Chapter 13 Holden
Thirteen
Holden
We lay for long minutes in the dark, listening to the rain and our own slowing breaths. My body hummed, and I could feel River everywhere he’d touched me. Still taste him on my mouth and on my body that felt warm and safe for the first time.
Too good. It won’t last. It’s too good.
River was first to move, reaching for me, but I quickly went to the bathroom to clean myself up.
I washed my hands and studied my reflection.
My hair stood on end where River’s hand had grasped and pulled.
Redness stained my mouth from his stubble—heated kisses that were fading under an onslaught of icy whispers.
This isn’t real life. It’s only a time-out. It’s not real.
I came back out and slipped on my underwear while River wordlessly took his turn in the bathroom. I sat against the pillows, feeling the cold creep in and wishing I’d stashed a flask or a fifth in the nightstand drawer.
River returned, and I forced myself to uncross my arms and take the grimace off my face. But he felt the sudden tension; he was too damn sensitive. And kind. And considerate…
He drew on his underwear and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to me. “You good?”
“Never better. You?”
“Yeah. I mean… I am if you are.”
God, River…
My heart had been shattered a long time ago, but now River was seeping in through the cracks. Alarm bells clanged at the intrusion, and my thoughts began to race, one after the other, like whizzing cars, crushing River’s warmth right out of me.
“You can’t stay,” I blurted.
“I wasn’t going to,” he said, the hurt evident in his voice.
He drew on his jeans and shirt while I fought against my own brain, the fight-or-flight mechanism that was triggered when anyone showed me the slightest bit of kindness or care. The silence was unbearable.
“I told you,” I said, pathetic and desperate. “It has to be casual.”
“I remember,” he said, his voice low.
More silence. I wished he’d yell at me. Scream. Tell me I was being an asshole and fucking up this perfect night. But River dressed and then stood for a minute, jaw set, his gaze on the ground.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said finally.
He was calm and still, while I was the storm. I wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep tangled up in him, but the cold had found me. I crossed my arms tighter to keep the trembling from showing.
“What am I doing?” I asked. “I’m not doing anything. It’s late—”
“Holden.”
My mouth fell shut.
“It’s okay,” River said, his blue eyes soft. “I get it. Or…I think I do.”
He didn’t, I thought, tears threatening. River had no idea how good he was or how his goodness bashed up against everything broken in me.
I’ll just ruin him too.
“But I don’t regret tonight,” he said. “I hope you don’t either.”
“I don’t,” I said, defiant against the cold. “I never will.”
River nodded in the dimness, then turned to go. He stopped at the bedroom door. “You going to be around later?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Call me if…” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Just call me. Or I’ll call you. That’s allowed, right? It’s Christmas.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. I’ll call you later.”
He hesitated, at war with himself. And then he left. Rain smattered the windows, and I let River go. I sent him out into the storm.
It’s better, whispered a cold voice from Alaska. Better for him.
I practically ran to the kitchen. In the freezer was a new bottle of Ducasse—an early Christmas present to myself.
I poured a shot, then took the bottle and glass to my desk.
I wrote until my hand cramped and drank until the words blurred.
Letting my racing thoughts out onto the paper and then drowning them in vodka.
Some hours later, the world tilted me out of my chair. I lay with the hardwood floor digging into my shoulder blades and stared at the spinning ceiling. The rain came down, and River’s face floated across my bleary vision.
“What a glorious feeling…” I whispered and then sank into the dark.
***
The following day, Christmas Eve, Aunt Mags and Uncle Reg had an early flight to Seattle. They knocked on the door to the guesthouse, waking me from my cozy spot in the middle of the floor where I lay shivering and naked in my underwear.
“Holden, my boy,” Reg called. “We’re setting off now.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right by yourself?” Mags chirped.
“Just peachy,” I called and winced as a vicious headache pounded behind my eyes.
“Can you open up?” Reg asked. “Let us give you a proper goodbye?”
“I’d love to, Uncle Reg, but I’m super busy right now.”
I crawled on hands and knees to my robe that lay on the floor where River had stripped it off me.
Mags sounded as if she were wringing her hands. “O-okay, well. There are gifts for you under the tree, and our number is on the fridge if you need it.”
Shit. In my drunken stupor, I’d forgotten to put out their golf clubs and spa package. I flopped back down onto the floor and pulled the robe over my face.
