Chapter 16 Larissa
My eyes struggle to open.
The sun is bright. Too bright.
I stretch my arms over my head and twist my body to help me wake up. The haze in my head is real. The stream of jumbled images and memories makes it difficult to determine what is real and what is fiction.
I nestle down in my blankets again, cocooning myself in the soft folds of fabric. As soon as I start to drift back into a blissful sleep, I get a whiff of a man’s cologne.
Hollis.
My heart spins to life.
He was here. He is here.
Oh, my god.
Thoughts of rooftop sex and dancing to “Holy” by Justin Bieber flood through my brain.
I sit up in bed. It’s a clumsy, still-half-asleep motion. It’s not pretty.
I pray Hollis isn’t watching.
He’s not.
He’s gone.
All that’s left is the scent of his leathery cologne.
Images replay through my mind on a never-ending spool.
His boyish grin while I lured him to the dance floor last night by the end of his tie.
The embarrassment in his cheeks when I did my best Britney impression and serenaded him with my rendition of “Make Me” on the dance floor.
The way his laughter sounded so light and easy as he did the Dougie with my mom and me—a dance we learned years ago after having a couple too many mimosas with Coy on vacation in Los Angeles.
My head sends a shot of pain behind my eyes, and I wince. I vaguely remember drinking a delicious red wine. How many glasses did I drink?
I pull the blankets back and find a solitary white wrapper from a Ding Dong. My laughter is loud. I wince again, the sudden movement causing a shooting pain to rip across my forehead this time.
I climb out of bed and grab my robe. As I wrap myself up, I notice the chair I usually sit in is turned around and facing the window. There’s a pencil sitting on the table beside it that’s not usually there.
Furrowing my brow, I turn around and head to the hallway.
The house is eerily quiet, without a sign of Hollis at all. I peek into the living room as I pass, thinking maybe he felt weird sleeping with me or something and ended up on the couch—but nope.
I enter the kitchen and find no evidence of him in here either.
Leaning against the counter, I try to put all the pieces together and fill in the blanks.
I remember the wrapper in my bed and then remember him laying against my pillows with one of those little cakes in his hand. A bit of chocolate was on the corner of his mouth as he told me the story about his mom.
My heart sinks to my toes.
He’s so much more burned, as he said, than I ever imagined. I figured he fought with his mom a lot, or she ran off the love of his life. Never in a million years did I imagine the pain she put him through.
I hate her. I don’t know her, but my loathing for the woman runs deep. How could she hurt someone like that, let alone a man so thoughtful and so kind? Her own son?
“How did he turn out so strong?” I ask the kitchen.
I can’t fathom having to deal with the things he had to deal with at this age, let alone as a child. To actually be alone in the world. Abandoned. Used.
My heart breaks for him and the sadness that ran so deep in his eyes. The pain was bottomless as he tried to avoid my gaze so I didn’t see.
I make a cup of coffee. The ritual of it helps settle the misalignment of the morning. I switch over to good thoughts of Hollis because thinking of him with tears in his eyes makes me want to cry.
I wish he was here.
“He probably had something to do today,” I say, working through my thoughts. “Or maybe he just didn’t feel right being here this morning.”
That’s a real thing. I’ve felt that before when I had a quick hookup and wake up in his house. The need to leave is real.
I carry my cup through the house and realize that I’m not freaking out. Usually, when something goes awry with a guy or even appears to be going sideways, panic sets in. But I’m not now, and I’m not sure why.
Sitting on the couch, I tuck my legs under me. It’s quite a revelation to feel this … free. Yet, at the same time, I’ve been spending time with Hollis. Sure, we’re just friends, and this is nothing serious, but is spending time with a man supposed to be this easy?
It is when it’s just a means to an end.
And the end is here.
I rest my cup on my knee as another realization hits me: our pact is over.
I helped him through dinner, and he made a show for my mom—an amazing one at that.
“Why can’t real relationships be this easy?” I wonder aloud.
They never are. They’re always filled with stress and compromise to the point when no one gets anything remotely like what they wanted in the first place. Once you attach yourself to someone else, their burdens somehow become yours.
“That’s why they can’t be easy. They’re real-world. This thing with Hollis was just pretend.” I smile. “It was fun.”
I lean against the cushions and sigh a slow, steady breath. I’ve been looking forward to seeing him. The last couple of days came out of nowhere but have made me laugh and smile more than I have in a long damn time.
