Chapter 23
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Pages and pages. If I weren’t so bewildered by the discovery that Hollis has been writing about me, about us, and about Mrs. Nash and Elsie, I might be impressed by it.
There must be thousands of words in this notebook, all written in the last four days.
They’re framed as vignettes, I guess, and they leap through time and space, past to present and back again.
I read the first sentence of each one, hoping somehow the reality of what I’m reading will change.
But no matter how much I flip through, it’s more of the same.
Some of the dialogue in the Mrs. Nash and Elsie parts is based on what I’ve told him or pulled from the letters in my backpack; he must have read through them at some point while I was asleep or in the shower (which feels like its own separate violation).
Some of it, though, is his best guess at how the conversation would have gone.
I’m not sure if I’m more upset that he put words in Mrs. Nash’s mouth and thoughts into her head, or that someone who didn’t know her at all managed to capture some of her spirit when it feels increasingly elusive to me with each passing day.
And then there are the parts about me. About us.
It feels like Josh and the Instagram account all over again.
This notebook is filled with our private moments packaged for public consumption, and it hurts so much more than a bunch of photos on the internet because, unlike Josh, Hollis has apparently been using me from the very beginning.
At least with Josh it started out real. But with Hollis. ..
I flip back to the first pages.
We’re just north of Richmond when I realize Millicent isn’t crazy. She’s just a romantic.
It’s easy to mistake one for the other, especially when the tiny redhead in your passenger seat has a box full of her elderly friend’s ashes tucked into her backpack.
But the more Millicent talks, the more I pick up on the subtle differences.
Crazy moves erratically, a drunken bee moving through the air.
Romantics like Millicent, though, move with purpose toward their goal, following an endless trail of hope.
Optimistic breadcrumbs that promise to end with a happily ever after.
And Millicent’s breadcrumbs, she’s informed me, lead to Key West.
She stares into the distance, as if the windshield is a portal to another time. And then finally her wide, full lips part and she begins to tell me a love story:
Being stationed in Key West felt like some sort of cosmic reward. Rose McIntyre had suffered through eighteen cold, dark Wisconsin winters, but in late November 1944, the US Navy gifted her more sun and warmth than she knew what to do with...
I turn to another section, further into the notebook.
Sex with Millicent is like strolling through a garden at the height of summer.
Her minty mouth claims every inch it can reach.
She is green and sweet on my tongue, like cherry tomatoes enjoyed straight from the vine.
And when she comes apart, it’s like watching a rose bloom in fast motion, her velvety pale-pink thighs falling open like heat-dazed petals.
The sweat that dampens my hair and drips down my back might as well be from an endless July day in the sun, running around my grandparents’ backyard until the fireflies signaled dusk.
Touching Millicent, tasting her, being inside her is like every ambrosian memory I’ve ever collected replaying inside my soul all at once, and—
“Oh, shit,” Hollis says from the doorway. He’s cradling a brown paper bag in his arms. “Mill, I—”
“Don’t,” I say.
He walks over to where I’m standing and sits the bag of food on the desk. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. I was going to tell you, and soon. But with everything—”
“I said don’t .” My words come out quiet but fierce, and he visibly shivers. Good. Cold is good. Cold creates distance. “This is the new project you called your agent about, isn’t it? You intended to publish it?”
There’s a split second where I think he might lie, his eyes darting to the side as if he’s contemplating it. But he must realize he’s already in a deep enough hole. “Yes, but—”
“I trusted you,” I say, pressing my index finger into his chest. “And I know it seems like I trust everybody, so maybe having my trust doesn’t feel like a big deal to you. But it’s still a big deal to me.”
Hollis’s brow furrows. “Of course it’s a big deal. I never meant to—”
“You never meant to? You don’t accidentally write a book, Hollis!”
“It’s not—it’s more like a fifth of a book. A quarter, tops.”
“Yes. That’s the important part of this. That you still have a lot of words left with which to betray me.”
“Millicent, please let me explain.”
“Okay, fine, go ahead,” I say, throwing out my hand to give him the floor. His lips part, and I wait. But nothing comes out.
“Right. It’s pretty simple, I think. You’ve been using me,” I continue. “You’ve been writing down what I’ve told you about Mrs. Nash and Elsie’s story so that you can profit from it.”
