Chapter 7
HOLLY
Ipick up the pace, practically jogging the last block to the subway.
I make it down to the platform just as the sky splits open behind me.
Thunder crashes above the city, rolling through the streets like it’s got something to prove.
I snap my umbrella shut, shake off the water, and settle on a bench near the wall.
My coat is dry. My boots are too. I got out just in time.
I’m used to storms. That doesn’t mean I like them.
The sound reminds me of the night my dad left, only days before Mom packed up our lives and moved us to the States.
Shelby was six, but already stubborn and fuming in her own small way because she didn’t want to leave the UK.
I acted like none of it touched me. My little sister was always closer to Mom, while I’d been a daddy’s girl.
I was nine, watching from my bedroom window.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t wave. Not even for a second. He just kept walking down the street with a duffel bag and a soaked coat flapping behind him.
That’s when Dexter showed up. Not like some boy out of a dream, just a skinny neighbor kid with disheveled hair and grass stains on his knees.
Whenever a heavy storm hit, and the power went out, he’d show up with a flashlight and a handful of stolen whoopie pies (sometimes called black moons, basically two cakey cocoa cookies with cream in the middle) from his dad’s kitchen, or later, when I was fourteen and he sixteen, with a veggie pizza, and say, “You’re not scared, are you? ”
And I’d lie. “No. Of course not.”
He never left. Not once. He’d sneak into my room and end up crashing on the window ledge beside my bed, cushions piled under him and a blanket pulled around his shoulders.
Even when the wind howled and his dad called, telling him to get home, he stayed.
That window ledge… God, it must have been miserable.
The train is packed, but no one looks up. Everyone has earbuds in, eyes down. I sink into the corner seat by the window and rest my umbrella between my knees, watching the blur of rain against the glass. The overhead lights stutter once.
I cross my legs. Uncross them. And cross them again.
My brain won’t shut up. Probably too much caffeine, and I haven’t eaten since noon.
It’s not like we never shared a bed. We did.
That one night.
Just one.
We ate in my room, him perfectly at ease on the window ledge with the pizza box balanced on his knee, me on my bed, while the storm rattled the windows. I tried to act unbothered. He didn’t push, and he didn’t tease.
At some point, after I let out a long yawn, he glanced over and said, “You want me to stay?”
I nodded, just once, saying nothing.
Finally he muttered, “This is stupid. Move over.”
I scooted toward the edge of my bed, giving him room. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out beside me, flat on top of the covers, arms folded behind his head. I turned onto my side, also above the covers. I stayed close, but facing away (total coward), heart pounding, every nerve on edge.
I never said a word. Neither did he.
After a while, he reached over to the blanket and draped it over me. He adjusted it over my shoulders, careful and quiet. He probably thought I was asleep.
He didn’t touch me for the longest time.
Then… he did.
He softly brushed his fingers along my upper arm. Just once. Light. Brief.
Then I felt him lean back. That’s all it was.
But I remember how everything in me just… stilled. How everything in me just aligned. The noise in my head shut off.
It was the first time I wondered what it would feel like if he kissed me. Really kissed me. Not just my cheek. And not just a peck. The kind that didn’t leave room for pretending afterward. The kind that ruined friendships.
He didn’t. And maybe that’s why I remember it so clearly.
When Mom came home two hours later with little Shelby, fresh from another dental emergency, Dexter slipped out the window. The rain was still coming down hard. He turned, just enough to check the window.
His eyes found mine.
He waved, casual as anything. For me, though, it meant everything.
Then he disappeared into the dark.
My phone pulses.
Dexter:
Storm’s getting wild. You okay?
My stomach flips. I stare at the screen. Of course he’d check.
Me:
I’m on the train, dry.
Dexter:
Want me to pick you up at the station?
I stare out the window. Rain streaks down the glass, slower now, and much softer. The storm is still out there, but it’s mostly moving on. It’ll be a while before I get to my stop.
Me:
I’ve got an umbrella, and things are already clearing up.
Dexter:
Okay. Just don’t be stubborn if it gets bad. It’s not far. I’ll come get you.
Sometimes I wonder if I made you up.
My fingers hover over the screen.
Delete. Honestly, get a grip. I’m a grown-ass woman, not a freaking teen.
Yes, having a baby is a big deal. Huge. The kind of decision that splits your life into before and after.
But so is packing up and moving across the Atlantic.
