by Dee Lagasse
“Your dad made me that table as a housewarming gift,” he says breaking the silence. “I would have invited you to the housewarming party, but I figured you wouldn’t come unless Noah was with you and I -”
“I know,” I sigh, not needing him to finish his sentence.
He didn’t want Noah here, in his home. Which I completely understand. Chase had tried to be nice to him in the beginning, even going so far as inviting him to the annual Labor Day weekend camping trip all the guys take. After being looked down on and treated like they were less than him, all the guys stopped trying to be nice. Every time Noah decided to grace us with his presence, it ended in a fight between him and myself because he couldn’t get his head of his ass for more than five minutes to be a decent human being.
Regret floods me when I think about how much I've missed out on because Noah didn't want me hanging out with Chase. We still saw each other all the time within our circle of friends and every Sunday dinner at Nonna and Nonno’s. Because, you know, Chase didn't mind my big, loud, obnoxious family. I never ignored him, but I pushed him away little by little. Our daily texts became weekly, then they only came when something specifically worthy of telling each other happened.
Eventually, I started making excuses to not go to brunch on Saturdays at his mom’s, something I had been doing since high school. I let Noah’s insecurity dictate my friendship because I thought I was respecting our relationship and I hated myself for it.
As if he's reading my thoughts, Chase steps forward, bending his knees so we’re eye level and says, “Stop. Whatever is going through that pretty little head of yours? Just stop. It's fine, okay? We're good.”
“How?” I ask. “How do you not hate me right now? I did everything I made you promise me you would never do. You are my best friend, and I pushed you and our friendship aside for him. For that piece of shit.”
Rolling my eyes, I’m annoyed with myself. It was my choice to even slightly alter my friendship because of a guy. I could have told Noah to fuck off. I should have stood up for our friendship and what Chase means to me. I always swore I would never become “that” girl and, low and behold, I did just that. I became that girl.
“You’re being dramatic. First of all, Noah is a fucking idiot. He didn’t like me because he knew I could see right through his bullshit. Why do you think even when he did make an appearance he never hung around me, Tuck, Kenny, Travis, or your brother? We all knew it, Hol. But you’re so damn stubborn that talking to you about it would have made it worse,” Chase says, before placing his beer on the stone wall behind him. “And, I could never hate you. I didn't like that I couldn't call you up and ask if you wanted to grab a cheeseburger or a beer, but you were never not there when I needed you. No phone call or text ever went unanswered. Don't beat yourself up over this.”
“Speaking of cheeseburgers, that little set up you have over there is pretty bad ass,” pointing out the grilling island, I change the subject, hoping to lighten the mood.
Walking over, I pretend to admire the grill sitting in the same gray stone as the fireplace. A stainless-steel refrigerator is built into the stone below a black granite counter. Matching the fridge is the grill's access door and a sink with a faucet. A wooden handled grilling set hangs from little hooks on the side of the mini-fridge. I hadn’t come over here with the intent on being impressed, but sure enough, here I stand, impressed.
“Well, how about our next friend date, I'll make cheeseburgers?” he grins as he looks up to the clear sky. “You know, we can eat out here tonight and have a fire before the movie, if you want.”
“That sounds amazing and so do friend dates. I’m in.”
“Just tell me when, Hollis. I’ll take you out on,” pausing as if he’s contemplating whether or not to finish his statement, “a date, anytime.”
Chapter Six
Chase
Two orders of guacamole and chips, chicken chimichangas, beef enchiladas, espinaca dip, both steak and fish tacos, veggie tamales, pineapple sopapillas, churros, and two slices of flan cover every inch of the patio table.
“Wow, Chase. I don't know if you ordered enough,” Hollis teases, trying to find a spot to put the plates and silverware she has in her arms.
“Hey, how about you shut it?” I shoot back, sticking my tongue out at her. “I didn't know what you wanted Miss ‘I don't care, just nothing with refried beans.’”
Tipping the last of my beer back with ease, I toss it overhand into the trash barrel approximately six feet from us. A breath of relief leaves me as the glass bottle clinks, hitting something inside of the barrel. A loud cheer and applause from Hollis catch my attention, and I laugh as she brings her fist to her mouth, using it as a pretend microphone.
“Ladies and Gents, Abbott Hills High School football legend, two-time Super Bowl winner, and my best friend, Chase “Mack Daddy” Merrimack, just sank the winning basket and the crowd goes wild. Clearly someone missed his calling as a basketball player.”
“Clearly someone missed her calling as a sportscaster,” playful sarcasm dripped from my weak attempt at a comeback. “Maybe you should talk to your boss about taking over the sports segment of the show.”
