Chapter 21
Holland
When I became a victim of the human-sized dog bed internet scam last month, I experienced a brief moment of deepest shame and humiliation.
Realizing I’d been scammed was embarrassing enough, but it was the actual act of reporting it to Beau Palmer at the police station that made me feel like crawling under a rock. Every detail I gave him was excruciating; I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. I wanted to dive into the top of a volcano and never come out, as long as it meant I wouldn’t have to show my face again.
I didn’t expect to feel a similar level of embarrassment so soon afterward. But as I read the text message Phoenix sent me earlier—and then reread it, and reread it again just to make sure I’m not imagining things—an unpleasant heat creeps up my neck, and a little flame of humiliation starts to burn in my chest, growing larger and larger until it’s become an all-consuming bonfire.
I learned earlier this morning that Mavis’s condition is no longer believed to be terminal, the message says. She may in fact live much longer than initially expected. Since these are not the expectations that were in place when you agreed to marry me, I am willing to dissolve our arrangement. If that’s the course you choose, I will still provide Maggie’s tuition as well as any health care fees you need. Please consider the options and let me know of your decision by EOD today.
I sit on the edge of my comfortable, fake-wife bed for probably five full minutes, just staring at my phone, reading the message over and over and over. Then I get up and rush to the bathroom, because I really have to pee—but when I return to my room, I pick the phone back up and read the message once more.
Is he…breaking up with me?
That’s what it sounds like. Mavis isn’t dying after all, which means we could be married indefinitely, and he doesn’t want that.
The roaring fire of humiliation somehow grows higher until I can feel the flames licking at the back of my throat, hot and miserable.
Is this because I kissed him? Did he hate it that much?
Would it kill him to talk to me about this in person? Who does this kind of thing over text? And why do I feel hurt? I have no right to feel anything but relief—not after how we treat each other; not with our history.
But there’s no relief to be found, not even when I scrape the deepest corners of my mind until my nails tear and my fingers bleed.
My thoughts whirl, chaos of the highest degree, half-formed ideas and questions and cobwebs of confusion that trap all the little kernels of logic trying to take root. I shake my head and stand up, giving my cheeks a few firm pats.
I can’t just sit here stewing. It will only make things worse.
So I grab my phone, take a deep breath, and then force myself out of my room. I fortify my defenses as I hurry down the hall, every step I take louder and stompier. I peek around as I pass the living room and kitchen area, but he’s not there, and I don’t expect him to be.
If he’s at home right now, I’ll find him in his study.
When I turn the corner of the hall and see light coming from under his study door, I know I’m right.
You are not a child, I remind myself, so don’t shout or throw a fit.
I have big feelings. I always have. Usually that means my anger and hurt and frustration are bigger than normal, too.
I don’t knock on the door, because I’m too impatient, but I do resist the urge to throw it open. I just let myself in (with admittedly more energy than is helpful) and hold the phone up, reigning in the urge to yell.
“What is this supposed to mean?” I say instead, crossing the office in several strides until I’m right in front of his desk. My voice is hard, but it is normal in volume, which I think is to be commended.
Except I swear, Phoenix could not look more horrified to see me if he tried. His eyes widen, his brows fly up—but the expression lasts for no more than half a second, replaced almost immediately by a blank, neutral mask.
Something happens then, little tendrils of memory niggling at the back of my mind, and for a second, they elude me—I chase them, my brows furrowing as I study his face, until?—
Last night.
The memories flood in—the nightmare. Phoenix. The dream that wasn’t a dream; the things I said. And a question from him, murmured absently as I was drifting off to sleep against his bare chest: Do you think I could ever make you happy?
The words ring in my ears as I stare at him, his unflinching gaze, his lips pressed into a tight line.
Sleep well, Holl. He said that, too .
“You—” I begin, my mouth moving without permission. “You called me Holl . You asked if you could ever make me?—”
But I break off as his expression changes, and I watch, fascinated; his eyes dart away, his throat bobs as he swallows, and his cheeks begin to flush red.
