Chapter 9 #2
“Let’s stop here for some water.” Harlan slips the backpack off his shoulders, fumbles with the zippers, and digs through the contents.
“I just kind of fell into my career. Some agent found me on stage in college and threw me into a shampoo commercial with Spencer. Before I could blink, we were cast as brothers in an obscure Western, and life began to snowball.” Handing me a water, he shakes his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
My stupid dry hands chafe against the ridged bottle cap as I twist it off, causing me to wince. After a gulp of water, I study his face. “What was it supposed to be like?”
His sigh is heavy as he stares off into the rocks.
“I’m the firstborn. I was supposed to take over the Holcombe business and live out the legacy.
But when I went to college, I figured out I like working with people more than I like working with cows.
I thought I’d enjoy being a drama minor but get a job in finance in the long term.
My family couldn’t understand why I’d turn my back on the legacy.
The land has been with us for generations, and the men in our family worked it like they couldn’t breathe without it.
I had found something different for myself in college. But . . .”
He continues to look off in the distance, and I get the feeling he’s seeing some combination of his past, present, and maybe even future in the complicated colors of the rocks.
“But?”
“But then I got that commercial. And my newfound career spun so quickly, I didn’t think about it.
I didn’t think about how much I liked studying finance or what my life would look like with fame added into the mix.
” He pauses so long, I don’t think he’s going to continue.
Then he shakes his head with an expression that seems almost like disbelief.
“A thousand guys would give their right arm to do what I do. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
Some actors love the craft like they can’t breathe without it. ”
Gently I ask, “How’s your breathing, Harlan?”
A breeze passes between us and almost carries away his soft words.
“I need more oxygen.” His piercing eyes find mine.
“But when my dad died and everything happened with Olivia, I moved us back here as quickly as I could. I live every day regretting the time I didn’t work side by side with him on his land. ”
“Even if it’s not what you wanted to do with your life?”
“It would have given me time with him.”
I take another swig of water, draining the bottle and thinking about the pain I hear in his words. “I get that. I do, Harlan. But you might have been miserable living a dream that wasn’t yours.”
He opens his bottle and guzzles the water down in less than twenty seconds. “So here I am, living in my hometown, helping my brother with the ranch when I can, full custody of my daughter, and dealing with an unpredictable ex-wife on occasion.”
“And now you’re back to acting?”
“Not really. I mean, yes, I’m on set now for a minor role I was already contracted for.
But I’m trying to stay off the radar as much as possible.
Olivia is clickbait waiting to happen. I want to give Alex a normal life here in the Springs and figure out what else I can do with my life.
I was toying with the idea of mentoring and consulting with actors.
Keeps me low-key and allows me to help them get their feet on the ground for the long term.
” He places our empty bottles in his pack and turns his dark look to me.
“But then a stupid video rattles across America claiming I’m a hero, when my real life has imploded and the only time I’m a hero is when I’m pretending on the big screen. ”
“Maybe heroic acts aren’t for heroic people. Maybe they’re just for ordinary people who are in the right place at the right time. Just living their lives.”
He doesn’t look like he’s buying it, so I try for a different angle. Maybe the most important angle, at least to me.
“You’re a hero to that teenage girl you saved,” I whisper, my voice thick. “To her family.”
Anguish crosses his face. “Meredith, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about your loss.”
I clutch his forearm and shake my head. “This isn’t about me. Now, I know you played Hercules on the big screen. Tell me why they call you the real-life Hercules.”
He takes a deep breath. “When the girl was safe on the ground, gasping for breath, getting rid of the river water, I realized her shirt was torn pretty badly. No way could she get up and walk to her friends without exposing herself. So I peeled my shirt off to give to her, we got her covered up, and I carried her up the bank to her friends.” He rolls his eyes.
“I had no idea anyone was filming, but if you watch the video, someone in the background yelled that I was her personal Hercules. It sort of took on a life of its own.”
Pursing my lips as hard as I can, I’m still unable to rid myself of the smile breaking across my face, so I lower my head. My shoulders shake. “I’m gonna—” I cough to rid myself of the laughter building in my throat. “I’m gonna have to figure out how to watch that video.”
