Chapter 7
The couch is empty.
I'm standing in the kitchen with a glass of water I don't actually want, staring at the couch—still empty. Blanket folded too neat, corners sharp, pillow stacked on top. He's been gone long enough to make the bed properly. Which means he's been gone a while.
I check the window. His truck's missing. Just gone, empty parking spot under the streetlight.
The ceiling fan's been clicking for hours—stay, leave, stay, leave—or maybe I'm losing it, inventing patterns where there aren't any because I can't sleep and my brain's making up words in ceiling fan rotations which seems like the kind of thing that happens when you lie awake for two hours thinking about someone twenty feet away except now he's not twenty feet away, he's somewhere else entirely and I'm standing here in sleep shorts and a tank top at—I check the microwave clock—one thirty in the morning, drinking water I don't want because the alternative is admitting why I actually got up.
Which is him. Obviously. It's always him lately.
Finn mentioned it weeks ago—Holt has a spot. Canyon lookout, twenty minutes out, where he goes when sleep won't come. Which is most nights, Finn had added, quieter than usual, admitting something he probably shouldn't.
I set the glass down. Stare at my keys on the hook.
This is a terrible idea. Actually a spectacularly bad idea.
He went out there for solitude and I'm about to crash it with my entire personality which is a lot on a good day and definitely too much at one thirty in the morning, and he specifically drove into the desert to escape noise and people and probably me since I fill every silence, and now I'm going to drive twenty minutes to find him because I can't stop thinking about him and that's totally normal behavior, right?
People definitely do that. Drive into the desert at one thirty AM because they're worried about someone. That's fine.
My feet are already moving, grabbing keys, yanking cut-offs over sleep shorts. Tank top, sneakers, no overthinking allowed.
Just go.
The drive is easy once I commit to the stupid—one road out of town, turn at the dead cottonwood pointing the way like a skeletal finger, follow tire tracks through dust that glows white in my headlights.
Desert's all shadow and starlight, and my car sounds too loud, engine rattling in that way Holt keeps promising to fix.
I find his truck exactly where Finn said. Parked at the edge of nothing, canyon dropping into darkness so complete it looks solid.
Holt's on the hood. Back against windshield, one leg stretched, the other bent, arms crossed. He doesn't turn when I pull up but his shoulders shift—he knows it's me.
Engine off. Silence rushes in with cricket-song and something calling in the distance. Coyote maybe. Or just the desert talking to itself.
Gravel loud under my feet. Everything's loud out here—no walls to swallow sound, just rock and sky and empty space.
"Can't sleep?" I approach slow, which is ridiculous because Holt doesn't spook, but I'm doing it anyway.
"How'd you find me?" His voice is midnight-rough, and I hear the smile even though he's not looking.
"Finn mentioned you had a spot. Canyon overlook, twenty minutes out." I stop a few feet away. "Also your truck was gone and I figured you weren't out grocery shopping in the middle of the night."
Now he looks at me, ghost of a smile visible even in starlight. "So you drove into the desert to check on me?"
"I drove into the desert because I was having a conversation with the ceiling fan and needed to find an actual human before I lost it completely." Already rambling. Can't stop. "Also I was worried. Sue me."
He shifts, making room on the hood.
I climb up beside him, metal still warm under my palms, holding the day's heat. We're not quite touching but close enough that I feel him, close enough to count the inches between us.
The canyon stretches out—dark walls dropping into darker nothing, sky so thick with stars it doesn't look real. More stars than I knew existed, like someone spilled glitter and forgot to clean up.
"Oh," I breathe.
"Yeah."
I tip my head back, neck bent, trying to take it all in. "I've never seen this many stars. Like genuinely never. I knew light pollution was a thing but I didn't know it was hiding this." I find what might be the Big Dipper. "This is beautiful."
"Different out here."
"That's the understatement of the century." I pull my knees up, wrap my arms around them. "You come here a lot?"
"When I need it."
"And I just ruined that. Sorry. I can go—"
"Stay." His arm brushes mine when he shifts. "It's fine."
Silence settles, comfortable instead of awkward.
"Today was good," I say eventually, because I've never met a silence I couldn't fill. "The swimming hole. You smiled. Multiple times. I counted."
"Did I?"
"Four times. Four and a half if you count that thing your mouth did when Finn cannonballed and nearly took out my eyeball. Not quite a smile but smile-adjacent." I press my forehead to my knees. "It looked good on you. The smiling. You should do it more."
