8. Moon
8
MOON
I bolted upright as the bedroom door clicked shut, the sound slicing through the hazy warmth of the morning. My heart hammered against my ribs, every beat a reminder of what had just happened—Holden’s face, the shock in his eyes, the way his mouth opened as if to say something before he turned and walked away.
My guy from the bookstore, with his quiet simmering demeanor and sharp green eyes that lingered on mine like they saw through me, had just stood frozen in the doorway, staring at me in bed with two other guys. My skin prickled with embarrassment as the puzzle pieces snapped together. Holden, Hendrix, Conrad—connected in ways I had completely overlooked.
“Moon?” Hendrix’s voice broke into my spiraling thoughts. His hand brushed my shoulder, but I flinched away, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
“Wait. Stop.” My voice cracked, half-panicked. “How do you all know each other?” I yanked my shirt over my head, the fabric hot against my skin, feverish hot since Holden had walked in.
Hendrix’s face went pale. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at Conrad. “Holden is—shit. Moon, he’s my stepbrother.”
I froze, fingers still on the hem of my shirt. “What?”
“He’s also my best friend,” Conrad added, a touch quieter, like he was wary of setting me off further.
I sat rooted on the edge of the bed, my pulse roaring in my ears. My skin had tingled with pleasure where Hendrix and Conrad had touched me moments ago, but now shame crawled over every inch of me.
It clicked into place with jarring clarity, dragging along every memory of Holden’s piercing charm at the bookstore that day. The warmth of that connection now twisted into a cruel knot in my stomach. He’d seen me— us .
“You said you lived with your stepbrother, but you never mentioned?—”
“I didn’t think his name mattered!” Hendrix cut in, his voice edged with defensiveness. “How could I know you two knew each other?”
Conrad held up a hand, his expression calm but questioning. “Wait, hold on. How do you know Holden?”
“I—” My words caught in my throat as the weight of everything settled on me. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to steady myself. “I met him a few days ago at Press. He was in the poetry section, and we just…started talking. It was one of those conversations that sticks with you, you know?”
Hendrix raised an eyebrow, but Conrad’s expression shifted, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. “Go on.”
I swallowed hard. “We got coffee after book club. We just talked. But there was…something. A spark. I don’t know. We didn’t exchange numbers yet or anything, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I knew I’d see him again at book club.”
The room fell silent, and I could feel their gazes on me, waiting for more. When I glanced up, Conrad and Hendrix exchanged a look that made my stomach tighten.
“Oh shit,” Conrad muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re the girl .”
My brow furrowed. “What girl?”
Hendrix groaned, leaning against the wall. “The girl Holden’s been obsessing over. He wouldn’t shut up about meeting someone at the bookstore.”
“He seemed quite taken with you,” Conrad confirmed. “The girl with the silver eyes and the gypsy soul.”
“Yeah. That’s what he said. We ragged on him for not getting your number or your socials, but Holden’s always been more old-fashioned.”
My knees buckled, and I sank onto the edge of the bed. Everything was spinning too fast, the connections clicking into place in a way that made my chest ache. “He told you about me?”
“Yeah. He seemed…spellbound,” Conrad said, his voice quieter now. “And now he thinks—well, you can guess what he thinks.”
I buried my face in my hands, heat crawling up my neck. “Oh my god. This is a such fucking mess. I just didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
“We get it,” Hendrix said, his voice softer now. “But that doesn’t change what he saw.”
I looked up at him, my stomach churning. “I need to explain. I need to tell him?—”
“Tell him what?” Hendrix’s jaw tightened, his tone brusque. “That we didn’t matter? That it was just a mistake?”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I snapped, standing abruptly. “I’m into you guys and want to keep getting to know you. But I’m into him too—” My voice broke, and I shook my head. “I don’t fucking know. But I can’t leave things like this. I have to find him.”
Gravel crunched under my boots as I followed the direction Hendrix and Conrad had given me to Holden’s room. As I approached the guesthouse, I paused, taking in its charm. The white clapboard siding was crisp in the sunlight, and a pergola draped in wisteria shaded the entrance.
I pushed open the French doors, stepping into the stillness of the space. I hesitated, my nerves tightening as I thought about the way Holden had looked at me before—angry, hurt, betrayed. My heart raced as I called out, “Holden?” hoping he’d be here, hoping I could find him and somehow make things right.
But the room remained quiet, his absence heavier than I expected. I moved through the space, the silence pressing in around me, until I realized—he wasn’t here. And the weight of that emptiness settled in my chest, deepening the ache of the mess I’d made.