“If you need anything, just call,” Reg added. “Okay?”
I don’t need anything. I never have and never will.
My mantra that was starting to feel more hollow by the day.
There was some murmured debate—it sounded as if Mags was hesitant to leave me alone. But they did. The guesthouse settled back into quiet with only the soft patter of rain that hadn’t abated all night.
My head thundered and my stomach threatened an upheaval if I wasn’t careful.
I was fully prepared to spend the entire day right where I was, but I’d promised Miller and Ronan a feast for Christmas Day.
I mustered my remaining shred of dignity and pried myself off the floor.
Blearily, I searched around for my phone to summon James, then remembered he was off for the next week.
“Well, doesn’t that suck donkey balls?”
Over the next twenty agonizing minutes, I downloaded Uber, set up my payment details, and called for a ride. After that harrowing ordeal, I had no energy left to get dressed. The car arrived, and I greeted the driver in my pajamas and robe. He gave me a look, then shrugged.
Three minutes of wandering a gourmet grocery store with a basket dangling from my hand, I realized the error of my ways.
“Miller and Ronan don’t want jars of artichoke hearts and artisanal cheese,” I muttered, garnering a look from a woman who took in my robe and messy hair that, under normal circumstances, would be styled and gelled to perfection.
Last night wasn’t normal circumstances.
River’s hand found my hair, gripping me hard and sending delicious shivers of pain down my spine while I sucked his huge, beautiful cock…
I blinked and gave my head a shake. Jesus, I was going to give myself a hard-on right there in aisle 4. I stared at the woman until she scurried away, then strode for the exit, dropping the basket somewhere on the way out.
I called another Uber, which took nine centuries to arrive while I huddled out of the pouring rain. This time, I went to a regular grocery store, grabbed a cart, and filled it with dude food.
The man at the checkout gave me a once-over as I gnawed a piece of beef jerky and flipped through a National Enquirer in my bathrobe.
“How are we doing today, sir?” he asked, scanning six-packs of soda, orange juice, bags of chips, pretzels, packages of Twinkies, sandwiches from the deli, hot dogs, a whole carrot cake, and a cheese platter.
“Did you see this?” I flapped the paper. “Bigfoot kept a lumberjack as his sex slave. Crazy world, am I right?”
“Uh, yeah,” the guy said. “Crazy.”
***
That night in the guesthouse, I listened to the storm gather power.
Twice, the lights flickered, and thunder shook the house as if a giant were stomping around Santa Cruz.
I spent the evening in bed with a bottle of Reg’s hundred-year-old scotch tucked under my arm watching Love Actually and adding my own running commentary.
“Don’t buy that damn necklace, Alan Rickman. You’re going to break Emma’s heart, you villain.”
I checked my phone. Nothing. Not even a text.
I wondered if they were gathered around Mom’s giant dining room table—the one they only used for formal events. Maybe a bunch of family—cousins, my grandparents, aunts and uncles like Reg and Mags, talking and laughing and bragging about who was better at hiding their money in offshore tax havens.
“Leeches,” I muttered, then shot up. “Goddammit, you can’t hit on a married woman like that, ya bastard.”
I swigged the scotch. Checked my phone. Yelled at the TV.
Not the worst Christmas I’d ever spent, all things considered. Not when you factored in Alaska.
I stared at my silent phone. “Fuck ’em.”
***
The following morning, I woke to rain coming down in biblical proportions and a hangover that felt like the wrath of God itself. A hangover in body and soul. My goddamn heart ached for my parents. For Reg and Mags.
For River.
My phone was just where I’d left it on the nightstand, quiet and message-free.
I dressed in jeans, shirt, sweater, coat, and boots, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and bagged up the food to take to the shack. The Uber took eight lifetimes to arrive, and the bastard didn’t even help me load the groceries into the trunk. I was soaked by the time I dove into the back seat.
“The Lighthouse Cliffs?” he said, reading his phone. “You sure you want to be out in this shit?”
A hundred cutting remarks came to mind. I rested my aching head against the window instead.
We arrived at the side street nearest the path that led to the beach, and I climbed out. The rain was relentless, and I, too, questioned the wisdom of such an undertaking. But keeping my promise was literally the only thing I had going for me.