“Oh, really?” Harlan says, part offense and part humor in his voice. “Then maybe I’m gonna have to leave you on one of these rocks.”
“Listen,” I say as I stand, “you’re not the only famous person here. My junior high marching band played the halftime show of a Dallas Cowboys game.” I singsong the last few words as I strut down the next section of our path.
Harlan jogs a few steps to place himself in front of me and taunts, “Show me some of your moves. Come on, I know you’ve still got it.”
“I’m sorry, but no. I don’t do public performances anymore.” My attempt at a coy smile is successful right up until I trip over a pile of small rocks.
He grabs my elbow while chuckling. “Maybe you don’t still have it.”
“Shut up” is the brilliant response I laugh through while I regain my footing.
Before I know what’s happening, he slips his hand around my waist and angles me perpendicular to him while he lifts his phone in his other hand to take our picture. “Smile.”
Smiling isn’t a hard request. I seem to do that a lot around him. But him wanting a picture of the two of us feels meaningful. Significant.
When I turn to him, his hand slides away from my waist, but we’re still very close. As in I-could-count-his-eyelashes close.
A fire flashes in his eyes. “I kind of want to kiss you.”
“Kind of?” I say on a rushed breath.
“No. Not kind of. I definitely want to kiss you.”
“But you said ‘kind of.’” Somehow we’re even closer. So much so that I place my hand on his arm because now I’m losing my balance for a different reason.
“I didn’t want to scare you.” His deep, quiet voice settles over me. “We haven’t talked about that sort of thing.”
“It’s, um . . .” I look over his shoulder, trying to make sense of the seventeen thoughts scrambling through my head, then I look back to him. “It’s been a while. For me. With the kissing.”
He glances at my lips. “It’s like dancing. You don’t do it for a while and once you get back on the dance floor, you just automatically remember and everything falls into place.”
I try to keep a straight face but fail. “Okay, first of all, I think you mean it’s like riding a bike,” I say through chuckles. “But in your case, I seriously hope you kiss better than you dance.”
He winks, and there is nothing cheesy and everything good about it. Then his face turns a little more serious. “I’m wondering how you feel about it. Me kissing you.”
Reflexively, I squeeze his arm. Is this hard? This is a no-brainer, right? I swallow and steady my voice, hoping it sounds calm when I say, “I feel fine about it.”
Fine?
I just told Harlan Holcombe that I feel fine about kissing him. As if he asked me how I feel about having green beans with dinner. Fine. What do I think about getting Grandma a scarf for Christmas? Fine. How do I feel about people who wear corduroy pants in April? Fine.
He smiles at me.
It’s a drawn-out, dangerous smile. The kind that starts in the lines at the edges of his eyes right before it adds a spark of mischief to them, then slowly spreads to his curving lips.
“Fine,” he says. But somehow his “fine” implies so much more than mine.
Still holding my eyes with his, he slides his hand from my elbow down my arm and laces his fingers with mine. “Later,” he says, his breath feathering against my lips.
While my nerves feel like a pinball pinging across my body, he leads me down the path.
“Later” sounds way too far away and terrifyingly close all at the same time.
After we pass the Tower of Babel formation, I catch the Siamese Twins in the distance. I stride over to the side of the trail and stop to face the orange rock formations with the majestic purple mountain backdrop.
The scenery seeps serenity into the nervous energy that his promise of a kiss had placed there. A breeze brushes my face, and I close my eyes, inhaling a deep breath through my nose.
Harlan’s shoulder gently nudges mine. “What are you thinking?”
I open my eyes and turn my head to find him staring at me, his face full of curiosity and maybe a little concern. “Sweet moments in life are precious. I’m intentional about grabbing hold of them.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He stares at me, studying me, and I let him. It feels significant, this moment.
“What do you want to ask me, Harlan?”
“Meredith.” My name releases from his lips in a growl, and he looks unsure.
I offer a small smile of assurance. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I won’t break.”
He faces me. “After everything you’ve been through, how do you keep going?”
