Chapter Thirteen #2
I almost pulled away. Almost told myself I’d misread everything.
Almost reminded myself she was soft and clean and lake-water sweet and I was…
me. Then her fingers curled around mine.
She didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. Just…
held on. Tight. Like she needed the contact just as badly as I did.
My chest squeezed. Hard. Painful. Perfect.
I laced our fingers fully, palm to palm, and her shoulders sagged like she’d been holding her breath all day.
Outside the window, the lake disappeared behind the pine trees.
The cabin faded from view. And time kept moving—pulling me toward the thing I’d chosen, and away from the girl I was terrified to leave.
But she didn’t let go. Not once. Not even when we turned onto the road that led home.
The ride back into town felt shorter than the drive out, which was bullshit because the miles were the same.
It was everything else that had changed.
By the time we rolled into Holly’s neighborhood, the sun was low, throwing long shadows from all the perfect, expensive houses with their perfect, expensive lawns.
The truck looked wrong here. Too loud. Too rough around the edges.
Kind of like me. Mac pulled into the McCarthy driveway.
Dalton leaned forward between the seats.
“All right, princess. You and Maria get out before your HOA fines us just for existing.”
“Shut up,” Holly muttered, but there wasn’t much heat in it. Maria unbuckled slowly, one hand cradling her stomach. She hesitated, then twisted to look at us.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For…all of it.”
Dalton pressed his palm to his chest. “I am always available for water fights and emotional support.”
Diego smiled, eyes warm. “Anytime, Maria.”
Holly’s fingers tightened around mine once more, shielded by her duffel and the angle of our bodies. No one had said anything, but I knew Mac had noticed. He noticed everything. She finally pulled her hand free, slow like the separation cost her something, then reached for the door handle.
“Bye,” she said, almost too quickly. “Thanks for not letting Dalton drown anyone.”
“No promises next time,” I said.
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.
Then she and Maria climbed out. Her parents’ porch light clicked on automatically, casting them in a warm halo as they walked up the steps.
Holly turned just before they went inside.
Her gaze found mine through the windshield.
For a second, everything else went quiet.
She lifted her hand in a small wave. I dipped my chin.
That was it. Mac pulled away. Diego and I were dropped off next, two sagging trailers at the edge of the park.
“Diego hopped out, banging the door shut behind him. “Later, man.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Later.”
Mac met my eyes in the side mirror. “You call if you need anything this week. You hear me?”
“Yes, Dad,” I deadpanned.
His gaze sharpened. “Smart-ass.”
Then they were gone. The truck roared off, leaving me standing in the gravel, dust settling around my boots.
The quiet hit hard. Our trailer looked the same as always—siding a little warped, porch steps a little crooked.
The box fan in my bedroom window still rattled.
The plastic flamingo Mrs. Hargrove had stuck in her patch of dirt two lots down leered at me like it knew all my secrets.
I climbed the stairs and pushed the door open.
Mom was exactly where I expected: curled on her side on the couch, the empty wine box shoved under the coffee table. The TV played an infomercial about a mop that could allegedly change your life. I tugged a blanket over her shoulders. She barely stirred.
“Hi, Mom,” I murmured.
Then I went to my room, dropped my bag on the floor, and flopped onto the mattress.
The springs screamed in protest. The ceiling stared back at me.
Silence pressed in. I lasted maybe thirty seconds before I grabbed my phone.
My thumb hovered over her name. Holly. I had no idea what the rules were here.
No idea what I was allowed to say without blowing this up or making it heavier than she could carry right now. Fuck the rules.
Me: Get home ok?
I stared at the message for a second, then hit send before I could overthink it—which, for me, meant I only overthought it for six full seconds instead of thirty. The bubbles showed up almost immediately.
Holly: You were literally in my driveway when I got home, genius.
I huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. Already felt better.
Me: Yeah, but you know. Gotta make sure you didn’t trip on your way to the door. That bikini looked hazardous.
The dots appeared, then vanished. Appeared again.
Holly: Wow. Misogyny AND concern. A two-for-one deal. Also, I wasn’t wearing that bikini when you guys dropped me off. Day dreaming much?
I smirked at the screen.
Me: You didn’t seem very concerned about male objectification when you were staring at my chest.
Message sent. Immediate regret. Two agonizingly long seconds.
Then:
Holly: LMAO. Please. You WISH I was staring.
A pause.
Ok…maybe I was a little.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
She was still there. Still doing this. Still meeting me in the middle where the joking rubbed shoulders with something realer, sharper, scarier. I rolled onto my back, thumb flying, but before I could respond, she sent another message.
Holly: This weekend was good. The cabin. The lake. The dancing. Don’t get used to me being nice though.
Me: Too late. Already adjusted my expectations.
Holly: Bold of you.
Me: That’s what they’re sending me to basic for. My boldness.
Holly: Pretty sure it’s for your inability to shut up and listen.
Me: Aw, I didn’t know you paid attention to me like that.
Three blinking dots. Longer this time.
Holly: I’m still figuring out what I feel. But “don’t like you” isn’t really accurate anymore.
The breath left my lungs in a rush.
Me: Same. For the record, the lake was the second most beautiful thing I saw this weekend.
Holly: Oh yeah?
Me: Yeah.
The seconds stretched. My chest hurt. In a good way. In a terrifying way.
Holly: You’re still leaving.
Me: I am.
Holly: I’m scared. I know I said that already. Just gonna be honest. This… whatever it is? It’s a lot.
Me: We can be scared together.
Holly: You’re not allowed to be scared. You’re the strong one.
I tapped my fingers against my knee, then typed.
Me: That’s not how it works, Malibu. I can be scared AND strong. So can you.
No reply for a long moment. After a minute she sent back:
Holly: You’re annoyingly good at saying the right thing, Dr. Phil.
Me: Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my rep.
Holly: Too late. I already know you’re a softie.
Me: Lies.
Holly: Sure. Keep telling yourself that.
I swallowed, a smile tugging at my mouth even as my eyes burned.
Me: I should let you sleep. Gonna be a long week.
Holly: Yeah. Probably.
Me: Thanks for… everything.
Holly: You don’t have to thank me, Jackson.
Me: I want to.
Holly: Goodnight Jackson.
Me: Goodnight, Malibu.
I set the phone on my chest and closed my eyes.
The fear was still there. So was the tight, anxious buzz that came with the thought of leaving, of screaming sergeants and endless drills and being stripped down to nothing so they could build me back up.
But under it, braided into it now, was something else.
She’d held my hand in the truck. She’d danced with me by the fire.
She’d admitted she didn’t not like me. I fell asleep with her name on my screen and the echo of her hand in mine.
And for the first time since signing those enlistment papers, the idea of leaving hurt for a reason that wasn’t just getting out—it hurt because of what I’d just started to find.