Chapter 6 Holly
HOLLY
The ceiling fan in Aunt Elyse's guest room—my room then, I guess—made five full rotations every four seconds. I'd been counting for what felt like hours, watching the blades spin in the dim glow of the nightlight they'd plugged in "just in case." As if I were five instead of sixteen.
I rolled onto my side, pulling the unfamiliar comforter up to my chin.
It smelled like fabric softener. The expensive kind, not the store brand kind Grandma bought.
That stuff made my skin itch. Everything in Aunt Elyse and Uncle Drew's house smelled clean in a way I wasn't used to.
Not hospital clean or chemical clean, but like someone actually cared enough to wash things regularly and properly.
Like grandma and grandpa's, but with... strawberries?
The sheets were so smooth they almost felt slippery. The pillowcase under my cheek was cool and crisp, like it had been ironed.
Who irons pillowcases? I know it's not Aunt Elyse. Her idea of ironing is throwing things in the dryer with a wet towel.
My suitcase sat in the corner, still mostly packed.
Aunt Elyse had shown me the dresser earlier.
"All yours," she'd said, sliding the drawers open to reveal they were still empty and waiting for me.
For the last year, they'd been lined with lavender contact paper.
"And there's plenty of room in the closet too. "
I'd nodded and thanked her, but I still didn't have a whole lot to say. All I had were questions swirling in my head. Questions Aunt Elyse would never be able to answer.
How long would I be here?
Until Mom got her act together again?
Until she found a new apartment?
Until she decided she missed me?
Until school starts and grandma and grandpa say I need to come back to their condo?
From somewhere in the house, I heard a toilet flush, followed by the soft padding of feet down the hallway.
A door opened and closed—Uncle Drew checking on Eden, probably.
The dog had claimed a spot at the foot of my bed until Aunt Elyse had gently coaxed her out, saying, "Let's give Holly some space tonight. "
I kind of wished she hadn't. The weight of the dog would have been comforting. Another living thing breathing in the same space, not asking me how I was or starting up conversations just for the sake of filling the silence.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand (a real nightstand, not a cardboard box or milk crate like at the apartment I'd left to stay with my grandparents) and checked for messages from Mom.
Nothing. Not for almost three weeks now.
I shouldn't have been surprised, but the disappointment still stung.
With a sigh, I opened Instagram instead, scrolling mindlessly through photos of people I barely knew living lives that looked perfect from the outside. I stopped on a post from Kelsey, a girl from my school, posing with her mom at some fancy restaurant. #blessed #bestmomever
I closed the app before I could do something stupid like leave a bitter comment.
The house creaked and settled around me, unfamiliar noises that intermittently filled the silence. But they weren't scary noises—no shouting, no slamming doors, no sudden crashes or bangs. Just the normal sounds of a house at night. It sounded like Grandma and Grandpa's.
The bed was almost too comfortable, like one of those fancy hotel beds that swallow you whole.
I wasn't used to this much cushion. At Grandma and Grandpa's, I slept on the pull-out sofa with a metal bar that dug into my back.
At Mom's last apartment, my "bed" had been a somewhat clean mattress on the floor with an old tattered sleeping bag instead of sheets.
I hadn't had a pillow in months and honestly I didn't even want to know what happened to it.
But lying there in the bed in Aunt Elyse's spare bedroom, It felt like I was playing pretend.
I rolled over again. Punched the pillow into submission.
Through the half-open door, a sliver of light from the hallway spilled in.
Aunt Elyse had asked if I wanted it closed all the way, and I'd shrugged and said, "Whatever.
" But she'd left it cracked, like she somehow knew I didn't like being shut in completely.
From down the hall, I heard soft laughter—Aunt Elyse and Uncle Drew talking in their room. Not arguing. Not crying. Not the tense silence that meant something bad was brewing. Just... talking. Normal.
How long would it last?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out how nice it all was. The clean sheets. The pillow. The soft mattress. The nightlight. The door left open just enough. The gentle murmur of voices that didn't sound angry or desperate.
The problem with nice things is that they never last. Not in my experience. And the nicer they are, the more it hurts when they're gone.
I should know better than to get comfortable here for longer than a visit.
Should know better than to unpack my bags or put my clothes in the lavender-scented dresser.
Should know better than to expect a text from my mom telling me she found a new place for us.
Should know better than to let myself think maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.
But as I finally drifted toward sleep, surrounded by unfamiliar comfort, a traitorous thought slipped through my defenses: What if this time really was different?
What if I could stay here?