CHAPTER 16
HOLLY
My mind drifts on the edge of sleep. The last thing I remember is snuggling in my quilts on the couch. Now, I’m swaying gently with the sensation of strong arms cradling me. For a moment, I forget I’m twenty-one, thinking Marcus is carrying me to bed like he often did at Grams’s. But the smell of my carrier is different. Marcus had a warm, deep scent, like baking bread. This person smells cool and fresh, like pine trees in new snow.
My eyelids crack just enough to make out a slim nose with glasses perched on the end and slightly curled hair falling over a concentrating brow.
Ben sets me down on my bed, pulls the sheet and quilts over me, and presses a firm kiss on my forehead.
I sigh and clutch the covers close as I ease into the mattress. Safe in my blanket cocoon, I let my eyes close, and sleep reclaims me.
When I wake up again, a dim digital clock at my bedside informs me that it’s just after three a.m. Ben is gone, and everything is quiet.
The city never gets this hushed. Or this dark. No streetlamps or neon store signs shine in through the dense curtains. I’m shrouded completely in blackness and silence. But this isn’t muffling, like when I cover my head with a blanket. This is expansive and daunting.
The quaint cabin might have been pleasant when we first arrived, but now, it sets my nerves on edge. I’m back in horror-movie mode. Especially because I have to pee like a racehorse, which means leaving the wonderful, warm safety of my bed.
I consider briefly the strength of my bladder but admit that, if I don’t want to wet the bed when I fall back asleep, a trek to the bathroom is a must.
Pulling back the covers, I’m relieved to find I still have on my large sweater, leggings, and wool socks. A chill manages to travel through them, but at least I’m not putting my bare feet on the cabin’s frigid hardwood floor. Only the muted glow of the alarm clock gives me any light. If I knew where my phone was, then I would use the flashlight on it, but apparently, when Ben carried me to bed, he didn’t bring my phone along with him.
My bedroom door creaks as I turn the knob and pull it open. Out in the main room, I again have to navigate by the faint glow of a clock dimly shining from the kitchen stove. Ben’s door is cracked open, so I make sure to walk on my toes, not wanting to wake him.
As I creep through the room, I get that sudden, panicked dread that comes with an overactive imagination. It’s the same discomfort I experience when I go into Pops’s dusty, unused basement or when I have to walk home after work, alone, late at night. Every shadowed spot is hiding a potential threat. Maybe a hand will shoot out from underneath the couch to grab my ankle. Or a looming figure is lurking just behind the door, ready to drag me to hell.
There’s no visible danger, but my mind plays the what-if game until my heart picks up speed, and the beginning trickles of adrenaline enter my veins.
Before I can cause a self-induced panic attack, I’m able to maneuver around the few furnishings and reach the bathroom.
Problem is, I can’t find the light switch. The walls are bare as my fingers scramble and search, coming up with nothing. Finally, I give up and resort to using my toes to feel my way around the confined space, eventually coming in contact with porcelain.
As I sit on the chilly toilet seat, I try to rationalize away my fears.
1. Ben’s grandfather lived out here with no problems for years.
2. Our trip was so last-minute; no ax murderer would even know we were out here.
3. Ghosts aren’t real.
4. Probably.
5. Ghosts probably aren’t real.
This isn’t helping.
Now, I’m stuck on ghosts and how likely one might exist in this cabin.
Ben’s grandfather killed himself.
Did he do it in this house? In the room I’m sleeping in?
Suddenly, the haven of my bed doesn’t feel so safe anymore.
Great. Toilet time was supposed to be calm down time, not find new ways to freak myself out time.
I flush and locate the sink to turn on a rush of cold water. That way, I can wash my hands and splash my face with it in an effort to shock the ridiculous nightmares out of my head. After drying off, I take a deep breath and place my unsteady fingers on the door handle.
Time to brave the unknown.
The sound of the toilet flushing wakes me up. A quick glance at the clock reassures me that Holly’s probably just taking a nighttime bathroom break, and I haven’t overslept. Unfortunately, I’m now fully awake, thinking about Holly sleeping one room away.