As I took in my surroundings, it felt like stepping into Holden’s mind—orderly, introspective, and steeped in solitude. The living area was sparingly furnished, yet everything seemed intentional. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall, filled with classics and more obscure literary works. The scent of old paper and faint traces of tobacco lingered in the air. A desk dominated one corner, an old-school typewriter at its center, flanked by a half-filled ashtray and stacks of loose pages with elegant, tight handwriting. The idea of Holden, so reserved in person, expressing himself so freely here, was intoxicating. It was as if this room held a part of him no one else ever saw.
My boots made soft thuds against the wooden floor as I ventured further in, drawn to the recessed alcove where his bed was. I hesitated, feeling like an intruder, but my curiosity won out. There was a brass lamp on the bedside table, casting warm light over the gray linens and duvet. Above the bed hung a single piece of artwork, a muted landscape that I instinctively knew was James’s work. There was something haunting about it, a quiet sadness that seemed to echo the emotions Holden kept bottled up.
I sat on the edge of his bed, surveying his room from this vantage point, drawn to the bookshelves again. His collection was impressive and daunting—everything from well-worn editions of Austen and Dickens and shelves just devoted to the old world poets to more experimental modern stuff like Kerouac and Didion. As I scooted up further onto the bed, resting against his headboard, I glanced at his bedside table where there was a leather-bound journal left open with a pen marking his page.
Beside the journal was a small silver-framed photo. It was a picture of two boys—Holden and another older boy who must have been James. They were laughing, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, their faces suffused with a happiness that felt almost foreign compared to the Holden I’d met.
I hesitated briefly before reaching over to look more closely. As I took in the photo, I couldn’t help but notice his writing in the open pages before me. His writing was neat, filled with Holden’s tidy, masculine script. A draft of a poem caught my eye, and as I read, my heart tightened:
In the shadow of her smile, the world fades,
A moonlit grace that bends the night to her will.
Her laugh, a press of light on ink-dark days,
Her gaze, a tether, her absence a bitter chill.
The words were tender, romantic, and undeniably about me. My cheeks flushed, a mix of guilt and flattery washing over me. Turning the page, I found another poem, this one darker, filled with yearning:
To kiss the bite-mark I left on her skin,
To taste the heat where her hunger begins.
Her breath ignites, her sighs ensnare,
My name a plea in the midnight air.
Her softness presses against my need,
A velvet ache, a hunger freed.
I pull her closer, as our breaths sway,
A dance of desire where shadows lay.
Fingers tangled, hearts undone.
A rhythm building until we’re one.
Her pulse a song I long to chase,
Her body, my refuge, her bite my grace.
This one left me breathless. The visceral longing in his words stirred something deep inside me, a heat that I couldn’t ignore. I pictured him here, late at night, his cigarette smoke curling through the air as his pen moved over the page, writing about me, every word scorched with desire. The thought of him alone, lost in his words, and the way he must have felt—writing about wanting me—sent a shiver through my body. I couldn’t help but imagine him close, his hands on me, the roughness of his touch matching the rawness of his poem. My pulse quickened, and I shifted on the bed, the heat between my legs building with each line, his words making me ache for something I hadn’t tasted yet. And something he now might never want.
But then, the image of Hendrix flashed in my mind—his deep blue eyes, his easy confidence, the way he made me feel electric. And then I thought of Conrad’s wry cheeky smile, the ache inside me twisting. How could I want this—want Holden—when part of me was tangled up in them, too? Each connection felt real, and yet none of it made sense. I glanced down at the desk again, my fingers lingering over the typewriter, my mind swirling with confusion. I wanted Holden, badly, but how could I be drawn to him when I knew what I had with Hendrix and Conrad was equally undeniable?
How the fuck had I fallen for three guys without knowing they were stepbrothers and childhood best friends, woven together so indelibly that I could never come between them. The thought made me dizzy. My body still hummed with the tension from Holden’s words, but my heart was heavy with uncertainty. I couldn’t decide which part of me to give into. I wanted him, wanted all of it, but I didn’t know how to reconcile the tangled mess of feelings inside.
The breeze from the open window shifted, breaking my thoughts. I felt like an intruder here, caught between the pull of Holden’s poetry and the ties I had to the others. I couldn’t stay, and yet I didn’t want to leave. I placed the journal back where I’d found it and turned to leave, my body still aching from the fantasy his words had sparked.
The soft spring air greeted me as I stepped outside, the guesthouse’s quiet charm a stark contrast to the turbulence inside me. The words I’d read lingered, their weight and beauty settling deep in my chest. If he’d written about me like this, how could I not find him and see if I had ruined it for good.