25. She Loves You
She Loves You
Ican’t sleep.
Not with Mom’s ‘I’m sorry’ ringing in my head. Not with Ash telling me he loves me. My head is full of fireflies, lighting up and buzzing around until I can’t sit still anymore.
It may be three a.m., but there’s no way I can just keep lying here. Despite Ash being the most comfortable human heated blanket on the planet.
I walk along the cold wood floors with bare feet, which sends shivers up my spine. No socks in winter was a very bad idea.
Eventually, I reach my destination. Mom’s room.
No one—to my knowledge—has been in here since Mom vanished. Granted, I don’t think I’ve ever actually been in her room at all.
There were no lazy mornings snuggling together as a family in our mom’s bed, no hair braiding on the comforter, no book reading.
That all happened in Hazel’s room, just the two of us.
Every nightmare was Hazel’s to soothe. Every late-night chat was hers. Every lazy morning.
She’s my family, and she’s the person I’m the furthest from right now.
I open the door. It makes a noisy creak of disuse, and I shush the house. “People are sleeping!”
The door quiets, but not without a sassy groan in reply.
The décor is plain, and a thin layer of dust coats everything, but that’s not surprising.
What’s surprising is how many photos of Dad litter the surfaces. Old frames, new frames, some just left loose on the dresser. There are no pictures of him anywhere in the house. I thought maybe she’d burned them all or cried over them so much they were warped and unrecognizable.
But no. She hoarded them in her sacred space and didn’t share them. Let us believe there weren’t any left.
My heart pangs at the betrayal. Maybe she doesn’t deserve to be saved.
Maybe she deserves whatever hell she’s burning in.
I lift the closest frame. It’s of Dad standing on the front porch, a camera of his own hanging lazily at his side. I forgot how big his smile was. I forgot about the little gray wisps at his temples.
I forgot how much Hazel resembles him.
Same auburn hair and facial structure. She has his nose and his brow.
A flare of jealousy rises in my gut. I wish so desperately that I had a piece of him of my own.
I snap the back of the frame, pulling the photo out and pocketing it.
The house creaks at me, nudging me along.
I trail my fingers through the dust as I look at every photo. So many of them are of Dad with one of us—either Mom, me, or Hazel. Only the one I took is of him alone.
The last photo is on Mom’s bedside table. And it has no dust.
Strange.
But there’s something there. A folded-up piece of paper right underneath the photo. I pull it gently, nerves skittering up my arm. I don’t know why but this feels . . . It feels important.
I open it up and see Mom’s handwriting. Her doctor-level chicken scratch that I always wanted to tease her for, but she couldn’t be bothered to even look at me most days.
She wasn’t like Grandma or Hazel, she didn’t understand that teasing is my way of showing love.
Hazel and Laura,
I’m so sorry. If you’re reading this, it’s because I banished both myself and Draven to Hell and I’m no longer here with you.
You’re probably very confused, and that’s understandable.
I haven’t been much of a mother to either of you, and I’ve left you with more questions than answers.
Losing your father broke me in ways I never thought possible. I’ve never been able to fix it. Fix me.
My sacrifice will save Noah and will stop Hazel from feeling the brokenness that ruined everything I hold dear. I haven’t done much right, but I know that I can’t have one of you feeling this way.
And let’s be honest. I may have technically been alive all this time, but I stopped living a long time ago. The fact that I’ve been forced to continue on all this time is going to mean something now, and that gives me peace.
I’m sorry.
Mom
My sniffles cut through the silence.
I don’t know if I’ll ever truly forgive her, but this? Knowing she had planned to do this to protect Hazel? Some of the wall I’ve constructed around my mother cracks.
Maybe she changed a little before she died. Maybe the person she is now can change.
I pocket the letter alongside the photo of Dad. It’s addressed to both Hazel and me but I don’t know if I’m ready to share it. I don’t know if she’s ready to see it.
She hates Mom so much, and a lot of that is justified. And the rift between her and me is so deep.
I just don’t know what I want to do yet.
Right next to the letter is a small box, no bigger than the palm of my hand. It’s an old thing, potentially passed down from Grandma. Or at the very least, found at an antique store.
The lid squeaks a little—just like the door—as I lift it. Sitting in the middle, on a plush bed of red velvet, is a compact. Small, with gold detailing in the shape of water droplets.
