Chapter 36
May, Texas
I sit up against the headboard and tug Holden’s V-neck into place. It smells like him: faint smoke and spice and sex. I remember him taking it off. I don’t remember putting it on.
The memory wells up again. Waking to find him gone. No goodbye, just a note: I love you, Maggie May. I’m sorry.
The keypad chirps outside, and I blink hard.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Constance says, the sun blinding behind her. She steps inside with a paper bag and a couple coffees and sets them on the table. The dishes have been cleared, the flowers removed. No sign of the string lights or candles.
Her worried gaze settles on me. “I got kolaches if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice as fragile as glass.
She sits on the edge of the bed. “You okay?”
“Yeah, um…just tired.” I reach for the water I find on the nightstand and down most of it. “I hate that you came all the way over here. I’m not really up for ice cream and hellfire just yet.”
“Oh, honey.” She picks up my hand—and there’s that look again. “That was yesterday.”
Yesterday?
Only then do I notice the duffel on the floor, the folded blanket and pillow on the couch.
My sweater hanging by the door.
Of course he left it.
“It’s Friday,” she says. “Almost noon.” She pushes a piece of hair back from my forehead. “Ben called me when he couldn’t get you to answer the door. We had to reset the code.”
I twist the hem of Holden’s shirt around my finger, my throat closing. “I don’t remember.”
“You were pretty out of it.” Her brown eyes soften. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before.”
I turn toward the window, another wave of tears threatening. A lizard scurries up the side of the house and disappears.
Constance sweeps her thumb across the back of my hand. “Are you about ready to go back to your room?”
I shake my head.
“What about a shower? I’ll go get your stuff.”
Mascara cakes my lashes. No telling what I smell like. “Okay.”
I get cleaned up. Eat a kolache. Sleep some more.
Constance studies me closely before deciding to leave me for the night, but I put on enough of a show to pass for fine, even opening my laptop like I plan to write.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” she says.
I manage a smile over the screen. “I slept for like thirty hours. I’ll probably still be sitting here.”
But the second the door closes, I get back in bed.
Days pass.
I never go back to my room.
Little by little, my things migrate to the carriage house. Ben frets like a mother hen, but Constance seems to get it. And just before our first guests of the season are due to check in, she helps me move the rest. No questions asked.
“Thanks for this,” I say, stowing the last of my clothes in the closet. “I don’t think I could have—” My gaze catches on Holden’s UCLA sweatshirt, and the words die in my throat.
“It’s Memorial weekend,” she says, taking it off the hanger and tossing it onto the highest shelf—like my heart wasn’t wrapped in it. “You can’t very well take up two rooms. Where would we put everyone?”
It’s just a sweatshirt, Maggie. Breathe.
I focus on tearing down an empty box. “You sure you don’t want to stay here?”
We’d talked about it—her bunking with me until my brother’s room was free. But that was before.
“Right now, you need space,” she says, pulling a piece of packing tape from my sleeve. “And you talk in your sleep. Just so you know.”
The holiday brings a full house, but Constance assures me she and Ben have it covered. I don’t know how, considering I haven’t even trained her yet, but Ben says not to worry. So I don’t.
“Here’s the deal,” she says. “You have to write. Either host or write. Those are your choices.”
“You’re kinda bossy,” I tell her.
She raises a brow. “Host or write.”
So I open my laptop again.
Only this time, when my fingers hit the keys, the words come.
And as long as they come, the tears don’t.
So I keep writing. Every waking minute.
Thousands of words per day.
Ben moves out. Constance moves in.
Still, I write.
And by summer’s end, I’ve published my first book.
September
“Listen to this one,” Constance says, dropping onto the barstool beside me. “‘Gracie’s heartbreak is palpable. It’s clear the author writes from personal experience. I just want to hug her.’” She grins. “Aww, I want to hug you too.”
“Ooh, my turn!” Ben says from the open laptop on the island. “‘May writes with the clarity and depth of someone who’s been publishing for decades. Heart Without a Home is a remarkable debut.’” He looks into the camera. “Mags, where’d the title come from?”
I take another bite of my waffle and chew it slowly.
