Chapter 13 #2
Holden nods, but doesn't leave. "I just wanted to say—the board meeting was interesting. I told them over the phone exactly where they could shove their acquisition plans."
"And?" I ask despite myself.
"And I've been officially terminated. Disowned. Disinherited. The full corporate excommunication package," he says, and he's actually smiling about it.
"You seem happy about losing everything," June observes, taking notes.
"I didn't lose everything," he says, still looking at me. "I lost things I never wanted. There's a difference."
"Pretty words again," I mutter, but my heart's doing something stupid.
"Truthful words," he corrects. "I'm done lying. To you, to myself, to everyone."
"Except about your name," I point out.
"I'm legally changing it," he announces. "To Holden Clark. Just Clark."
The room goes quiet again.
"You're giving up the Pierce name?" Delia asks.
"I never wanted it. It came with too many strings," he explains.
"That's a big gesture," Teddy says, wiping his eyes. "Very romantic."
"It's paperwork," I say, but my voice wavers.
"Everything important is paperwork," Mr. Jackson says wisely. "Marriage, divorce, restraining orders. All paperwork."
"Why do restraining orders make your important paperwork list?" June asks.
"The harvest festival," he says simply.
Everyone nods knowingly. I'm starting to think I don't want to know about the harvest festival.
"The point is," Holden continues, "tomorrow at the gala, I won't be Holden Pierce. I'll just be the guy with one callus who's terrible at cars but really good at falling in love with you."
"Stop it," I whisper.
"Stop what?" he asks.
"Stop saying things that make me want to forgive you," I admit.
"Then I'll keep saying them until you do," he promises.
"That's not how forgiveness works," I protest.
Holden moves toward the door, pausing to look back. "I'll see you tomorrow. Save me a dance?"
"Malcolm already called dibs," I inform him.
"Then I'll have to fight him for it," he says simply.
"You can't fight Malcolm. He does CrossFit," Finn warns.
"He does CrossFit incorrectly," Holden says. "I've seen his Instagram. His form is terrible."
"You've stalked his Instagram?" I ask.
"I research my competition," he corrects. "His yacht photos are all taken at the same angle to hide that it's actually pretty small."
"His yacht is small?" Teddy gasps, and June leans forward with interest.
"Tiny. It's basically a glorified fishing boat with pretensions," Holden confirms.
This changes everything. Well, not everything, but the committee looks offended by this revelation.
"He lied about his yacht size?" Mrs. Patterson asks, scandalized.
"The yacht that's literally named 'Better Without You'?" June asks.
"Should be called 'Compensating For Something,'" Giuseppe suggests.
Holden leaves with a small smile, and the committee immediately explodes into discussion about yacht sizes, Malcolm's CrossFit form, and the implications of boat-related fraud.
"This doesn't change anything," I announce to the room.
"It changes the yacht situation," Teddy points out.
"The yacht was never the issue!" I protest.
"The yacht is always an issue," Delia says mysteriously.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Holden: My suit is from 2024. Is that suitable? Get it? LOL
Despite everything, I smile. Then I catch myself smiling and scowl instead.
Another text.
Holden: I saw that smile.
I look at my window and realize I'm standing directly in front of it, backlit by tons of candles like some kind of conflicted lighthouse.
"STOP HAVING A DIFFERENT FACE FOR ME," I shout through the glass.
"I CAN'T HELP IT," he shouts back. "YOU MAKE MY FACE DO THINGS."
"That's the worst declaration of love ever," Finn observes.
"It's actually kind of sweet," Mrs. Patterson argues.
"Ten points for originality," Delia announces, making a note.
Tomorrow is the gala. Malcolm will be there with his Instagram yogini and his tiny yacht stories. Holden will be there in a suit from 2024, freshly disowned and renamed. The committee will be watching and scoring everything.
And I'll be in the middle of it all, trying not to fall for pretty words from a man whose face apparently involuntarily softens when he looks at me.
"I need all the flasks," I tell Giuseppe.
"Already on it," he assures me. "I'm making a special batch of wine. With actual love this time. Not oregano."
"How do you put love in a flask?" June asks.
"Very carefully," Giuseppe says mysteriously.
The committee continues planning. I text Holden back despite myself.
Me: 2024 is suitable. Barely.
His response is immediate.
Holden: Good. It's the suit I wore when I stopped believing in corporations and started believing in other things.
Me: Like what?
I type before I can stop myself.
Holden: Like women who alphabetize their anxieties and name their ceiling stains.
I stare at my phone, then at Giuseppe's flask collection. Tomorrow I'll stand in that gala, surrounded by committee scorecards and Malcolm's yacht lies and a man in a 2024 suit who gave up everything for a town that sugared his friend's gas tank.
Giuseppe sings something about love and oregano. Delia updates her charts. And I realize I'm smiling again, despite everything.
Tomorrow's going to be a disaster.
Our kind of disaster.