Despite a playful shove and a dramatic eye roll, the genuine smile on Hollis’s face is one I haven’t seen in a long time. Her calm, carefree, playful demeanor since we walked through the door of my house is the Hollis I grew up with, the one I haven’t seen in a while. I hate that it took her walking in on Noah cheating on her to get her here tonight, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t glad she was back.
I would never tell her. Laying guilt on her wouldn’t help anything, but the truth was, I did miss her while she was with Noah. I didn’t lie when I told her I understood it, because I did. But I sure as fuck didn’t like it. I know that life happens, and all good things must come to an end, like our reign as partners in crime. But in the back of my mind, I knew they wouldn’t last. I knew that he was a douche. I knew that she was better than him. And she knows and believes that she’s worth more than being the girl in the background. And that’s all she would ever be with him, background.
Noah might have weaseled his way into her life, but he never got all of her. If she had let him in all the way, I would have walked away. I would have stepped back and let her have her happiness. She deserved it. But while we weren’t constants in each other’s lives the last two years, she still came to me when she really needed someone…when she felt she couldn’t do it on her own. It was never Noah. It has always been, and still is, me.
Over the next forty-five minutes, we stuff our faces with plates full of Mexican food, effortlessly playing catch up on everything. We talk about my family and hers. I tell her about the team I put together this year. It’s still crazy to me that I’m the head coach of the school that started my football career.
I was so pissed when I found out my mom was making me move back to New Hampshire. But if it wasn’t for being in Abbott Hills and the Capparelli boys convincing their uncle—the head coach—to give me a shot when two of the starting players got injured mid-season sophomore year, I would have continued to be some punk ass. Just like everything else in my life, it all comes back to Hollis or her family, in one way or another.
After talking her ear off about the stats of a bunch of kids she’s never met, I catch myself, realizing this is probably what it’s been like with Noah for two years. Every time I was around the dude, it became a pissing match about money and status. She engages with everything I say, but I can tell she’s bursting at the seams, trying not to be rude, but waiting, hoping, I’ll ask her about her job. So, I do.
And man, am I glad I did. Her face lights up like she was just told she was getting a free puppy. She talks about the morning show first. She repeats my thoughts about coaching by saying that it’s crazy to her that she’s one of the voices everyone listens to on the way to work and school. She is a small-town celebrity just being a Capparelli, but when she started as a paid intern at 93.6
– The Ranch, Southern New Hampshire’s country radio station the summer in between her junior and senior year of college, she almost instantly became a regional sensation.
Like everything else, when Hollis shows up, she gets everyone to notice her. Never with the intent to draw attention to herself, but the world can’t help but notice her shine. I’ve read the story—more like stalked—from her tab on the radio station’s website so many times, I could recite it in my sleep.
Showing up for her first day in a Beastie Boys t-shirt, Hollis grabbed the attention of Max Mariano, one of the morning show hosts. Not knowing Hollis was in the sound booth dropping off coffee, he was talking about how it was summer break, the new interns were there, and how the kids of today treated good music like a fashion trend.
“One of the girls here, is 21, 22 maybe…wearing a Beastie Boys t-shirt, interning here at a country music station. Just because it’s on sale at Target doesn’t mean you should buy it, kids.”
Anyone else would have been embarrassed, but Hollis took it as an invitation. She cleared her throat and started dropping album names, songs, and even rapped a few lines. After laughing, Max apologized on the air and told Hollis that when she graduated, he would make sure she had a permanent job at the station if she wanted one. And he held true to his word.
After graduation, she moved back home and started working as a full-time promo girl for the station. About a year into Hollis working there, Casey Quinn, the other half of the morning show went on maternity leave for three months. The station offered the open seat to Hollis temporarily, but when Casey decided not to come back to the morning show after all, Hollis became a permanent fixture of the station’s morning show.
Over the last few years, she’s become such a staple of the station. Her voice is heard on thousands of radios every morning. Her social media alone is a testament of the region’s love for her. Her Facebook is capped out at 5,000 friends and her Instagram has 23,000 followers. Not that I check her stuff often though.
She tells me about a few upcoming concerts she gets to go to for work. And though she’s constantly rubbing elbows with some of the biggest names in country music, she lights up the most when she starts telling me about her Saturday night acoustic gig at her grandparents’ restaurant.
It was supposed to be a one-time thing about a year ago. If Hollis doesn’t have an event for the station, she works in the second-floor lounge as a server and second bartender on Friday nights with her cousin Ellis. The lounge is always packed and the bar is always full when Hollis and Ellis are working together. They’re both gorgeous and have the best personalities, especially when together.