Understanding hits me then, not gradually but all at once. Because whatever else can be said, I know Phoenix Park. I know him well. I know the parts of him I try to ignore and the parts of him I choose to focus on.
He didn’t send that message this morning because I kissed him. He sent that message because I told him last night that looking at him hurts. And now that Mavis is supposedly feeling better, he doesn’t want me to have to be his wife with no end in sight.
I don’t have proof; I don’t have confirmation.
But I know I’m right.
Just like I know that he never meant for me to hear what he said.
My embarrassment, my humiliation—they fade as something else unfurls in my chest, something hesitant but curious.
“Mrs. Park,” Wyatt says, and I startle. I hadn’t even realized he was there. But he steps up from behind Phoenix now and speaks again. “Please welcome our guests,” he says, gesturing to something behind me. “They dropped by to visit.”
I whirl around and find, to my dismay, that there are two women here already: Mavis Butterfield and a woman who can only be Phoenix’s mother. She doesn’t have his dark hair or dark eyes, but considering the distaste on her face as she looks at me and the faint resemblance to Mavis, I don’t see who else she could be. Wyatt’s subtext is clear, too; they came uninvited and without warning .
Perfect. Just…perfect. I am fresh out of bed, my hair a mess, my body clad in pink pajamas—not a pearl in sight, and not my wedding ring, either. It’s still on top of my dresser, where it usually lives.
“Hi,” I say faintly, giving a stupid little wave. I let my arm drop quickly and then turn to face Phoenix again.
And I don’t know what I’m feeling; there’s too much going on. I’m embarrassed to look like this in front of these women, and I have the strange desire to stand in front of Phoenix so he’ll be shielded from their sight. Even more confusing is what he’s feeling; I’m going to have to unpack all that.
What I do know is that this is my chance—my chance to get away. Away from him, away from his family, away from the feelings that keep cropping up.
This is your chance, I tell myself. This is it. Run.
So…why am I hesitating?
I can’t stop myself from inspecting him, taking him in, especially his face; he’s trying not to let anything show, but there’s a desperate question in his eyes, one he doesn’t want me to see.
A question—and a truth.
He wants me to stay. He wants me to stay, but he’ll never ask. Because he knows how hard this arrangement is for me.
A strange feeling filters into my chest—a grim sort of relief. And even though my brain is telling me to run, run, run, my heart makes a unilateral decision: No matter what he and I are working through, I will not abandon him to these people.
I’ll stay with him, and we’ll figure out the rest later. That’s how it’s going to have to be.
But if I’m going to do this, I need to commit—really commit. Not fight and whine and complain and participate half-heartedly. And what I said last night was true: sometimes looking at him hurts.
How can I move past that?
I don’t know, but it’s not something I’m going to figure out right this second. So I straighten up and tell myself that confidence is 90 percent of how people perceive you. Then I look over my shoulder at the Butterfield women.
“I’m so sorry I was unprepared,” I say, gesturing to my hair and my clothes as I make my way around the desk to where Phoenix sits. “If I’d been informed of your visit, I would have taken the time to make myself more presentable.”
A suspicious-sounding snort comes from Wyatt—I think it’s a laugh, though I don’t know what’s so funny—and Phoenix clears his throat loudly, his eyes on me as his lips twitch. When I reach him and hold my hand out, however, the wariness enters his eyes again.
I wiggle my hand at him, and he takes it, standing slowly when I give a tug.
His face is back to its neutral mask as he looks down at me, but I can tell his jaw is clenched. I don’t let myself hesitate; I close the space between us and wrap my arms around his neck in what might be the first real embrace we’ve ever shared.
And as his arms encircle my waist, his body curving around mine, something deep inside of me sighs in relief.
This is how it’s supposed to be , that little part of me urges. This is what Phoenix Park is supposed to feel like.
I tighten my arms, going up on my tiptoes as I breathe him in, pressing my face into his neck, and he pulls me closer, his arms banding further around me. He’s warm, and solid, and his grip is strong .
Despite all his strength, he still needs someone on his side.
I will be that person.
“I’m not leaving you,” I say in his ear, barely a whisper.
