Love Me Like I Love You

by Willow Winters

  As I watched Magnolia Barton walk across that stage and accept her diploma, a feeling of utter pride filled me from head to toe. I’m so damn proud of her.

  Once the ceremony ends, I linger even though I know it’s dangerous. I’m not sure what her response would be to me being here.

  Fuck. I scrub a hand down my face and over my short beard and release an inward groan. This is another sign of how fucked up I made things. Before, I wouldn’t have hesitated in being here, in letting her know I came.

  “Hollis?”

  I startle at the male voice calling my name. When I turn, I find a guy about my height wearing a button-down shirt beneath a sport coat and a pair of pressed slacks. He regards me with a mixture of surprise and recognition while I have no idea who the hell he is. He steps closer with a smile.

  “Sorry to catch you off guard,” he apologizes and holds out his hand to me. “Grant Stevenson.”

  I shake his hand warily. “Hollis Barnes.” I pause before adding, “But somehow, you already knew that.”

  He grins, and if I’m being completely honest, I don’t detect any douchebag vibes. “I recognized you from one of the photos Magnolia has in her room of the two of you.”

  It takes all my control to suppress the jolt that zigzags through me at his words. She still keeps a photo of us?

  His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he lifts his chin to gesture to me. “Although I have to be honest, the ink and beard initially threw me off.”

  A surprised laugh escapes me, and I slide my hands into my pockets.

  Grant steps closer and glances around before lowering his voice. “I’m actually glad you’re here. I know you and Magnolia haven’t seen one another in a while, but you’re her oldest friend…”

  Oldest friend. Not best friend. I don’t miss the phrasing. Although I don’t feel it’s intentional, it cuts deep just the same.

  “I’m nervous as hell, and I’m hopin’ you can tell me if she’d like this.”

  It takes me a moment to realize what he’s pulled out of his pocket.

  A velvet ring box and a packet of Pop Rocks.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I resist the urge to rub at the center of my chest, where searing pain radiates.

  He flicks open the box to reveal a ring with a large diamond that’s fancy as hell. Something Mrs. Barton would love and deem appropriate. But Magnolia? Hell no.

  “Her mom helped me pick it out.”

  Exactly.

  “And I know she loves Pop Rocks since she always has a pack.”

  Not the strawberry flavor.

  But he’s trying. I can see the nervousness in his expression. The hope. The excitement.

  I can’t crush this guy. He’s exactly what her parents have always wanted for her. The kind of guy who doesn’t get his hands dirty. The one with money and connections.

  The one who can give her the future her parents expect her to have. The one who won’t come home with rough hands, callused to hell and back from working on a project that’s for a high-end client or due to be auctioned off to a car collector with more money than they know what to do with.

  The man who wears button-downs like they’re second skin. Designer clothes.

  So caught up in my thoughts, I don’t immediately realize that he’s pocketed the items and is gazing in another direction. When I turn and follow his focus, catching sight of her weaving through the crowd, I take advantage of the moment and let my eyes drink her in. She’s…so goddamn beautiful.

  Her long blond hair spills down her back, and even beneath the shapeless graduation gown, her sleek, tanned legs peek out from the bottom hem, her heels accentuating her toned calf muscles.

  When she catches sight of Grant, her entire face lights up, and…goddammit.

  I can’t do this. This was a fucking mistake. It’s like someone’s performing open heart surgery and just cracked my chest open without anesthesia.

  I spin around, my eyes trained on an exit. I can disappear, and she’ll never know. I’m sure in all the engagement excitement, he’ll forget to mention to her that I came.

  I barely make it two steps when I hear it. The voice I’ve dreamed of every night since I left.

  “Hollis?”

  Fuck.

  My eyes fall closed, and I battle against warring emotions. Slowly, so damn cautiously, I turn around.

  Seeing Magnolia from a distance was both heartbreaking and wonderful. Up close, though, it’s downright devastating. Like an invisible hand reaches into my chest and rips out my heart.