“I’m not just writing about Mrs. Nash and Elsie. It’s also about you. Mostly about you, it turns out.”
“Amazing. So you’re exploiting three women instead of two. That makes it so much better.”
He runs both hands through his hair, making it stand on end, and groans. “I’m not saying this right.”
“No. You’re not.”
“It doesn’t help that you’re looking at me like you want to stomp on my balls. Can we just... Could we eat and talk about this later, when you’re less emotional?”
I narrow my eyes. I cannot believe... “What did you just say to me?”
“The wrong thing. The wrong thing is what I said.” He sits on the end of the bed and buries his face in his hands. “Jesus, I hate fighting,” he mutters. “This is exactly why I don’t do relationships.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not really in one then, huh?” I grab the slip of paper with Tammy’s number and shove it inside my backpack. I swing the strap over my shoulder and march to the door.
“Millicent, wait. You don’t—”
“I have somewhere to be. Goodbye, Hollis.”
The door makes a loud click as it closes and I look down at my bare feet on the hallway’s low-pile carpet.
Ah, shit. I’m not wearing anything except that damn hotel robe.
That last “You don’t—” was probably going to be “You don’t have any clothes on.
” The door opens behind me and Hollis stands there, looking me up and down in a way that makes me want to either kick him in the shins or kiss him senseless. So much for my dramatic exit.
“Don’t say anything ,” I warn, pushing past him to go back inside.
“Did you even read the parts about you?” he asks. “About how you make me feel?”
I let the robe fall from my arms into a fluffy white lump on the floor.
Fighting while naked should make me feel exposed and vulnerable, but instead I’m like some sort of badass lady warrior charging unencumbered into battle.
“You mean like how you thought I was crazy until you realized I’m just stupid? ”
“That’s not— Millicent, that’s not what I wrote. I would never say that. Don’t go putting words into my mouth.”
“Oh, like you did to Mrs. Nash and Elsie?” I’m so pissed off that the tower of clothes I’m compiling on the bed keeps toppling over in my fury and haste.
My balled-up underwear falls onto the floor.
I pick it up and toss it back onto the bed, where it promptly tumbles off again.
“Goddammit,” I grumble and give a frustrated groan that’s more of a restrained scream.
Hollis picks up the underwear and gently sets them on top of the clothing pile.
I know he’s trying to help, but the way the underwear heeds his command is infuriating.
He is so calm, and my emotions are chaos incarnate.
Tears of frustration and hurt spill over my cheeks before I’m even aware of their presence.
I am naked, I am crying, and I am furious .
“Stop helping me!” I yell. “I never asked you for help. I never asked you to pretend that you care about any of this, or about me.”
“I do care! How could you think I— Millicent, I meant every word I said earlier. If you read the rest of what I wrote, you’ll see that I—”
“The jig’s up, dude,” I say, putting on my underwear. Thankfully my legs go into each hole without issue; now is absolutely not a good time for almost falling over while getting dressed. “So you can stop pretending that I’m more than a source of information and a convenient lay.”
I hook my bra, then slip into my maxi dress. My dress is too long, and I have to tie the bottom so it doesn’t drag on the floor. It takes me three tries to knot it correctly, my brain unable to coordinate my actions and my emotions at the same time.
“Dammit, Mill, listen. You know that’s not what you are to me.
” He takes my upper arms in his hands and stares into my eyes.
It would be so romantic if I didn’t kind of want to headbutt him and then knee him in the groin.
“In the last four days, you’ve dragged me down paths I haven’t been brave enough to explore for almost a decade.
You make me feel like I can go anywhere as long as you’re there beside me, lighting the way. ”
“How cliché,” I say. I shake my head, tsk ing.
“Not your best work, Mr. Hollenbeck. But maybe you can come up with something better when you write this scene in your stupid book.” I slip out of his grasp and walk over to my suitcase.
I don’t really need anything from it, but sifting through it gives me something to do and a way to avoid eye contact.
“See this, this is the problem. I’m not your damn lantern.
I didn’t exist to fix Josh, and I don’t exist to fix you.
I didn’t stroll into your life to inspire your goddamn art or make you feel free or whatever bullshit you want to tell yourself. ”