Chapter 27
I open my eyes to a room soaked in honeyed light and a hazy memory of Holden in my bed. I pull his pillow to me. It smells faintly of oranges, and I smile, knowing he’s still using the toiletry bag I gave him.
On my nightstand, I find a note he left for me, and there’s something intimate about seeing his handwriting. He starts it, Dear Maggie, and I smile at that too.
It’s signed Love, Holden, and I pretend that doesn’t stick in my throat a little.
I read it twice on the way to my desk before tucking it safely inside the top drawer, where I’ll probably read it a million more times today.
Truth be told, I don’t even like catfish, but I’ll be eating the heck out of it come Friday.
After a shower and a brown sugar-cinnamon Pop-Tart, I sit down at my desk to write. I always start in the middle—where the story has teeth—and work my way out from there. I open my notebook to the lines I came up with last night, right before I fell asleep.
Every goodbye I’ve lived through left a mark. But when he goes, the mark he leaves won’t fade. It’ll fester.
Cursor blinking, screen waiting—I put it down like it’s fiction. Like it didn’t claw its way out of me. Like I didn’t just write myself onto the page.
Sleep doesn’t come. The moment Hunter drifted off, my mind did too. He’s content to just “let what happens happen,” but I already know how this ends. Filming will wrap, and Hunter Kincaid will go back to LA.
Without me.
And I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive that. Every goodbye I’ve lived through left a mark. But when Hunter goes, the mark he leaves won’t fade.
It’ll fester.
My chest squeezes, but I write through it.
I write through lunch.
Through Aunt Z’s phone call.
Through Ben’s dramatic recap of Aunt Z’s phone call.
I write all day and into the night, stopping only to inhale a plate of leftover lasagna and answer Holden’s text. I don’t even look when my phone buzzes—just grab it mid-sentence, then practically fling it when I see his name.
Like he caught me writing about him.
Even though it’s not about him.
It’s about Hunter.
Obviously.
You get my note? he asks.
I bite my lip, thumbs tapping the screen. I did and I can’t wait. You really have off?
Schedule’s light Friday, he says with a thumbs-up emoji. How’s the book going?
Great! I’ve already surpassed yesterday and I still have a few hours left in me
You’re really getting it, he says. I’m proud of you
A smile spreads before I can stop it. The warm, giddy kind that lingers. How’s your day going?
About the same as yesterday. Though I want to kill less people so there’s that
Fewer people, I think with a smirk—but don’t dare say it.
A second later, another text comes through. I’m going to be late again
My stomach dips, even though I expected it.
Can you sleep here? I cringe as soon as I hit send. Will is what I should have said. Will, not can. Can makes me sound desperate.
I just mean, there’s lasagna
Seriously, Maggie. What is wrong with you?
I’d like that, he says, and my giddy smile returns.
I set my phone face down on my desk and get back to work, typing until my eyes start to cross.
At ten past eleven, I close my laptop and crawl into bed.
I’m asleep in minutes. Sometime later, the mattress shifts, and Holden slips in behind me.
I settle into him without fully waking, his arm circling my waist, my head tucked beneath his chin.
He’s gone before the sun rises, and I do it all again: shower, Pop-Tart, pages, denial.
By Friday morning, the only proof I have that he was even here is the faint trace of citrus clinging to his pillow.
I don’t write a single word.
Instead, I give myself another self-care day—only this time, it’s less soy candles and Brandi Carlile, more mascara, tweezers, and mild panic.
Because I can’t remember the last time I went on a date.
At five fifteen, Holden knocks on my bedroom door. “Maggie, you dressed?”
“I’ll be out in a sec,” I say, then sit on the edge of my bed for a whole five minutes so he won’t know I’ve been pacing in perfume since lunch.
I’m wearing a flowy, floor-length white skirt, a cropped navy tank, and the denim jacket I “borrowed” from set.
Figured I might as well get one more use out of it.
My newly polished powder-blue toes are tucked into a pair of brown leather sandals, my wrists in a cluster of bangles.
My hair’s twisted up in a messy knot, and I’ve added blush-pink lipstick to my date-night regimen, on the off chance he’s paying attention.
“Wow,” he says. “You look—is that a skirt?”
I giggle, actually giggle. Like I guzzled a glass of champagne.
Holden’s dressed in a slate-blue button-down, sleeves pushed up his forearms, fitted dark jeans, and boots worn soft at the edges. Not the Luccheses. Something more modern, less western.
It’s absurd how handsome he is.
“You clean up okay,” I say, and somehow keep my voice steady.