Soft laugh, barely audible. "You keeping track?"
"Maybe. Is that weird? That feels weird.
I'm making it weird." One hand waves vaguely.
"It's just nice to see you relaxed, you know?
You hold everything so close and I never know what you're thinking, which makes me talk more because I'm trying to fill the silence and figure out what's happening in your head, which probably makes everything worse, which makes me talk even more, and it's this whole cycle—"
"Scout."
"Yeah?"
"I like when you talk."
I lift my head, look at him. He's staring straight ahead but his face is softer than usual, shoulders less rigid. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He shifts closer, just barely. "Fills the space right."
My pulse kicks up.
"Finn mentioned you guys don't talk about before. The military stuff."
Holt goes still. Watchful.
"He said you'd tell me when you were ready," I add quickly. "I'm not pushing. But if you want to talk, I'm here. And I promise I'm a really good listener when I try. Which I will try. Right now. Starting now." I mime zipping my lips.
The smile flickers across his face, there and gone. Then he's quiet so long I think he's shutting it down.
"Iraq," he says finally. Flat. Factual. "Four years. Me and Finn, same unit."
I wait. Press my lips together, make myself small and listening instead of filling every gap with noise.
"What was that like?" I ask softly when the pause stretches. "Being over there together?"
"Hot. Loud. Lot of waiting." He shifts, and I catch the wince he tries to hide. "Finn made it bearable. Always had something stupid to say."
"That tracks. Finn would joke through the apocalypse."
"Pretty much did."
I want to ask more—where, what, how—but I don't. I let him lead, let him take the time he needs.
"We were clearing a building," he says after another beat, still staring at all that darkness. "Standard sweep. Finn went in first." The muscle near his cheek jumps. "Triggered an IED."
My ribs squeeze but I don't make a sound. Don't gasp or reach or do anything people probably do. Just listen.
"I was right behind him." Voice so flat it's almost toneless, reporting instead of remembering. "Blast threw us both."
He stops. The silence stretches so long I think that's all I'm getting. Then:
"There was a field. Blood everywhere. Mine, mostly." His hands curl into fists on his thighs. "Thought I was dying. And Finn—" His voice cracks, just slightly. "Finn pulled me out. Dragged me. His hand was shredded but he wouldn't let go."
I don't move. Don't speak. Just let him get it out.
"The nightmares came later. After the surgeries. After I woke up and realized—" He gestures at his leg. "I didn't know if I wanted to survive. For a while there, I wasn't sure surviving was better."
"Holt," I whisper.
"Finn walked away with scars and a crooked finger." His lips flatten.. "I didn't."
"Medical discharge," I say quietly.
He nods.
"And Finn thinks it's his fault."
His head turns, surprised. "How'd you—"
"Because I've seen the way he looks at you sometimes. Like he's apologizing for something he can't fix. Like he owes you and doesn't know how to pay it back." I shift closer, just an inch, enough that our shoulders touch. "Does he know you don't blame him?"
"I've told him." Jaw tightening again, muscle jumping. "Doesn't matter. He carries it anyway."
"How do you not blame him though? I mean—" I stop myself, rethink. "I'm not saying you should. I'm asking how. Because most people would."
"How could I?" He looks at me now, really looks, eyes dark and serious. "He didn't plant the damn thing. He was doing his job. We both were. It just happened."
"But it happened to you."
"It happened to both of us." He turns back to the canyon. "He lived with the guilt. I lived with the—" He gestures at his right leg. "We both ended up broken, just different ways."
"So you came here," I say. "To Coyote Bend."
"Couldn't go back to normal. Neither of us. Tried for a while—family, physical therapy, pretending we could pick up where we left off." He shakes his head. "Didn't work. Everything was too loud. Too many people. Too many questions."
"So you ran."
"So we drove." Almost-smile. "Found this place by accident. Pulled over for gas, saw the shop was for sale, Finn said something about fate and fresh starts. Next thing I knew we were signing papers."
"And then I showed up and ruined everything."
This time he does smile, small but real. "You definitely ruined something."
The air changes. Gets heavier, like pressure building before a storm. I'm aware of his breathing, the way he's holding himself—like pain's there and stubbornness's holding it back.
"Holt," I say carefully.
"Yeah."
"It's hurting you right now."
He goes absolutely still. "What?"