After stargazing, we hustled back inside and decided to watch one of Grandpa’s old VHS tapes. Holly picked Rush Hour 2, and we chuckled our way through most of it, sitting side by side on the couch. At one point, her head rested on my shoulder, and I realized I was the only one watching the buddy-cop comedy. Carrying her to bed was easy; she’s not that heavy of a person. What was hard was not crawling in beside her, holding her close to my chest, and falling asleep, pressed against her warm, soft body.
Instead, I covered her up and went to my own bed, which seemed like a chilly block of cement in comparison. Finally, after an unhealthy amount of tossing and turning, my mind relaxed enough to allow for a light, dreamless sleep that ended the moment it registered Holly up and moving around.
The old floorboards let out shallow creaks with each slow step she makes. Above that noise, I hear her voice. The words aren’t clear, but she’s definitely speaking.
Worried she might be sleepwalking, I decide to check on her. The decision has nothing to do with my constant craving for her presence. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I slide from underneath my covers and grab my glasses off the nightstand.
Darkness coats the main room, and only from the dim glow of the oven’s clock can I make out the vague shape of Holly tiptoeing across the room. In the silence of the night, I can hear her whispered words. Not that they make any sense.
“I don’t want to bother you. I’m just minding my own business. You have a very nice house. Thank you so much for letting us stay in it.”
Who is she talking to?
“Holly?”
Her shriek rips through the silence. A pillow from the couch comes flying at my head, which I dodge on instinct.
Before something heavier gets hurled at me, I crouch on the floor and call out to her, “Holly! It’s me! It’s Ben!” I scramble forward on my knees until I reach the closest lamp.
Light floods the room, causing my eyes to water and squint.
When I can see straight, I realize she’s also blinking in the sudden brightness while holding a decorative wooden fish like a pitcher winding up.
That would’ve hurt a hell of a lot more than a pillow.
“Ben?”
She doesn’t lower the fish right away, so I slowly stand up, hands splayed in surrender.
“Yeah. It’s me. You okay?”
Her chest rises and falls on quick, short gasps. “You scared me!”
“Sorry. Heard you talking. Didn’t know if you were sleepwalking or something.” I step around the couch and cautiously approach her because she still resembles a deer in preflight mode. “Wanna put the fish down?”
Her head whips to the side, and she gapes at the knickknack like she’s just realized it’s in her hand. She quickly places it back on the table. “Oh gosh. Ben, I’m sorry. I almost bashed your head in!” She wipes her hands on her leggings and then wraps her arms around her middle.
“Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.” That earns me a snort even though she won’t look at me. I place my hands on Holly’s upper arms and find she’s shivering. “Are you okay?”
“Oh. Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just …”
I wait her out.
“I freaked myself out a bit. I’m not used to sleeping somewhere so dark and quiet.” She shrugs.
“Who were you talking to?”
“What?” She avoids my eyes.
“Before screaming like a banshee, you were whispering. Like you were talking to someone.” My hands slide up and down her arms, as if to warm her.
She sighs and rubs her forehead. Briefly, she meets my eyes and then seems to give up and lets her gaze drop to the floor again. Her answer clocks in at just above a murmur. “Your grandfather.”
“My grandfather?” I’m so surprised that I let my arms fall and step back. “What does that even mean?”
Holly cringes and wraps her arms tighter around herself. “Sorry! I’m sorry. It’s just that my imagination was going haywire in the darkness. I couldn’t stop thinking about how there might be an ax murderer outside the house. Then, I reasoned that an ax murderer wouldn’t bother stopping by here because you’re never here, and how would an ax murderer know to show up this weekend?” The words tumble out so rapidly; I’m worried she’ll pass out from lack of oxygen. “So, that ruled them out. But then what about ghosts? This is just the type of dark, spooky situation where a ghost would pop out at someone in a horror movie. And, if a ghost were here, then it would probably be someone who died here. So, I just thought that maybe I should make a preemptive strike of kindness. Maybe your grandfather’s ghost wouldn’t jump out at me if I said nice things and thanked him and whatnot.” Halfway through her insane explanation, Holly started pacing, and by the end, she’s panting for breath.
I try to catch up with the mad train ride of her thought process. “You believe in ghosts?”
“No.” She hesitates and then shrugs. “Maybe.” A huge gust of a sigh leaves her, and finally, she holds my gaze. “I’m not saying I definitely do. But I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.”