“What?” he murmurs.
I tighten my arms, because I can hear his disbelief, his hope. “I’m not leaving you,” I repeat, more firmly now.
For a second, he doesn’t react to my words; but then his hold on me changes, going from tight to desperate—grasping and bone-cracking. And even though it’s painful, it’s also strange and warm and…nice.
It’s nice , being held like this. What does that mean? Do I like him?
Someone clears their throat; not Wyatt but one of the women. I release him more reluctantly than I expected, letting my hands trail down his arms as I step back.
And at the stunned look on his face, the heartbreaking hope in his eyes, a smile tugs at my lips; it pulls and pulls until finally I stop fighting it. I smile at him, really smile—and he smiles back.
My stomach flips, and the warmth inside glows a little bit brighter.
I’m not one to judge, but Phoenix’s mom is a piece of work.
It’s immediately clear that she doesn’t like me, based on the twitch of her lips into a subtle sneer and the side eye she keeps employing. Even after I go change out of my pajamas into a perfectly respectable set of cropped black pants and a boat-neck top, her gaze follows me like she’s a lion and I’m a gazelle .
So. That’s pleasant.
Phoenix just takes it in stride; he’s obviously a master at dealing with these women, because not once does he lose his temper, not even when his mom keeps calling me Holland Blakely instead of Holland Park. He corrects her coolly and moves on.
I just try to remember what he told me before we visited Mavis in her absurdly big hospital suite: Don’t try to be friendly. Stand up straight, don’t fidget.
I can be an ice queen. So that’s exactly what I do; when he sits back in his desk chair after our embrace, I stand by his side and smile with serene detachment while he and the Butterfield women play verbal volleyball.
Never thought I would be playing the part of a silent wife, seen and not heard, but that’s how I feel safest in this situation—I don’t particularly want to deal with the Butterfield women. He told me they were wolves; I trust him to know best how to handle them.
When his mother turns a toothy smile on me and asks how I met her son, though, I don’t bother holding my tongue. I can answer this one safely, and maybe even in a way that will support our story.
“Phoenix was best friends with my brother in college,” I tell her. “We’ve known each other for years.”
His mother’s heavily lined eyes pop wide. “Have you two been dating for that long?”
“Oh, no,” I say with an airy laugh. “We haven’t been dating the whole time we’ve known each other. We were on and off for a long time.” The lie has my voice going high-pitched; I clear my throat and go on. “But we had our very first kiss…” I trail off, thinking, and in the corner of my eye I see Phoenix look over at me so fast he’ll have a crick in his ne ck. “I guess it would have been eight or nine years ago,” I say.
I finally give in and look at him; his eyes are wide, and I can clearly hear the thought he’s projecting: I can’t believe you went there.
Oh, yeah, I think with a little smirk. I went there.
The kiss we have literally not talked about in years—not once since the crash. We haven’t acknowledged it. It seems very on-brand for us that we’re bringing it up now, in front of his mother and grandmother.
“And,” I announce, because I’m not done yet, “he called me by another girl’s name afterward.”
His mother gasps, looking scandalized, and her hand flies to her chest. “That’s quite enough,” she says to me. “He would never do something so?—”
“I assure you, I did,” Phoenix breaks in. He’s rubbing his temples, and he shoots me a look.
Silence falls for one awkward second; Mavis looks back and forth between Phoenix and me with sharp, all-seeing eyes, but Phoenix’s mother doesn’t bother. She rallies immediately.
“Well,” she says with a sniff. “Perhaps you just weren’t very memorable, dear.”
“My wife,” Phoenix says, “has always been memorable.”
My wife. The words ring in my ears, play in my mind, again and again and again. He’s said them before, so why do I have goosebumps?
His mother is not so afflicted; she just gives a little twitch of her shoulders, and then she busies herself with the shiny bangle bracelet she’s wearing.
“Tell me,” Mavis says, using her cane to thump against the floor, and my eyes jump to her. “How do the two of you get along? Do you argue?” She directs her question at Phoenix, but she raises her eyebrows at me, too.