  I force a smile that feels brittle as hell. “Congratulations, Shortcake.”

  Magnolia

  AUBURN UNIVERSITY

  Graduation Day

  “Can you believe it?” Stephanie squeals, doing a little side-to-side happy dance. She jostles me in the process, and my hands fly to keep my cap from shifting too much. I know my parents will want to take pictures, and Roy will likely post one on his social media pages, so I need to look presentable.

  I knew I should’ve used more bobby pins to keep it in place.

  Also, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my roommate this bubbly before. Tommy’s had quite the influence on her. He’s softened a lot of her edges, and it’s nice to see her like this. She still dyes her hair fun colors and dresses how she wants, but she’s more affectionate and energetic and just so…happy.

  If I’m being honest, I’m a smidge envious.

  My parents and Grandpa Joe are here with Grant somewhere in the large crowd. Stephanie and I are milling around, trying to find our respective families in the crowd now that the graduation ceremony is over.

  “Do you think Grant’s going to propose tonight?”

  I jerk to an abrupt stop, causing someone to run into me from behind.

  “So sorry,” I offer automatically before turning back to Stephanie. “Did he say somethin’?”

  She gives me an odd look. “Um, you’ve been dating him for a while, and you two are like an old married couple.” She snorts with a smirk. “If the apocalypse happened right now, I’d be more surprised about that than if Grant proposed.”

  She’s right. Grant and I get along so well that our relationship has been flawless. But still, something’s been holding me back.

  I miss you.

  Lord, help me, but I just can’t seem to escape the presence of those words from Hollis’ text messages. They stubbornly linger in the recesses of my mind, haunting me.

  Inwardly, I shake off my distracting thoughts and finally spot Grant in the crowd, my family standing off to the left of him, speaking with a few people I’m not familiar with. Merely seeing his handsome face smiling at me lifts my spirits.

  I smile and wave back, intent on making my way through the crowd to him. I take a few steps when something—or someone, rather—to the right of Grant draws my attention. All I see is the man’s back, but something about him strikes me as familiar.

  White shirtsleeves rolled up to just below his elbows reveal dark, intricate swirls of ink. His khakis fit him well, and he looks fit, lean but muscular. He’s tall, and his hair is dark, yet longer on top while the sides are close shaven, and—

  Hollis.

  My heart lodges itself in my throat and a faint whimper spills from my lips. Is it him? Or am I making a fool of myself, mistakenly seeing him in a crowd? Lord knows, I’ve done that dozens of times before, only to feel devastated in the end.

  “Hollis?” The man falters at my raised voice as I advance closer.

  When he slowly turns, as if resigned to do so, I’m utterly robbed of breath. He came. Hollis came to my graduation. Tears well in my eyes as I now stand a foot away from him.

  He looks so different yet the same. He’s grown a beard that’s neatly trimmed, dark like his hair. Tattoos peek out from the small view of his upper chest granted by the button-down shirt. He looks like a devastatingly handsome stranger yet also like the boy I loved.

  His smile seems brittle at the edges. “Congratulatio
ns, Shortcake.”

  Good Lord, I’ve missed his voice.

  I continue standing here, hating the uncertainty plaguing me about whether it’s okay to hug him or not. Finally, the urge is too strong to resist, and I rush forward and wrap my arms around his waist.

  “I missed you,” I breathe against his neck. He smells crisp, clean, and just like…Hollis. It’s comforting, unlike anything else.

  “Magnolia?”

  At Grant’s voice, Hollis stiffens beneath my touch. Too caught up in this moment, I don’t respond. Easing away, I drink in the sight of my best friend.

  “We’re headin’ to an early dinner, if you want to join us.” There’s no mistaking the hopeful tone in my voice.

  He offers a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Thanks, but I don’t wanna be in the way.” His gaze flicks to something over my shoulder. “I reckon other things might be more important.”

  His smile makes my heart ache because I know him. I know his smiles, and this one holds so much sadness, it makes me want to hold him tight to me.