Tears prick my eyes. My nose stings.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Oh, Meredith, I’m so sorry I asked. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
I square my body to his. “Harlan, listen to me. Thank you.” I reach for his hand and squeeze.
“Thank you for having the courage to ask me something so honest. It’s an important question.
” Facing the mountainous rocks again, I clench my teeth and lock down the grief to give a voice to the sentiment forming in my gut.
“Because life doesn’t come with guarantees. ”
A tear falls to the ground. Only this time it isn’t mine.
“We make up rules for how our lives should run and then make ourselves live as hostages under our own expectations. When life doesn’t go the way we planned, the way we expected, we can’t forgive our expectations.
And it gives us a reason to walk away from living.
” My voice hitches. “I was driving a few cars behind my family when an eighteen-wheeler crossed the middle of the highway and crushed my husband of ten years, my three-year-old boy, and my one-year-old daughter.”
Harlan gasps, and I beat back the pain I see in his face. He laces his fingers through mine, his grip whitening his knuckles, and I have no idea if he is comforting me or if he needs my comfort, but it feels nice to be in this conversation together. Holding the tension of life together.
“I have a choice,” I say. “I either hold life to my unrealistic, unfair requirements, or let go and try to live again.”
His head jerks back, and he blinks. “How do you do that?”
“It’s gritty. Some days I’m angry. Irate.
Other days I’m indifferent. But on a few precious days, I have peace.
So I hope.” I catch a glimpse of Harlan’s water-filled eyes and push through.
“I choose to hope. Because some days hold sweet moments. Like this one. This particular moment reminds me of life’s beauty. ”
He nods, and we stand in silence and stare at each other while a family walks around us.
“What about you?” I finally ask. “How did you keep going after you lost your dad and Olivia left you?”
He releases my hand and throws his arms up in the air, almost in exasperation.
“Our losses aren’t the same, Meredith. In our brains, we expect our parents to die when they’re old.
My dad lived a long, fulfilling life. And the consequence of my personal choices resulted in my situation with Olivia.
What happened to me is part of regular life.
” His forefinger points down. “But what happened to you seems . . . cruel. Unnecessary. I can’t believe you get out of bed every day. ”
A scoff escapes my throat. “You’re impressed with my ability to get out of bed every day?
” My fists tighten, fingernails biting into my palms. “Harlan, it’s been four years since the accident.
I spent a nice chunk of that time curled up in a ball, paying people to make sure I ate and slept.
It took a group of very committed, loving professionals to help me function again. ”
The rise and fall of Harlan’s chest slows as he gains control. “So how did you do it?”
“Early on, my friend Claire sent me a card. She said she prayed only one thing for me, the words of Rainer Maria Rilke. ‘Flare up like flames and make big shadows Meredith can move in.’” I shrug. “That was my lifeline. I could picture taking baby steps within the protection of the fierce blaze.”
Harlan drops the backpack on the ground and rifles through until he finds a red and blue plaid blanket. He shifts behind me, wraps the blanket around my shoulders, and folds his arms across my collarbone, pulling my back to his chest.
Slowly, slowly I wrap my fingers around his forearms.
He tucks his head down and brushes his cheek up and down against mine. Three times. Three times I feel his skin against mine. Three times I feel the faint whisper of his breath on my neck. Then he tightens me even closer to him. To his warmth.
Affection. It’s been a long time.
“Meredith.” My rumbled name vibrates against my ear. “You’re a gift.”
I don’t know how long we stand there. And I don’t know exactly when his arms around me shift from something deep and meaningful to something . . . different. What I do know is that as he nuzzles my neck, his lips brush across a sensitive spot.
When he turns me around, he takes my face in his hands and locks his eyes on mine.
“Is it ‘later’?” I whisper.
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “It’s ‘later,’” he says just before he brushes his lips against mine.
My breath catches, and I clutch the fabric at his waist.
When the kiss ends, he pulls back just a touch, waiting. Watching.
I stand on tiptoe and wrap my arms around his neck. In a quiet voice, I ask, “Can it be ‘later’ again?”
I barely see his grin before he kisses me. For several “laters.”