Somewhere between thinking about storms, shipping boxes, and sperm samples, I realize I haven’t breathed properly since the train left 42nd Street.
I glance out at the blur of familiar streets and storefronts. New York has been home for most of my adult life. It’s loud, beautifully chaotic, and full of infectious energy.
The idea of leaving it still doesn’t feel real.
My little Shelby. It’s been hard being apart for this long. She moved back to the UK years ago, but this past year (our longest stretch without seeing each other in person) has made the distance ache more than usual. I’d visit more, but flying makes me miserably airsick.
We’ve always loved the UK. Not just because we were born there, although that’s part of it.
Our British grandparents made sure we stayed connected.
They invited us as often as their health allowed, and when we visited, they’d spoil us rotten.
Oh, did we eat it up. Extra cuddles. Extra sweets.
Extra attention. Shelby once overheard them talking to Mom, whispering, “…we’re doing what we can, making up for where our lad’s fallen short with those poor little ones. ”
It stuck with us. The sense that, whatever else had gone wrong, we were welcomed and treasured there. In Britain.
Over time, the idea of living there made its way onto our dream boards.
Honestly, how could it not?
Six minutes later, the train pulls into the 68th Street station, deep in the Upper East Side. The second I exit, the air is warm, heavy, and thick with post-storm humidity.
I’m halfway up the station stairs before I realize I’ve got actual butterflies in my stomach. Not the sweet kind. The wing-flapping, oh-no-what-am-I-doing kind.
The rain picks up. Quickly, I pop my umbrella open and walk faster, head down.
I can’t believe the thought of seeing Dexter—Dexter—is making me nervous.
But it’s not just him. It’s everything this dinner means, and the conversation we’re about to have. The future I’m tiptoeing toward.
I turn the corner, and stop.
Dexter. On his motorcycle. One black boot is planted on the wet pavement.
His black helmet hangs from the handlebars, and the white one he brought for me rests against his thigh, his hand casual on top of it.
Rain hits his jacket, turning the jet black leather even darker.
He looks up when he spots me, wet hair streaked across his forehead.
“About time you showed.” His mouth ticks up at the corner, there and gone, so quick most people would miss it. I don’t.
“What, no ‘hello’? What are you doing here?” My eyes jump from the jet-black bike, water drops sliding off the metal, to his soaking jacket. “Seriously? In the rain?”
He shrugs, as if it’s obvious. “Car’s in the shop. This or nothing.” He unzips his leather jacket and shrugs out of it, holding it out to me.
I quickly fold the umbrella, set it aside, and slip into the jacket. It’s way too big, quite cool from the rain, and heavier than I expect. It carries a trace of his earthy cologne.
“You’ll be fine,” he says, catching my nerves right away, convinced it’s the ride making me edgy. He hands me the spare helmet he picked out for me all those years ago, fits his black one over his wet hair, and shifts forward. “Just hold tight.”
The engine rumbles under me as I swing onto the seat, and my arms slide around his waist. He glances back, catches my hands, and pulls them higher across his chest. “Hold tight, I said. Road’s slippery.” I tighten my hold.
He gives a nod, twists the throttle, and the lights smear past us in streaks of gold and red.
The elevator takes us to the top floor.
Only Dexter and I live up here now. He bought the building years ago, knocked down a few walls, and turned what used to be a cluster of cramped apartments into two sprawling residences.
“I’ll just run in, change out of these, and be right back.” I hand him back the jacket.
“Hurry up.”
I pop the umbrella open just enough to give it a shake, leaving it spread open by my door to dry.
The wet clothes come off fast, and I swap them for my favorite blue jeans (the ones that actually make my legs look longer) and a light sage-green knit top.
Warm socks. Earrings. A swipe of cherry lip balm.
Shelby calls just as I’m about to head out. “Well? The minute’s up. How did it go?”
“I don’t have any news yet.” I remind her this is just the conversation, not the main event. “And quit calling me.”
Shelby bursts out laughing, clearly winding me up. She tells me to relax, which is rich, coming from her. Before hanging up, I give the entryway mirror a quick once-over, smooth my hair (two minutes of pointless fixing whatever frizz the storm left behind), and that’s it.
I grab my little purse with my phone, keys, my trusty Burt’s Bees I never leave without, charger, and the usual random junk I never empty out. We have a lot to talk about, and I might not be back till late.
His door is unlocked, so I let myself in.