I think back on the things she was saying when I came out of the bedroom—complimenting the house, being thankful that we could stay here.
In a weird way, it’s kind of sweet. Then, I imagine, if Grandpa Ben were actually a ghost, he’d probably grumble that scaring people was a waste of his time.
The thought has me grinning. Holly frowns at me, which only gets me laughing. She tries to glare, but a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“So glad I’m amusing you.” Speaking is what breaks her stony expression, and a chuckle escapes.
I calm down, shaking my head at her. “I can’t believe you were talking to my grandpa’s ghost.”
Her smile fades. “It was insensitive. I’m really sorry, Ben.”
Stepping forward, I wrap my arms around her, not wanting her to beat herself up. “No. I’m sorry. I should’ve realized that sleeping here might be uncomfortable for you. New place. Out of the city. I get it. First few times I visited my grandpa, he put a night-light in my room.” I don’t mention that I was nine at the time. Don’t want to wound her pride.
Holly relaxes against me and winds her arms around my waist. This result right here makes almost getting hit in the head with a wooden fish worth it.
“I’m such a ninny.”
I rub reassuring circles on her back. “A ninny who’s able to defend herself. So, there’s that.”
She gives my side a pinch, but I just chuckle again.
“You okay now? Think you can sleep?” I hate myself for the reasonable suggestion of her going back to bed. Getting to hold her, having her feel safer in my arms, eases a tension in my gut I didn’t know was there.
To my relief, Holly shakes her head against my chest. I tilt my chin down, so I can see her face. The angle is too steep for my glasses, and they slide down my nose, almost falling off my face. Before I can reach to correct them, Holly lifts a hand and gently pushes them back into place while giving me a rueful smile.
“I’m too wound up to sleep. Could we put another movie on?”
She steps out of my hold, and the chilly cabin air stings in her place. I stoked the fire before carrying Holly to bed, so now, the room is a good ten degrees colder than earlier.
“Or … I’m sorry. You don’t have to stay up with me. You should sleep. I’ll keep the volume low.” She rubs her arms for warmth.
“No way. I’m up now, too. What are we watching?”
She grins and then chews on her lip. She casts her eyes down at her socked feet. “You pick since I’m the reason we’re up past three in the morning in the first place. Be right back.” With shuffling movements, she retreats to her bedroom.
While she’s gone, I scan the movie selection even though I pretty much have it memorized. My grandfather loved cop and heist movies. But he also had a softer side. I slide a dusty VHS off the shelf and pop out the previous one in the player.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” Holly’s back, wrapped in the blanket from her bed, settling on the couch. She looks adorable, engulfed in the large quilt, her short brown hair mussed, an embarrassed flush lingering on her cheeks.
“You’ll see. I figured we’d take a break from the action movies.”
Holly pretends to pout, sticking out her bottom lip.
I want to bite it.
Then, surprising me in the most enticing way, she opens her arms, unwrapping the blanket from herself. “Get in here before we both freeze.”
With an invite like that, I don’t hesitate. Taking a chance, I wrap my arms around her waist and lean back on the armrest, pulling her with me. She squeaks in surprise but doesn’t resist.
Once I’m reclined on the couch, Holly rests mostly on top of me, the quilt fully covering us both. I keep my arms loose for her to escape if she wants to. After a second of stiffness, she relaxes, snuggling in closer and laying her head on my chest.
This is a special brand of delicious torture. Every soft curve of her body is pressed against me. My arms rest high on her back, but my hands could easily slide lower to cup her round, perky ass. I could clutch her tighter to me, roll over, and have my body bear down on hers as I devoured her pouty mouth.
But I don’t do those things. I’ll only push the boundaries so far until she gives me permission to go the distance I want to travel. For now, lying here together is enough.
“When Harry Met Sally. Good choice,” Holly murmurs while pulling the covers tighter around us.
“Don’t know why you doubt me. I thought we’d already established that I could do no wrong.”
In response, she pinches my side, but it’s more like a ticklish caress than anything.
I take it as a good sign that she can be comfortable here, lying with me like this. That she feels safe now.
Each day, I’m more confident about Jasper’s claim; Holly likes me, but she needs to trust me before I can ever hope to be with her.