The bottom of my cup warms my leg a little too much, so I pick it up, taking a long sip and feeling the warmth fill my stomach.
“I need to find a guy like Hollis,” I say. “Which is weird because he’s totally my type but totally … not.”
He’s totally my type. From the broad shoulders to the way he makes my name sound seductive, Hollis Hudson is the kind of guy I hope to find one day. It’s just perplexing that he also has all the qualities of the group of men who never fail to let me down.
I know, down deep, that you can’t lump people together like that. I told Hollis that. But he’s so different from the men I usually date that it’s hard to fathom what it is about him that makes me feel totally different when we’re together.
Because there is something about him that wasn’t my type in the most wonderful way. Something that makes me feel confident and fun. Beautiful. I don’t feel crazy for wanting to talk or to have goals of my own.
Just as long as I don’t ask questions.
My amusement fades as I realize why he doesn’t like to be prompted. He has many ghosts that I think he’s ashamed of.
My bracelets dangle on my wrist. I set my cup down. Working carefully with the delicate clasp, I unfasten Siggy’s gift. It was so thoughtful, and it’s something I’d pick out for myself, but the one still wrapped around my arm is more special.
I hold it in the air and watch the little succulent sparkle in the light.
You said you liked rose gold jewelry. And you’re going to school for something in landscape.
He listens. He listens to me.
Is that what’s different?
“You’re something else, Hollis,” I say to an empty room.
I pick up my cup, and I take another drink.
Thank God he’s leaving, or else I might be in some trouble.
But as the coffee splashes down my throat, I have to wonder—am I in trouble already?
Hollis
Sunlight bounces off the Savannah River. The water is dark and kind of moody as I watch it from a little sitting area I found. It’s not far from Judy’s—my original destination. But the sign on the door said she was closed today, so I walked on by until I found this place.
My brain has been on overdrive. Telling Larissa about my mom and Harlee, and Philip and Kim, put me into a weird frame of mind.
I lay beside Larissa as she slept. Memories I didn’t know I still had came back to me in the dead of night.
I remembered Harlee screaming and trying to feed her a package of broken crackers I found in the cupboard.
I recalled how our house always smelled like bleach.
I heard my mom’s voice, something I knew I remembered but intentionally blocked out, sing “When You Wish Upon A Star” while her voice broke and tears streamed down her cheeks.
My stomach knots as I remember it all again, and I wish so fucking much that things had been different.
But they weren’t. All that shit—that fucked-up crap of a hand that I was dealt the day I was born—it’s all a part of my makeup. It’s ingrained into the fiber of my being.
I’ll never escape it.
It’s no wonder everyone walks away from me eventually. I’m poison.
“Don’t you worry, Hollie Boy. I will always stay by your side, even when I’m so drunk and high that I can’t feel my face. Mommy loves you. You’re my person forever, Hollie. Forever.”
I take out my phone and find River’s number. He answers on the third ring.
“Hollis,” he says, relief evident in his tone. “What’s happening, buddy?”
“Do you know what I’m doing?”
“No, or else I wouldn’t have asked.”
I chuckle. “I’m looking at a fucking river.”
“Is this some joke about my name because I’ve heard them all.”
“I bet you have.”
I run a hand down the side of my face. The stress in my back from sitting up most of the night eases just a bit.
“How’s your mom?” I ask him.
A door squeaks in the background and then what I think are footsteps tap down a flight of stairs. Finally, he sighs. The sound is heavy and tired, and I know he’s struggling.
“She’s sick,” he says as if that explains it all. “I just … fuck.”
“You know I’m sorry. I hate this for you. Is there something I can do?”
“Nah. I’m okay.” He laughs. “I mean, I’m sure as hell not okay, but I’m making it.”
“Ana with you?”
“No. She’s with her folks back in Braxton. They flew in from Greece to be with her. Fucking miss her.”
It’s so hard thinking about River finding his person. His Kim to her Philip, the Judy to her Ronnie. It’s not that I want that, but I can’t begrudge my dude for finding his girl.
“Need me to Door Dash you some ramen or something?” I offer.
“There’s no Door Dash here. And I hate ramen. You know that.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I joke.
“Good thing I’m not a beggar then.”
We laugh. To an outside person listening in, it would sound like two friends having a light-hearted conversation about food. But it’s not, and we both know it.
We both hear it.
Our voices are tired and riddled with anxiety. The words are gruffer than they usually are too.
“How’s the blonde?” he asks.