  “Congratulations, Shortcake.” He dips his head to dust a featherlight kiss to my forehead, and I close my eyes to savor every ounce of his touch. “On everythin’.”

  He shifts to move away, and my eyes flash open in panic. I part my lips to call after him, his tall form already making quick work of weaving through the crowd, when I hear my name called.

  “Magnolia Mae Barton.”

  I spin around to see what Grant wants, and as soon as I face him, he drops down to one knee and opens a small black velvet box.

  Text from Hollis

  Hollis

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  Fairhope, Alabama

  It was bound to happen eventually. Especially since the housekeeper, Teresa, I hired to keep up with the house had told me as much.

  After Dad’s death, my mom had taken to the bottle. Hard. I knew she’d dabbled in drinking before, but she’d stepped it up to a whole other level once Dad was gone.

  Maybe it makes me a terrible excuse for a son, but I hadn’t stepped in even though Teresa had given me updates periodically. Not because I wanted Mom to drink herself to death, but because I knew it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. My mom’s always done what she wanted, and I’m the last person who could’ve had an impact on her choices.

  I’d done a hair above the bare minimum and allotted those funds Dad had appointed for her living expenses. She had a roof over her head and food in the pantry, a company regularly scheduled to take care of the yard and landscaping, and Teresa ensuring the place was kept clean on the inside. But I couldn’t bring myself to do much more.

  Her liver gave out minutes after poor Teresa had received a tongue lashing about whatever rant my mother had been going off about. The housekeeper discovered her unresponsive when she’d gone to check on her before she was due to leave for the day.

  I hired cleaners to come in and deep clean the house, and I either donated all furniture and furnishings or had them hauled to the dump. I really don’t know what I want to do with the place. It holds so many memories, both good and bad, but I know I should sell it and move on.

  That would be the smartest move.

  But then there’s the backyard. Hell if a damn treehouse isn’t holding me back from putting this place on the market.

  I stand in the middle of the living room and glance around the empty house, now gleaming; the cleanest it’s been in years. The knock on the front door catches me by surprise, and I take another look around, wondering if the cleaners left something behind as I head to answer the door.

  I haven’t seen him since I left after Dad died, and staring into his eyes now leaves me unsettled as hell.

  I fix a polite smile on my face. “Mr. Barton.”

  He nods. “Hollis.” With a cursory glance past me, he asks, “May I come in?”

  Without a word, I step back and open the door wider, allowing him to pass before quietly closing it behind him.

  He hovers in the small foyer, surveying the empty house, before turning to face me. At his somber expression, I realize this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed him without an air of confidence.

  “Hollis, I”—he breaks off to run a hand over top of his thinning hair—“I, uh, owe you an apology.”

  Wariness settles through me. Unsure of how to respond, I stay quiet.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize who you were until…” He trails off, averting his gaze. “Until much later.”

  “But you knew.” He knew before I did. I stare at him as anger rushes to the forefront.

  His dark eyes meet mine, the shade so similar. “I suspected. I just wasn’t one hundred percent certain until recently.” He drags his hand through his hair again, this time mussing it. “Your mother had too much to drink and showed up at my door, demandin’ I admit the truth.”

  His sigh is long and defeated, and right now, he’s the polar opposite of the man who’s always impeccably dressed with a confident smile plastered on his face. “I tried to calm her down and managed to walk her back here before my wife got back from her Women’s Club dinner.”

  “She doesn’t know.” I don’t pose it as a question because I can read between the lines.

  He shakes his head slowly, remorse and a hint of fear lingering in his features. “No.”

  I back up to lean against the wall and shove my hands into my pockets, attempting a casual pose. Inside, though, my emotions riot. “Why are you here?”

  The split second of hesitation, the guilt that bleeds into his expression, has me regretting my question. Because it all becomes clear.

  Even before he reaches into his pocket.

  “Get out.” The steely tone has him freezing in mid-motion, the neatly folded paper halfway out of his pocket, pinched between his two fingers and thumb.

