Chapter 14
HOLLY
The alarm on my phone chimes. We’ve used up another nine-minute snooze.
I force my legs over the edge of the bed and groan as the rest of my body follows the trajectory.
It’s cold, I’m tired, and I have a knot in my stomach the size of a bowling ball.
We’re on day five of this fourteen-day experience, waking up in the third of seven locations, and for the first time since we embarked on this insanity, Anna and I are sharing a room.
“Anna. Up. We’re going to be late.”
Today, we’ll come face-to-letter with more truths from Zoe.
Today, I’m going to have to heave my body onto some poor beast, something I haven’t done since the last time we were here.
“You snore.” Anna groans into her pillow.
I ignore her comment and ask, “Do you want the bathroom first?”
“I’m buying you those snore strips before our next stop.”
“What are you talking about?” I stand and plot a course to the bathroom.
The rustic wood floor of our cabin is carpeted with open suitcases.
Another of Anna’s Luxe Vacations Travel Tip Number Something-or-other about unpacking the moment you arrive.
Except she hasn’t actually unpacked. She opened every suitcase, which, when you travel with five suitcases, takes up some impressive real estate in a room that doesn’t have much to begin with.
“Think of it this way,” Zoe had said during one of our trips, “if we forget to pack something, we can rummage through Anna’s bags.”
“Is this really necessary, Anna?” I step over a suitcase and promptly stub my big toe into the one beside it. “Ow.”
“Why do you snore so loud?” She rolls onto her back, arms flopping against the mattress on either side of her. With a dramatic sigh, she pushes a black satin eye mask up her forehead and blinks at the dim room as her eyes adjust to what little light there is.
“I do not.” I flip on the overhead light in the bathroom and squint at the sudden assault on my eyeballs, smothering a smirk as Anna yanks down her eye mask.
Jack has never complained about my snoring. He likes to tease me, mostly when I fall asleep on the couch while we’re watching TV. But he’s never made it a big deal.
At the thought of him, I’m hit with a dose of missing my boys. Quinn would love it here.
“You do,” Anna insists.
“Well, you still talk in your sleep.” She always did.
“I do not.” But I can see she’s not so sure. She bites into her bottom lip. “What did I say?”
“Nothing incriminating.” Nothing too incriminating, at least. But something is definitely up between her and Leo.
Satisfied—or more likely, too tired pre-coffee to ask more questions—Anna pushes off the bed, slips on her fuzzy pink kitten-heel slippers and sashays past me into the bathroom.
The sage-green shorts and bralette she’s wearing look softer and made from a fabric more expensive than anything in my suitcase.
I shrink into my oversized T-shirt and the fart-gun-toting Minions on the boxer shorts I’d bought Jack as a gag gift a few Christmases ago.
“Hey,” I protest. “I was going in there.”
“You snooze, you lose.” She closes the door, leaving me waiting like so many times during college and vacations. Anna is a bathroom hog. That, at least, hasn’t changed.
I navigate the obstacle course back to my bed and reach for my phone. Jack sent a good night message, but I’d already been asleep. Instinctively, I type “Good morning,” but the second the message displays “delivered,” I panic. We’re an hour ahead of California and it’s barely past 6 a.m. here.
As I stare at my delivered message in horror that the ping might have woken him up and debate unsending it, three bubbles appear, quickly followed by a picture of Quinn snuggled next to Jack in our bed and my heart melts.
You caved, I reply.
Jack: I caved.
Me: What else has he conned you into?
Jack: We now have three cats and a gecko.
Me: Please tell me you’re joking.
Jack: It’s 5 a.m. My jokes are still sleeping.
Me: Jack!!????
Jack: Hols!!!!!!
Me: Did you remember to send in the permission form for the field trip?
Jack: I did.
Me: How are swim classes going?
Jack: Fine.
Me: Fine?
Jack: It’s 5 a.m. What are you expecting, a dissertation?
Me: I just want to know that everything is under control.
Jack: Everything is under control.
Me: Sure?
Jack: Sure.
Me: You don’t sound sure.
