Chapter 30 Holly
These weeks have been a complete blur—between planning for the Midnight Society’s Costume Ball and squeezing in enough official dates with Hugh to merit luring him home to my bed.
We’ve ambled through the High Museum of Art, sipped cocktails on the roof of Ponce City Market, biked the Beltline to my favorite Glenwood Estates taqueria, and even visited the tasting room at the World of Coca-Cola.
I figured that if Hugh is really on his way to Copenhagen, it’s my duty to show him a selection of Atlanta’s best and worst tourist attractions before he goes.
I saved the best for last night: an evening concert and picnic on the lawn of the Atlanta Botanical Garden.
I packed the picnic, a simple spread from Alon’s Bakery, but he provided a wonderful Spanish cava and a single granadilla—the Bolivian fruit we never had a chance to try on our first date.
It was delicious, but I’m not sure whether it was the strange pungent flavor of the seeds or the way he fed them to me under the moonlight, making me hungry for more.
Was it coincidence that the Botanical Garden is a short, four-block walk from my apartment? That I had him park his car at my place? Not exactly.
Through my bedroom door, Hugh lies drenched in morning sunlight, his bare leg tossed casually over my comforter, his dark hair wild against my mattress.
He stirs, tucks his arm around my pillow, and then burrows into it.
I wish I could go back to bed. I wish I could bring him fruit, and he could feed it to me, breaking it apart with his hands and pressing the sweet-sour seeds into my waiting mouth.
But the clock is ticking on the Midnight Society Costume Ball.
I need coffee, a shower, and a quick breakfast before the day’s packed agenda gets underway.
I open the fridge and peer inside. It dawns on me that I probably have nothing to feed that beautiful man still sleeping in my bed.
I haven’t exactly had time to grocery shop.
Thank God I picked up a pound of good coffee yesterday morning before meeting with my florist, when I rushed into Dancing Goats for a shot-in-the-dark and a doughnut.
How is it that my refrigerator is twice the size of Hugh’s, but contains about a quarter of the food? No yogurt in orderly glass jars, no bright seasonal berries or freshly squeezed orange juice. Just a few stalks of limp celery, a bag of carrots, and a haphazard array of condiments.
At least I have milk. Well, chocolate milk. Does that count as a breakfast food?
I pull the carton of chocolate milk from the shelf, unscrew the cap, and sniff. It still smells like high fructose corn syrup, so I think it must be okay. I head over to the pantry, open the door, and rummage around, until I excavate a few items that might qualify as breakfast foods.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” Hugh says, his voice still gravelly with sleep.
Peering out from behind the pantry door, I see him standing in my doorway, in nothing but the crisp white boxers I slid from his narrow hips nine hours ago. I can’t resist crossing the kitchen to wrap my arms around his waist. I kiss him softly.
“Thank you for last night,” he mumbles into my ear.
“It was my absolute pleasure,” I reply, thinking how hilarious it is that he is thanking me.
I’m not terribly experienced in this area, but Hugh Pridmore is without a doubt the most generous lover I’ve ever had.
And what do I have to offer in return? Chocolate milk, a quarter loaf of Nature’s Own bread, and month-old sugar cereal.
At least I have decent coffee.
Hugh heads across the room toward my bathroom.
“You can use my toothbrush,” I tell him, “unless you’re fussy about that sort of thing.”
He turns to look at me. His eyebrows raise and a knowing grin spreads across his now-stubbly face. Hugh doesn’t have to say anything. His teasing expression reminds me of everything I learned about him last night. A flush rises to my chest. This man is anything but fussy.
By the time he comes out of the bathroom, I’ve set a pot of French-press coffee, two mugs, bowls and spoons, a box of cereal, and chocolate milk on my kitchen table.
“Might I offer you some Frosted Mini-Wheats?” I ask, feigning a formal accent.
“I’ve long hoped to sample them,” he replies, taking a seat at the table.
“With chocolate milk?” I ask, dumping the cereal into his bowl and hoping it’s not stale.
“My favorite kind,” he says. “How on earth did you know?”
We sit together at my breakfast table, sipping coffee and slurping cereal in comfortable silence.