It looks custom made, something connected to her element and herself. It’s beautiful.
It’s something I would love to have learned how to make.
I open the latch and look back at my own face. Of course it’s a mirror, but that’s not what stops me. It’s how different I look.
Before Hazel left, I could point out all the places that were fake. All the many points of my face and body that I had spent hours crafting to attract the type of attention I wanted. Needed. The meticulous makeup, the fashionable outfits, the come-hither smirk and doe eyes.
This person? Despite how fucked up I still am, this person looks so much more authentically me. My hair is a sexed-up mess, my eyes are bright and alive—if not a little tear-filled—and my skin is clear and glowing.
This person is more Laura Hollis than I’ve ever felt.
I pocket the compact with the letter and photograph, turning my back on the room.
I wake before Ash, despite being up for most of the night, and it’s easy to pretend I don’t need to deal with everything that happened in Mom’s room yet.
It’s also easy to prioritize caffeine over everything else when you’re as drained as I am. The warm scent of French press leads me to the kitchen. Not my first choice, but irresistible in this moment.
Noah is there, preparing two cups, and he looks up at my approach.
We’re the only people awake in the house, and by the look on his face I am the absolute last person he wants to see.
“Hey,” he says cautiously, as if I might snap at him.
“I’m sorry for the other night,” I reply. May as well rip the Band-Aid off, and I am sorry. I’m just not ready to say it to Hazel yet.
He exhales a large breath, shoulders lowering in relief. I’m not surprised he expected a fight. He hasn’t really seen the best of me.
He passes me with steaming mugs in hand as I head toward the cupboard.
“She loves you a lot, you know.” Noah’s words stop me dead.
“Hazel loves you so much. She just . . . The way your mom raised the both of you sounds like absolute shit. And she struggles with how to be a sister to you after . . . you know.” His hand waves a little in what I’m assuming is reference to his kidnapping and Mom.
I nod, unable to do more in reply. With a smile, he’s back on his way upstairs.
Our dynamic was thrown on its head when she left, and knowing Mom is alive? RIP our sanity.
I should probably bring Ash some coffee. If I had to guess, he’s either a massive sugar junkie or takes it completely black.
No in between.
Noah made some peppermint coffee thing that smells like Christmas and I’m practically salivating over it by the time I make it back to my room.
“That smells fucking delicious,” Ash growls from underneath a mountain of pillows he’s managed to burrow under in my absence. His head pops up. “And I don’t just mean the coffee.”
“How are you managing to be charming when you’re barely awake? Please don’t tell me you’re a morning person.”
Morning people are a specific breed of weird.
He chuckles, diving back into his soft fortress. “M’not usually. But I can’t help it when you’re around.”
“Ugh, shut up.”
Despite my words I crawl back into bed with him, leaning against the cream fabric headboard.
It’s entirely domestic, really. Waking up slowly together with a cup of coffee in a warm bed.
“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?” Ash asks, sitting up with me and grabbing the extra cup.
“Not really. But I’m assuming you’re probably worried?”
He huffs a laugh with no humor. “I’m not a huge fan of the fact that you’ve been communicating with Hell, no. And I’d like to know what the plan is.”
“That makes two of us,” I mutter, taking a sip. It’s Christmas in a cup. Peppermint and chocolate and coffee all swirled together like the best candy cane.
“Just talk to me, Goldilocks.” He places his hand on my thigh over the covers. “And we’ll figure it out.”
I close my eyes, leaning my head back. How do I even begin to process all that’s happened, and all that’s now changed?
I attempted to last night and look where that got me. Sobbing like an idiot until Ash fell asleep and then roaming the house like some sort of dramatic ghost.
Listen, crying is great. Super awesome. Release those emotions, burn those calories. But not like that. Not like what I did.
That was beyond.
“I don’t really have much of a choice, do I? I have to learn how to communicate fully with Mom so I can find out where she is, and we can figure out how to go get her. As far as a plan? I don’t know enough about all this magic junk to have any idea.”
He scratches at his beard. “I can’t say I have a lot of experience with this either. And I haven’t heard anything about it. I could ask my dad, but I’d be surprised if he knows much more than I do.”
“I have a feeling it’s a unique situation.”
And I also have a feeling unique doesn’t begin to cover it.