“Of course we do,” Phoenix answers easily. “All couples argue sometimes.”
“Bertrand and I never did,” Mavis says.
I guess Bertrand was Phoenix’s grandpa?
“I can only assume that’s because he was scared of you,” Phoenix says with a little dip of his head.
Mavis’s thin lips curl into a smile, not entirely pleasant. “That he was,” she says. “He knew his place.” But as her gaze comes to land on me, her smile vanishes, and her eyes narrow. “Do you know yours?” she says to me.
Do I know my place? Is she serious?
She is; I can see it plainly. She’s serious.
“I know my place,” I say, keeping my voice light and professional even as anger snaps inside.
My place is wherever I dang well want it to be. I belong wherever I choose to belong.
“Ooh-ho-ho,” Mavis says as her grin returns—one of delight and amusement. “Does that get your goat, girlie? Does that make you want to rage at the injustice?” She gasps theatrically. “How dare I, an old woman, remind you that things are done a certain way at Butterfield?” Her grin disappears like a switch being flipped, and her voice is cold as she goes on. “How dare I tell you there are behavioral expectations I expect you to uphold? Is that it? Is that what’s going through your mind—lovely, liberated Holland Blakely?”
“Holland Park ,” Phoenix says through gritted teeth, and when I pull my horrified gaze away from Mavis and look over at my husband, I’m not surprised to see his hands clenched into fists in his lap.
Because he was right. He was absolutely right. His grandmother is insane. She is insane and bizarre and terrifying .
She looks back and forth between us for a second, while Phoenix’s mom continues to stare sulkily at her hands in her lap. Mavis’s eyes are shrewd and mocking, and I don’t know what they’re searching for. When she finally throws her head back and cackles loudly, I feel my lifespan shortening by at least three years.
“Marshana will be taking me home now,” Mavis says.
Phoenix’s mother blinks at Mavis. “Now?” she says.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Your head isn’t just for decoration, Marshana. Use your ears.”
It’s both funny and sad, the way Phoenix’s mom hurries to do Mavis’s bidding—deference and proverbial bowing and scraping are involved, and it’s hard to watch. Wyatt and I wait as Phoenix leads them out of the study; I hold my breath until I hear the front door open and close. Only then do I relax.
“Finally,” I say, exhaling loudly as I flop down in one of the leather chairs. “That was torture. My heart is still beating too fast.” I look over at Phoenix just as he enters the study again. “Do they do that a lot? Just show up, uninvited?”
He hums, rounding the desk and sitting back in his seat. “Not much, but it has happened before, and it will probably happen again,” he says, running one hand through his hair. “Mavis has no respect for boundaries or niceties, and my mother will just follow along.”
“It’s too early for that kind of nonsense,” I say. I let myself slump further in the chair. Then I add, “I shouldn’t have doubted you. She’s nuts.”
“She is,” he says with an affirmative nod. “Highly unpredictable, often cruel, razor-sharp business instincts.”
“I feel like I need to call Nana Lu and talk to her to cleanse my mental palate.”
Phoenix doesn’t respond, and for a moment, silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. When he finally sighs, I’m almost relieved.
“I guess we should talk about last night,” he says, and even though his face remains neutral, I can hear the reluctance in his voice.
I straighten up, my pulse skipping.
Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. It’s fine. You can talk about this. So I open my mouth and force out the words. “I guess so,” I say.
Phoenix’s expression shifts as he looks at me, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he says after a few seconds of staring at me. “I assume that’s what your little display meant earlier—that you want to remain married?”
My little display —I guess that’s how it would look to him. I don’t know how much of it was for show and how much of it was real.
But that’s not what he’s asking.
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “We should stay married. For now, at least.”
He sighs again, still looking unconvinced. “You said last night that looking at me hurts. You said that every time you look at me?—”
“I know what I said,” I cut him off. I swallow and raise one eyebrow at him. “ You asked if you could ever make me happy. Are we going to talk about that too?”
He leans abruptly forward in his chair, his eyes flashing. “If you think you can handle it, sure.”
