he morning was one of those rare Charleston gifts—cool enough to feel alive, warm enough to remind you summer wasn’t far off. The air smelled faintly of salt, with just a whisper of jasmine from the vines climbing the trellises along the path. Dew painted the grass and the hydrangeas lining the walk, and the whole property seemed to hum softly, a Southern rhythm that matched the slow creak of the guesthouse door swinging shut behind me.
Ahead, the main house stood stately but welcoming, its weathered teal paint and wraparound piazzas bathed in the soft morning light. Fanny had kept the original color when she restored the house, swapping out fragile antique window panes for modern efficient ones. “You honor the past,” she’d told me, “but you make it livable for the present.”
Inside, the kitchen was neat, its marble countertops gleaming and farmhouse sink clear under the garden window. A French press sat waiting by the coffee grinder, next to a bowl with fresh fruit. There was a whiskey bottle and vodka left on the counter, and oddly, some of Granny’s ceramic bowls sat out—the only signs of what Hendrix and Conrad had been up to last night.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a slice of sourdough, and carried them to the counter, where Gatsby waited. The worn cover dared me to find something new in its pages before book club. But I wouldn’t be reading long because I planned to hit Folly Beach before the weekend crowds descended, the thought of cool Atlantic waves and the rhythm of paddling out into the surf calling to me.
I couldn’t ask for anything more, really—living just a short drive from Charleston’s beaches, sharing my beautiful family home with two of my closest friends, all thanks to my mom’s generosity when college began. Sunday dinners at home with a delicious Southern spread and family that loved me, despite my ornery temperament sometimes. It was the perfect balance of freedom and comfort.
When Granny died during my senior year in high school, Mom couldn’t bear to sell her childhood home. She and Blanton, my stepfather, had just finished fixing up their new home for the blended family. Mom had given Hendrix and me Granny Goodloe’s, wanting us to have our own space while attending Charleston School of Arts and Letters.
The small liberal arts college sprawled throughout Charleston’s historic district, the academic buildings located in ivy-draped antebellum mansions and the dorms in some converted historic warehouses in the arts district. The college drew an eclectic mix of students: old-money Southerners alongside bohemian creatives—bow ties and bandanas—both drawn to the city’s reputation as a cultural hub. I’d chosen it without hesitation; its English literature program was one of the best in the region, and staying local meant staying close to my mom.
Losing James had left a void neither of us could fill. He’d been her anchor, her firstborn, and when he died, she poured herself into her art, trying to paint her way out of the grief. I stayed because she needed someone. Because I couldn’t let her face that pain alone.
“You don’t have to stay, Holden,” Fanny had told me when I was applying to schools. Her voice had been gentle, but her hands trembled slightly as she folded the corner of her apron. “You should go where your heart pulls you.”
“My heart’s here,” I’d said simply, meaning every word. She didn’t push after that, just nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line as she turned back to her easel.
Hendrix hadn’t been as convinced. Blanton’s voice echoed in my mind. I could still see him standing in the kitchen three years ago, his hands braced on the counter as he looked at Hendrix. “Your mom was wild, sure, but she didn’t throw away responsibility for fun. Stella wanted you to have choices for your future. College is a way to have more of them.”
Hendrix had leaned against the fridge, barefoot, his arms crossed. “I don’t know, Dad. College doesn’t feel like me.”
Blanton had sighed but didn’t press. “It doesn’t have to be forever. Just try. For her.”
That quiet moment had shifted something in Hendrix. He’d agreed, though the compromise was clear—he’d show up, but he’d do it his way. For him, CSAL became less about academics and more about soaking in the creative energy. The campus always hummed with activity—impromptu poetry readings in the courtyards, late-night painting sessions by the harbor, and jam sessions that spilled out into the streets. Hendrix fit right in, of course. I had to admire how effortlessly he lived in that world while I kept my nose in a book.
I set my coffee down, my gaze landing on a framed family photo on the mantle. It was one of Conrad’s—golden hour on the piazza, all of us smiling against the light. Fanny looked radiant, Blanton steady at her side. Hendrix and I flanked them, with Conrad between us after he had set up the shot, his grin boyish and irreverent. Seeing it now, it felt like a miracle we’d all ended up there, stitched together by second chances and shared grief.
My mom deserved every bit of that happiness. Losing James had nearly destroyed her. When he died, it was like a part of her went with him. Then my dad left, like grief was something he could walk away from, leaving her to pick up the pieces. She poured herself into her art, trying to fill the void with vibrant colors and broad strokes. But it wasn’t until she met Blanton that her laughter came back for real. Blanton wasn’t perfect—polished, meticulous, and sometimes too concerned with appearances—but he was solid. He loved my mom the way she deserved to be loved, and for that, I’d always be grateful to him.