  A check. More specifically, hush money.

  He continues to withdraw the check and unfold it, yet he can’t bear to meet my eyes. Staring down at the piece of paper in his hands, looking defeated, he murmurs, “I have to do this.” I’m not sure if he’s saying it to me or to himself.

  I straighten, drawing my hands from my pockets, and stand tall. My fingers curl as I fist my hands.

  “I don’t want your goddamn money.” His head snaps up at the fierce intensity of my tone. “I never wanted it.”

  Fury grips me and it takes tremendous effort to get the words out. “You might be able to pay your way with others, but not me. So, you can”—I lift my chin, gesturing to the check—“shred that because I already have a father.” I press my lips thin before managing to finish with words I force from between clenched teeth. “And it’s not you.”

  “But this could help you with—”

  I tug open the front door with so much force, I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off the hinges. “Go home, Mr. Barton.” My stony stare settles on him, and he swallows audibly before nodding and tucking the check back in his pocket.

  He steps to the door but pauses at the threshold, turning his head slightly, yet still not meeting my eyes. “For what it’s worth, Hollis, I’m sorry.” Then he’s gone, leaving those words in his wake.

  I shove the door closed and lean my forehead against the cool surface, letting my eyes fall closed. I’m not sure how long I stay like this, willing myself to get my emotions under control. It shouldn’t hurt, the dismissal from a man who was never a father to me. It shouldn’t.

  But it does.

  It serves as yet another indication, a glaringly bright sign that I’m not—nor will I ever be—good enough for the Bartons.

  Never.

  Magnolia

  Tomorrow night is the engagement party, and everyone seems to be teeming with excitement.

  Except me.

  That realization inflicts tsunami-like waves of guilt, but I can’t deny it. Because I want one person to be there, and I’m not sure if he’ll come.

  I pick up my phone and pull up the last text message I received from
Hollis. It was a photo from Wisconsin, where he’d traveled for another auto expo and auction.

  Hollis: Greetings from West Bend, Wisconsin, Shortcake.

  He’d forgone the “I miss you” in his texts ever since my graduation day. I can’t explain it, but the absence of those three words lingers even now.

  I draw in a deep breath and type out a message to him.

  Me: Are you around?

  I’d only seen him briefly when he’d been directing cleaning crews and other workers who removed the furnishings from the house now that his mother has passed. I’d walked over, much to my mother’s dismay, to offer my condolences, but with all the bustling around us, it hadn’t been conducive to much talking.

  I can’t deny the moment I stopped a few feet away from him in his driveway, the sight of him made my stomach flip. In a simple cotton short-sleeve T-shirt, his tattoos were on display, an intriguing mix of black ink and more colorful designs covering the top of his forearms and spilling onto the backs of his hands. They mesmerized me, and I found myself dismayed by my thoughts of wanting to see his bare torso and investigate the patterns peeking out from his tanned chest, unencumbered by clothing.

  It was a fascinatin’ difference, that’s all, I tell myself again. Such a contrast from the boy I once knew to the man today.

  My phone vibrates with an incoming text.

  Hollis: Yes, ma’am.

  Me: Can we talk for a minute?

  I stare down at my phone, waiting anxiously for those three dots to appear. They never do. I wait and wait until my screen times out and goes dark.

  A moment later, it lights up with an incoming call.

  “Hey,” I answer quietly.

  “Hey, Shortcake.” Even his voice sounds different. It’s more gravelly, rougher than it used to be. I lean back on my bed and close my eyes.

  “It’s so good to hear your voice,” I confess.

  There’s a hint of a smile in his tone. “Same.”

  I press a hand against my chest over top my racing heart. “I wanted to see if you’d be around tomorrow.” When he doesn’t immediately respond, I rush on. “I know it’s last minute, but tomorrow’s the engagement party, and I’d really love for you to be there.” My words are hurried, spoken so fast that I’m nearly breathless by the end.