It dawns on me that Hugh is the first man I’ve ever had at my breakfast table—well, excepting Joel, Peter, Byron, and my smarmy landlord (uninvited, of course).
Over these last many years, I haven’t been keen to bring men to the apartment I shared with my young son.
But now, here I am, having breakfast with my lover. And it feels utterly delicious. He stands up to take his bowl to the sink, pauses to look out of my kitchen window, where, at the right angle, it’s just barely possible to catch a glimpse of the Midtown skyline.
“Ask me again,” he says.
“Ask you what?” I reply.
“What’s the sexiest city—”
“They don’t call it HOTlanta for nothing,” I finish his thought, feeling confident that I know the answer.
“And all along I thought it was the extreme late-summer temperatures and obscene humidity,” he adds, which makes us both laugh. “Maybe I’ll need to stay and find out for myself.”
We stop laughing, and an awkward silence fills the room. Is he trying to tell me he wants to stay? Is that even possible? I’m struggling to form the right question when a terrible noise breaks through the quiet.
My doorbell. Buzzing furiously and repeatedly.
“That would be Luisa,” I sigh. She was meeting an IRS criminal investigator for breakfast nearby and offered to pick me up after, suggesting in her ever-practical way that it would give us extra time to go over our plan on the drive back to Norcross.
She knew I had a date with Hugh last night, but I never got around to telling her I finally managed to bring him home. I happened to be otherwise occupied.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, clearly noting my panicked expression. He heads into the bedroom to pull on his jeans. “I’ve kept you too long. I’ll distract her with hot coffee and probing questions about investigative journalism. You go get ready for your big day.”
Hugh returns from the bedroom, struggling to pull on his shirt as I open the door.
Luisa takes one long look at the two of us, laughs, and exclaims, “Well, well, well. Who knew Professor Pridmore offered private lessons?”
Since I came up with the Southern Gothic theme for the staff costumes, I can’t exactly complain when Luisa’s sister, Carola, leans in, tugs the edge of my eyelid, and begins applying the sort of black liquid eyeliner that hasn’t touched my face since I was thirteen and experiencing a short-lived emo phase.
Lord, how my mother hated that all-black era of my life.
If we had lived in a slightly different climate, I probably would have stayed blissfully emo through all of high school.
But, dang, that first summer in black jeans, black leather combat boots, and trench coats was brutal.
By the Fourth of July I was back in my summer uniform of ratty cutoffs and ribbed tanks.
“You scream seductive kindergarten teacher,” she deadpans, clearly pleased with herself. “It’s the whole ‘heart-shaped face and rosy cheeks’ look. Don’t open your eyes, the kohl needs to dry.”
I nod in submission, which is basically what I’ve been doing for the last hour, as Luisa’s mom and sister trimmed, combed, teased, sprayed, and arranged my hair into a choppy style that’s unlike anything I’ve ever worn. For starters, it’s way bigger.
Luisa told them some version of the truth: We got invited to a Y’allywood Ball at a Midtown country club, costumes required. They were enraptured by the idea of giving us a glam makeover for the event.
“Spread your lips,” Carola commands, then applies a thick lip liner, pressing it against the top of my mouth to form a wide heart. “Now pucker.”
“Wait,” Luisa’s mom, Dolores, exclaims—as if Carola is leading me to the edge of a cliff and it’s her responsibility to rescue me from the abyss. My eyes fly open and I see her rushing toward me with a tube of lipstick. “She’s too blanquita for Chanel Independante. You need to use MAC Ruby Woo.”
“Mami’s right,” Luisa says from the salon chair where she’s been sitting for the entire time, observing their progress with razor-sharp focus.
“That deep red will wash Holly’s complexion right out.
” Her phone rings, and she walks into the other room, grinning like an idiot.
Somebody’s gotten under that girl’s skin, and I know exactly who it is.
“Make her look sickly,” Dolores oh-so-helpfully adds, still focused on my choice of lip color.
“Too pale, on top of how flaquita she is,” Abuela Fela observes, unhelpfully. She’s been trying to feed me empanadas since I walked through the door, but I’m too nervous to eat. They smell amazing though.