“It’s just a lyric I came across. Seemed to fit.
” I considered calling it “Fade Into You,” but that felt a bit too on the nose—and telling, since I play it all the time.
I set down my fork and push my plate away.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your date with Zack? ”
“It’s not even five here yet,” my brother says. “And it’s not a date. Ce n’est pas un rendez-vous.”
“Pas un rencard,” Zack corrects in the background. “And it is too a date.”
I smile. Ben’s really taken to Normandy. It’s only been a month, but it seems to suit him.
Constance squeals. “Oh my God, I’m dying. ‘I loved, loved, loved this book! But please tell me Gracie’s brother’s book is next!’”
“Oui!” Zack shouts while Ben makes a gagging sound.
“Are you insane?” he says. “My sister writes sex scenes. Ew.”
“Would you consider writing gay romance?” Constance asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe? But not with a character I based on my brother.”
“Hear that, Ben?” she says. “You’re safe.”
“Merci!”
She sets her phone down and swivels to face me. “So, Magnolia, what are your plans for today?”
I drop my head on my folded arms and let out a groan. Much to my best friend’s dismay, I don’t have social media. I didn’t join any reader groups, and I definitely didn’t advertise.
I published quietly because I needed to. I never expected anything to come of it.
“Please tell me you claimed your author profile on Goodreads.”
In that first week, I sold exactly four books, three to my family. The fourth went to a real reader. Someone who found it by chance and loved it enough to leave a review. I’ve probably read it a hundred times already: Beautifully written and impossible to put down. It kept me up all night.
But by the end of week two, something shifted. My little book just kind of…took off. Sales jumped, practically overnight. Reviews poured in faster than I could read them.
My confidence soared.
My heartbreak dulled.
I couldn’t wait to start writing again.
“At the very least, we need to get your website up.”
Now she’s hounding me to “be accessible.” Facebook. Instagram. Some Twitter replacement with a “strong reader presence.”
“It had to have gone viral on Bookstagram or BookTok or whatever the hell it’s called.” She shakes her phone at me. “Why aren’t you on social media?”
I give her a look. “You aren’t even on social media.”
“I am too.”
“When’s the last time you checked it?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Ben’s on social media,” I hear Zack say.
My brother holds up both hands. “Don’t involve me in this. I have no idea what a BookTok is.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a guest says, wandering in from the foyer. She’s probably twenty-two at best, wearing bags under her eyes bigger than the ones she arrived with. “I missed breakfast. Is there anything left by any chance?”
“Girl, I got you,” Constance says, giving me a wink before hopping off her stool.
She and Jose Cuervo had quite the time last night, mimicking the frogs in Mrs. Perkins’s pond. Luckily, her group’s the only one booked right now, and they took off early to float the river.
Constance nukes a leftover waffle, then gets her settled on the back porch with a packet of ibuprofen and a Topo Chico.
“Where were we?” she says, reclaiming her spot at the island. “Right. Accessibility.”
Ben yawns. “While I find this part riveting, I should probably start getting ready for un rencard.”
“Mon rencard!”
“Mon rencard,” he says. “But Mags, have you, perchance, called Holden yet?”
Every single day, he asks me this. “Nope. Sure haven’t.”
“Maggie,” Zack says, his face filling the screen, “I know it’s none of my business, but you did kind of write a book about the guy.”
“Solid point,” Constance says.
I huff. “It’s not technically about him.”
“So we’re sticking with that?” Ben glances at an invisible watch. “What’s today? Isn’t Holden in Toronto?”
“Why he sure is,” Constance says.
Traitor.
“Doesn’t Gracie surprise Hunter in Toronto?” Ben asks.
“She sure does,” Constance replies.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I say, sliding off my stool. “If I call him, will y’all stop?”
“Yep,” Ben says.
“Cross my heart,” Constance says.
“Please, for the love of God,” Zack says.
I reach across the island for my book and trace my thumb over the title.
It’s not like it hasn’t crossed my mind. I cut ties because I thought it would make things easier, but that’s not what happened. At least not for me.
But what about him? Did I abandon him when he needed me most? Did I ghost him?