Jack: It’s 5 a.m. Hols, we’re fine. Really.
I’m long-distance mothering.
Me: OK. But you’ll tell me if something isn’t OK?
Jack: Don’t you have a horse to ride?
Me: I’m serious, Jack.
Jack: So am I. And now I’m going back to sleep.
Me: I love you both. Kiss Quinn for me.
Jack responds with a sleeping emoji.
I stare at my phone, willing the three bubbles to bounce again. I’m not ready for Jack to sign off yet. When he doesn’t text more, I type: One good thing—Anna and I did “one good thing” last night.
While lying in the dark with Anna, the moonlight reflecting off Zoe’s urn between our beds, Anna had whispered, “One good thing.”
The words hit me hard. Zoe had started this tradition in college, insisting that no matter how stressful or awful our day had been, we each had to share one good thing before going to sleep. “There’s always something,” she’d say, “even if it’s just that the day is over.”
On our trips, in our dorm, over late-night calls when we were scattered across the country, Zoe would always make sure we ended the day with one good thing.
I drew air in deeply through my nose, searching for something, anything, that felt genuine without being too vulnerable.
I’m still not ready to go there yet with her.
“Being able to laugh in the van on the way here,” I finally whispered back.
It was just this side of safe, neutral. Despite everything, there was something comforting about falling back into this ritual with Anna.
Anna was quiet for a moment before sharing hers. “The way you tucked Zoe’s urn back into my bag. It was classic Holly. Loving, thoughtful. That’s my one good thing.”
I choked up, grateful she couldn’t see my face.
The thing about falling back into our “one good thing” was that it made me feel connected to Zoe, Anna, and parts of myself I’d locked away.
It reminded me why Zoe had started this tradition in the first place—to find light even in the darkness—and it reminded me that I can’t let my guard down around Anna.
This feeling of connection is exactly what Zoe would have wanted. And it’s exactly what I’m most afraid of. Because one small confession will lead to another, and I cannot, will not, allow Anna access to that part of me again.
I wait, biting my lip, and willing the three dots to appear.
And then they do, only to deliver a thumbs-up emoji.
When it’s clear that’s the only response I’ll be getting from Jack, I open the thread with Mr. Whitmore.
Like on each leg of the trip so far, I’ve texted to let him know we arrived.
And like on each leg of the trip, I’m disappointed that I’ve only gotten a thumbs-up response from him.
The toilet flushes, reminding me we’re on a tight schedule.
I yank on a pair of jeans and a less massive T-shirt, then pull my hair into a tight bun.
Between packing clothes for a fourteen-day trip and the army of supplies I use to straighten my wild curls, I’d opted for the extra clothes.
But with each day, the curls get a bit more opinionated. Kind of like Anna.
“Oh, Hols, your hair is gorgeous,” Zoe had gushed when she realized what my hair looked like pre-straightening assault. She’d plead with me to leave it natural. I tried, once, for her. I’d made it as far as the front door of our dorm before racing back to the room to regain control.
My eyes flit to the urn on the bedside table.
“I know you’d prefer I kept it down and wear a cowboy hat for the ride.
” Zoe had bought us matching cowboy hats the first time we were here.
She looked adorable in hers. Anna looked chic.
I, of course, looked ridiculous with the hat perched awkwardly on my unforgiving bun.
It was slightly less ridiculous when Anna turned the bun into a tight, low ponytail.
But even with her help, I didn’t look natural. Not the way they did.
From the manila envelope Mr. Whitmore gave me, I extract the small white envelope marked “Dude Ranch, letter #2.” Oh, Zoe, how can something so small and innocent as these letters contain so much heartbreak?
The secrets she’s been unraveling letter by letter, the handfuls of her that we’re being forced to let go of.
“Your turn,” Anna says, emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of expensive scents.
I force my eyes from the urn and, blinking back emotion, take my turn in the bathroom.
In the time it takes me to pee and brush my teeth, Anna has transformed herself into a chic urban cowgirl with a pair of expensively distressed jeans and a tight red crop top that shows off her perfectly toned abs.
And, of course, the vegan red cowgirl boots.