I turned to head back into the kitchen to clean up my breakfast plate before heading out to surf when I noticed them—women’s boots, casually kicked off and lying near the coffee table. Black leather, worn but striking, with a pointed toe and a heel. They weren’t just tossed aside; they spoke of someone who made herself at home. I smirked. One of them had company last night. Probably Hendrix, though Conrad wasn’t exactly a stranger to morning-after scenarios.
And then I saw it slouched on the sofa. Its distinctive Louis Vuitton checkerboard pattern caught my eye first, but what froze me was the bold, looping script painted across the front. Moon, in deep cobalt and lilac strokes. My coffee cup stalled halfway to my lips, my chest tightening as my pulse spiked with confusion and something sharper. Her bag. Her boots. She was here. Upstairs. And if they were still here, that meant she’d stayed—with one of them.
My stomach twisted, a slow burn rising in my chest as I stood paralyzed, staring at her bag as if it held all the answers I didn’t want to know.
Moon.
She was here .
With Hendrix? Or Conrad?
The thought clawed at my insides, a mix of fury and something uglier. My jaw clenched as my hands tightened around the counter’s edge, the plan for my morning blown to bits. The sunlight in the room now felt too bright.
My mind spun in too many directions at once, tripping over itself. The image of her laughing, the sound of her voice, her touch—all of it tangled up with the stark reality of her presence here. In this house.
With one of them.
I needed answers.
I turned toward the stairs, each step I took heavier than the last. The creak of the wood echoed in the silence, the house too still. Yet, faint noises filtered down—murmurs, the rustle of sheets, a soft laugh that I didn’t want to recognize but did anyway. It was her. I knew it.
The laugh twisted something deep in my chest, sharper than I expected. My jaw tightened further, a bead of sweat slipping down my temple as I reached the top of the stairs. I saw Conrad’s room first, the door cracked open. The bed was a mess—sheets tangled, pillows askew—but empty.
The door to Hendrix’s room was closed.
I froze outside of it, my hand hovering over the doorknob. My breath was shallow, the muscles in my neck taut. Part of me wanted to turn around, to walk back downstairs, grab my board, and pretend I hadn’t seen anything. But I couldn’t.
My hand closed around the knob, slick with sweat. I twisted it slowly, the click of the latch loud in the quiet hallway, and pushed the door open.
The scene inside hit me like a punch to the gut.
Conrad was sitting up in bed, the sheets barely covering him, his broad chest bare. Hendrix leaned against the headboard beside him, also shirtless, holding a coffee cup like he didn’t have a care in the world. And Moon faced them. Her hair was a mess of wet waves, cascading down her bare back with a towel pooled on the bed behind her, as she faced them both and laughed, clearly comfortable sitting naked in front of them.
She turned, and her eyes widened when she saw me, her smile faltering like she’d been caught doing something she couldn’t take back. She clutched her towel, covering herself.
“Holden?” she said as if in disbelief, her voice barely audible, her lips parting as if to say more.
I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt tight, my hand still clutching the strap of her bag like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
“What the fuck is this?” The words came out before I could stop them, harsh and raw, cutting through the air like a blade.
Conrad didn’t even flinch. He just grinned lazily, tipping his mug toward me. “Morning, bro. Coffee’s brewing downstairs.”
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face—to grab him off the bed and throw him out of the room. But I couldn’t even move. My gaze was locked on Moon, on the way she shrank slightly under my glare, her lips pressing together like she was bracing herself.
“Holden!” she said more emphatically now, “What?—”
“Don’t,” I snapped, cutting her off. My voice was lower now, quieter, but no less furious. I looked at Hendrix and Conrad, my lip curling. “Both of you? Fucking really? ”
Hendrix shrugged, his face infuriatingly calm. “We’re all adults, man. No one’s hiding anything.”
His words hit like a slap, stinging and unnecessary. My grip tightened on her bag, the anger simmering dangerously close to boiling over. My gaze snapped back to Moon.
“Why here?” My voice cracked slightly, the edge softening for just a moment. “Of all places, why here? With them? ”
She didn’t answer. She just looked at me, her expression unreadable. Guilt? Shame? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t saying what I needed to hear.
My hand dropped the bag, the thud as it hit the floor making her flinch. “You know what?” I said, my voice bitter. “Forget it. Enjoy yourselves.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out, the door slamming shut behind me. My chest heaved as I took the stairs two at a time, the anger mixing with something else, something I refused to name.
I grabbed my board from the corner and left. The ocean would fix this. It had to.