The guilt keeps me up at night until I remember he has Gabi. And I’m grateful for that. Really.
I just wish he had me.
“I’m not making any promises,” I say. “He could be seeing someone.”
He’s probably seeing someone.
Just the thought makes it hard to swallow.
“Or,” Constance says, “you could fly to Toronto. Pick up where you left off. Live happily ever after, just like Gracie and Hunter.”
I carry my plate to the sink and look past our hungover guest to the magnolia tree, its branches bathed in late-morning sun. I can still see Holden sitting there, not yet ready to face what summer was going to ask of him.
I just need to know he’s okay.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll call him. Tomorrow.”
Two sets of eyes glare back at me.
“It’s already after eleven there. He’ll be busy with press stuff.”
The eyes don’t budge.
“I’ll call him first thing in the morning. Early. Before Colonel wakes up.” I turn back to the dishwasher and yank it open. “I will.”
My alarm goes off at 5 a.m., and my stomach is already in my throat. I make a cup of coffee in the carriage house kitchenette and curl up on the sofa, legs folded beneath me, Holden’s UCLA sweatshirt stretched over my bare thighs.
Constance meant well, but there was no way I was going without it, so I dragged a chair into the closet and took it down. I sleep in it almost every night, but she doesn’t need to know that.
My gaze drifts to the clock on the microwave. It’s five after six in Toronto.
What if he’s moved on?
What if he’s with someone?
That last one lands hardest, which is probably why I’m stalling.
I unfold the crumpled note in my hand.
Does he still?
The AC kicks on. Outside, Colonel crows.
It’s five eleven. Six eleven, Toronto time.
I take a long, slow sip of coffee.
My mug, the same blue ceramic one Holden used while he was here, makes a jarring clink as I set it down and pick up my phone.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” comes a woman’s voice—soft, low—like maybe I woke her.
My stomach drops from my throat to somewhere deep. I pull the phone away from my ear and check the screen.
Five thirteen. Six thirteen, Toronto time.
I dialed the right number.
“Hello?” she says again.
Hang up. Hang up.
“Um, hi. I’m looking for Holden?” It comes out like a question. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“He’s not available at the moment. I can give him a message, though.”
“No, um…thank you,” I say, and I hate how thin it sounds. “I’ll call back.”
“Wait, Maggie?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Gabi. Wow, how are you?”
I let out a breath. “I’m…I’m good. I tried to catch him early, but if he’s busy…”
“No,” she says. “Not busy at all. He’s…” She hesitates. “He’s in the shower. Hang on, I’ll get him.”
“Gabi, are you…are you and Holden—”
“Oh. Oh my God, Maggie, no.” She lets out a quick, brittle laugh. “We just fell asleep watching…Lifetime.”
“It’s, um, totally fine.” I set the note on the table. “I get it.”
“Maggie, I swear. I only answered his phone because of Hannah. The man’s a nervous nelly these days.”
I swallow. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s…coping.”
The AC kicks off. Colonel crows again.
“I should go. Just tell Holden—”
“Nothing’s going on. Please believe me.”
“I know. It’s not that. It’s just…”
You get to be part of his life.
I tug at the hem of his sweatshirt. “Is he okay?”
“He’s doing good. It’s been a lot, but he’s good.”
“I—I’m glad.”
Well done, Maggie. You’re off the hook.
“Oh, hey,” she says. “Congrats on the book. I loved it. Seriously.”
“You read it.”
“As soon as it came out. Your writing…it’s just beautiful. I had press the next day and looked like hell because I stayed up all night reading. It definitely didn’t suck.”
There’s a soft rustling of fabric, like she’s getting out of bed.
I stare at my chipped polish. “Thanks. Thank you.”
“Maggie, I think Holden’s done. Let me get him.”
I draw my knees up and press my forehead to my thighs. “No, Gabi. I have to go. Just tell him good luck at the premiere. You too.”
The line goes quiet for a second, and I wonder if it disconnected. But then I hear a door open, the quick rasp of a zipper.
“Is that the real reason you called?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
She lowers her voice. “In your book, Gracie shows up in Toronto, and—”
“I really have to go,” I say.
And then I hang up.