Carola accepts the lipstick from her mom and begins to apply it liberally to my lips, not the subtle tap-tap of soft color that I usually do, when I do lipstick at all.
“My work is done,” Carola exclaims with a flourish, then spins me toward the full-length mirror.
I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing the matte-skinned, bold-eyed, fierce-lipped badass of a woman staring back. Is this really me?
My phone dings, pulling me out of my daze. It’s a text from Hugh with a listing for a rental property near Emory.
What do you think of this place? Has real oven and room for actual sofa.
My heart begins to sputter in my chest, and I let out a tiny squeal.
Oh wow does this mean you’re staying?
I type the response quickly, proud to have avoided the word “really.”
Wanted to tell you this morning. Emory’s offered a three-year visiting gig. Thinking about it.
And then, before I can chicken out, I reply, straight from the heart:
I want you to stay.
“You look tough,” Luisa calls out as she returns to the room, her voice filled with awe.
“I feel tough,” I say, grateful for the distraction from my phone. I want to be bold, an emotional risk-taker. But I also don’t want to be the woman who stares at a string of texts, waiting for a reply.
So instead, I stand to take in the full effect of my ensemble: full-length leather jacket, tight white blouse, black boots, and bright red scarf taut around my neck.
My hair falls spiky around my cheeks, which somehow manage to look not round and cute, as they typically do, but chiseled and tough, under the bold liquid rouge Carola applied.
I wanted for the staff to be in costume, but also to wear something that could feel like a sort-of armor against the roving eyes, the subtly and not-so-subtly offensive comments, and the exhaustion that typically come with the Midnight Society Costume Ball. I think I’ve succeeded.
Carola, Dolores, and Abuela Fela applaud as I spin, and then they drift away to the reception area, where real clients are beginning to gather, since their salon opens for business in five minutes.
“How can we not take those assholes down tonight,” I say, “looking like this.”
“I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” Luisa adds, her voice wistful.
I walk over to her, loving the feel of heavy leather swishing around my ankles. “So what’s your next step?” I ask her. “Once you get the scoop of the century in Atlanta’s business-news world and take down the bad guys.”
“I’m gonna get my fucking job back,” Luisa says, her tone defiant.
“And that’s what you want?” I ask, unsure of how to articulate my real question, which I think is whether all that we’ve been through together has changed her. Because, glancing back at my fiery self in the salon’s full-length mirror, I know it’s changed me.
“It’s what I’ve always wanted,” Luisa responds without hesitation.
“What about the lonely apartment? The long work hours? The dying plants, and all the late-night takeout?” I dare to ask. “Is that the life you want to go back to?”
Luisa sighs, her shoulders falling with a long exhale.
“I know that I struggle with the whole work-life balance or whatever,” she begins, surprisingly self-aware.
“But I also love the work. And I’m really good at it.
So I’m not ready to give it up.” She stands up, slips on her own leather coat.
“Why can’t I have it all? There has to be some way to make it all work. Right?”
I think of my own path, motherhood and work, and trying to juggle those responsibilities with—well, life.
Sure, I’ve made sacrifices, and I’ve set more than a few dreams aside.
But I’ve also built a stable, loving community for Aidan, surrounding him with care.
I’ve learned how to rely on people when I need them and also to let people rely on me.
I hope I’ve shown Aidan, through my example, that—when it comes down to it—this is what makes life beautiful.
Letting her question linger in the air between us, I reach for Luisa’s red scarf and offer to tie it around her.
She stands facing me and I slip the silk fabric around the back of her neck.
It dawns on me, suddenly, that Luisa has become one of those people—someone I trust, someone I know I can rely on to get through hard times. I think she trusts me, too.
“If anyone can find a way to make it work,” I say, pulling the ends of her scarf together, “you can.” Luisa is more determined than anyone I know, and if she sets a goal for herself, she’ll find a way to achieve it, come hell or high water.
She inches her chin up so I can knot the fabric over her throat. I finish the double knot, and then she turns to stand beside me. We stare at our reflections in the mirror.
“All right, Jade Jackal,” I say, playfully bumping into her shoulder. “Let’s do this.”
“Yessssss,” she replies, bumping me back. “Let’s go kick some ass, Honey Badger.”