“Oh, but wait.” He pulls his blue Dodgers baseball cap from his back pocket and slaps it on, followed by a pair of tortoiseshell glasses he’d had hanging from his collar.
A laugh bursts out of me, even though the look totally does it for me and isn’t funny at all. “Is that your Clark Kent getup?”
“Hey, it works for Superman.”
The doorbell rings, and Holden lifts a finger like give me a sec before slipping out of view.
A muffled conversation follows, and then he strolls back into the living room with the most beautiful bouquet I’ve ever seen: tall blue delphiniums threaded with peach roses and tiny white blossoms that catch the light like something out of a fairy tale.
They’re even prettier than the hydrangeas, and those are my favorites. Were my favorites.
My cheeks hurt from smiling, and I lose the ability to speak.
“Hannah said boys are supposed to bring girls flowers on dates,” Holden says, then shrugs like it’s no big deal.
Meanwhile, my heart’s tripping over itself.
He told his sister.
I stare, stupidly, as he sets them on the coffee table, clearly proud he’s short-circuited my brain.
“You ready?”
All I can do is nod.
He grins. “Then let’s do this.”
The Chuckwagon is a Fisher Springs institution: big and open, with red vinyl booths that squeak when you slide in. The walls are a chaotic mix of neon signs and dusty antiques, while the floors are smooth concrete, worn down by years of dancing between the tables.
“I think I’m finally done,” Holden says, pushing his plate aside. He’s taken down three helpings of catfish and a basket of fries without blinking.
I finished mine fifteen minutes ago, and now I’m eyeing the dessert board. Can’t go wrong with Sissy’s buttermilk pie.
Our waiter swings by to clear the table and refill our sweet teas, and I order two desserts to go, just in case Holden was serious about bingo.
“I can’t believe he hasn’t recognized you,” I say once our waiter’s out of earshot. “Does this disguise work for you in LA?”
“Sometimes. Helps if it’s crowded.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I’m not getting away with it at Trader Joe’s, but there are these gardens just north of Pasadena that Hannah loves. No one’s ever looked twice.”
“Thank you for the flowers, by the way. Thank Hannah, too. They’re really beautiful.”
“I wish I could say I picked them out myself, but paps have finally caught up to us. I had to lose a couple on the way home.”
I sit up a little. “They followed you?”
His steady gray eyes lift to mine. “You don’t have to worry, Maggie. I won’t let them near you.”
My heart snags on the words, because the man promising to protect me is the one I should probably be afraid of.
I sink into the vinyl cushion, wringing my hands in my lap.
Holden Shaw could break me if I let him.
Behind me, a pinball machine pings, dishes clatter, and the jukebox cues up the next song.
“Is this Mazzy Star?” Holden asks, just as the melancholy notes of “Fade Into You” begin to play. “Holy…shoot. I haven’t heard this in ages.” A couple, maybe in their fifties, dances past our booth. “That a Texas thing? Two-stepping to a nineties alt-rock song?”
“They’re waltzing, actually.” I smile, something warm settling in my chest. “They were probably our age when this came out. Wonder if it’s theirs.”
Holden drapes an arm over the back of his seat. “Think they’ve got our song?”
Our song?
I draw in a slow breath. Mama used to play it every time we came here. Wouldn’t leave until she heard it. I start to tell him, Yes, they have our song, but the front door swings open and a wave of voices spills in, one of them lifting the hairs on the back of my neck.
Wade Russo.
My body stills, shoulders tight like I’m bracing for impact.
“Maggie?” Holden reaches for my hand, but it’s busy clutching the jacket I’ve just dragged over me like armor.
“I didn’t know he was back in town.”
“Who? Wait—is that your friend?” His fingertips drum the tabletop. “Constance?”
I look up without meaning to. Constance’s gaze finds mine, her face brightening for half a second until she remembers whose hand she’s holding. She drops it on reflex, then tries to pull away. But Wade’s meaty arm snakes around her waist and reels her back.
It’s possessive, and not in an alpha-male, romance-novel-hero kind of way.
I don’t know if I should help her or glare at her.
Instead, I stare down at the denim in my lap, at the metal button I’ve twisted loose.
“Maggie, we can go.”
“I’m fine,” I say, a little too quickly. “I just didn’t expect to see them together.”
The chatter in the restaurant swells to a fever pitch as Wade’s group takes over the row of tables across from us. I try to ignore it. Focus instead on my perfect, handsome date—who has strong feelings for me, brought me flowers, and thinks my name is beautiful.
But then Wade’s smarmy voice slithers over me like cold syrup. “It’s been a long time, Maggie. You should join us. You and your friend.”