And even though my pulse is pounding in my ears, a deafening whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, I scoff at him. “Of course I can handle?—”
But he interrupts me, standing up so suddenly that I startle in my chair .
“Be very, very sure before you finish that sentence, Amsterdam,” he breathes, his gaze still full of electricity. He rounds his desk in three long strides, and several more bring him to where I’m seated. “Let go of your pride for once and tell the truth,” he says as he looks down at me.
He’s impossibly tall from this angle, and even though he’s standing and I’m sitting, I can still smell leather and mahogany.
The intoxicating scent grows even stronger when he crouches down in front of my chair.
I’m just opening my mouth to speak—I have no idea what I’m going to say—when I hear the faint sound of a throat clearing.
Phoenix and I whip our heads toward the sound at the same time, only to see a very stressed-looking Wyatt—pressed up against the wall as though he’s attempting to make himself smaller—and clearly in the process of trying to inch past us unnoticed.
“Please let me leave the room before you continue,” he says, looking supremely uncomfortable.
I blink at him, surprised; I forgot he was here. He’s so quiet.
“Of course,” I say, my voice faint. “Sorry, of course. But you know—you don’t have to sneak around,” I add with a little frown. “Speak up if you’re uncomfortable. We’re not going to get mad at you.”
“It felt like the kind of conversation that should be allowed to play out,” he says, ducking his head apologetically. “But thank you. I’ll take my leave.”
And I’ve never seen him walk as quickly as he does leaving this study. He scurries past both of us, his folder tucked under one arm, and slips out the door in a flash .
I stare at the office door as it closes behind him, and then I look at Phoenix, just as he’s looking back at me.
I don’t know who cracks first, but it happens—first we’re smiling, and then we’re laughing, the electric spell between us lifted and replaced by something light and free. Phoenix’s laugh is deep and pleasant and rare , so rare; you’re more likely to get a snort and a grin. I let myself bask in the sound, just for a moment, taking in the genuine smile spread over his face and the bright shine in his eyes.
Somewhere inside, that warmth stirs—warmth and a little jolt of something I can’t identify. So I’m glad for Wyatt’s interruption, because honestly, I don’t know if I can handle a conversation about what Phoenix said last night.
I change the subject before he can return to his previous question, letting my laughter die. “I’ll stay married to you,” I say, still smiling. “But…” Then I shake my head. “I don’t know. I think I should maybe get a therapist or something.”
Phoenix’s smile vanishes, and he blinks at me. “Are you serious?” he says.
“Why?” I say. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?” I don’t know what else to do about the issues I’m having.
“No,” he says quickly, his eyes widening. “No, I think you should do it. Absolutely. Our insurance covers mental health care.”
“It might be good for you too,” I say. I lean forward, closer to him. “To see someone.”
“I do,” he admits, surprising me completely. “Once a month now, but I went every week for years.”
Huh. I’m…impressed.
“I’m not going to lie,” I say. “My opinion of you just went up. Just a little tiny bit.”
“Yeah?” he says, his lips twitching. “A man in therapy really does it for you, huh? ”
I grin. “I guess so.”
My grin vanishes two seconds later, though, when I realize what’s happening. I shrink back in my chair, slapping my hand over my mouth.
Flirting. We’re flirting.
I stare at Phoenix, my eyes wide, my hand still over my mouth, but he doesn’t even question it. He just flashes a brief smile—amused, like he knows what I’m thinking—and then stands up.
“Don’t you have work today?” he says.
I check the time, squawk, and then dash out of the study.
One week later, I attend my first therapy session. The woman—Dr. Samson—is maybe in her sixties, with a soothing voice and bright green eyes. I feel weird walking in and dumping all my trauma on her, but that’s why I’m here, so after I fill out the questionnaire she gives me, I get down to the meat and potatoes.
“I’m here because my brother died,” I tell her when she asks what prompted me to seek help. “In a car crash. We went over the side of a bridge.” I swallow past the knot in my throat and then lay bare my deepest shame to this complete stranger: “I was the one driving.”