Hollis had stopped by the restaurant to grab something to eat because she didn’t feel like cooking one Saturday and she overheard her uncle, the manager, freaking out because the lounge musician called out five minutes before he was scheduled to be there. I knew she was doing Saturday night shows, but I never knew the story of how they came to be. And I hadn’t gone. Not once. Even though I wanted to. Assuming me being there would cause her to catch some shit from Noah, instead I made sure to support her in other ways, like commenting excessively when Ellis went live on Capparelli & Co.’s Facebook page during Hollis’s performances.
Though, come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any pictures or mention of Noah being there ever. That bastard. After that realization, I hear myself telling her that I “think I’m going to catch her acoustic show tomorrow night.”
I would have sold my soul to the devil if it meant I would get to see the smile that came from making that promise. At this point, both of us have stopped reaching for more food, so I stand up and begin to stack the black Styrofoam take-out boxes. Hollis follows suit, standing and attempting to help, but I tell her to sit and relax. That crazy girl thinks I forgot what day it is. Like I’m going to let her clean up. It was hard enough convincing her to let me pay for dinner.
“It’s your first time here, so you’re a guest tonight. Next time you come, I’ll let you clean up everything and I’ll just sit here. But tonight, you just sit there, looking pretty.”
“Fiiiiiiine.”
With an eyeroll, she redirects her hand to grab the still half full pitcher of strawberry margarita. Refilling her glass, she happily sighs before sliding off her shoes and socks and sitting back down on the cushioned wicker loveseat. Seeing her so content gives me a weird satisfaction I’ve never felt before.
That is, until I can feel her eyes following my every move. Any other girl, I would try to use that to my advantage. I can almost guarantee any girl would end up in my bed, not sleeping in the guest room two doors over. But if anything is going to happen with Hollis, it won’t be tonight and it won’t be a rebound fuck.
Instead of harping on the fact she is currently like a moth to the flame, I choose to use this as an opportunity to remind myself that I had my shot. So many fucking times.
Everyone knew Hollis had a thing for me. It was the worst kept secret between our friends and families. Though, I don’t even know if it could even be considered a secret. She never told anyone, I don’t think, but we didn’t do a very good job of hiding the fact that we were more than just the best friends we claimed to be. Not to downplay our friendship, because, we were—we are—best friends. She is my favorite person on this Earth. But when Davis sat me down our junior year of high school to not give me the “stay away from my sister” speech that everyone else got, but to tell me that if I “ever broke her heart, he’d break my face,” I realized things were different with us. And not just for me and her, but for everyone around us.
I was sixteen years old when Hurricane Hollis came barreling into my life. The mindset of not being ready for any kind of serious commitment with the backlash of hurting her stopped me from pursuing anything with her in high school. It wasn’t until college when I really understood how badly I screwed up by not stepping up and being the guy that she wanted me to be for her as teenagers.
When Hollis started asking me for advice about a few of the guys she was dating, I knew I had lost my chance. And I felt jealousy for the first time when she called me drunk, crying, eventually spilling that she’d had sex with the guy she was “kind of seeing.” I knew I was in over my head when I instantly hated a guy I’d never met. Some asshole named Luke. No last name. No backstory aside from the fact they met in English class and he took her out for sushi for their first date. I drove from Boston to Rhode Island at two in the morning just to make sure she was okay.
“Just Luke” was a dick. For no reason, other than he got that part of Hollis no one else ever would. But it was too late to say anything at that point. We were living in two different worlds, two states away from each other. And now she’s here, chugging strawberry margaritas on my patio because her fiancé cheated on her. The one constant in all of this was that I was—I am—her safe place. And while I love being able to be that guy for her, there will always be a small part of me that wished it was more.
My internal pity party for one is interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing in my pocket. Dipping into the house with the last armful of take-out containers, I roll my eyes. That ringtone means it can be only one person on the other line and I’m honestly surprised it took as long as it has for me to get this call.
“Hello, Mother,” I chuckle, knowing damn well why she’s calling. “Yes, Hollis is here. And you can tell Zia, Aunt Grace, Ellis, and Cole that she’s okay.”
“What?!” The voice on the other end gasps in a poor attempt of astonishment when she realizes I’m onto her. “Can’t a mother call her favorite oldest son, on a Friday night, just to say hello? But since you mentioned it, is she really okay?”
“I think she will be,” I tell her, not wanting to give her too much information. I love my mom, and I know she’s calling because she’s genuinely concerned, but it’s just not my story to tell.
Over the years, Hollis became the daughter she never had. It was no surprise to wake up on a Saturday morning
and see Hollis in the kitchen, helping my mom cook breakfast when we were growing up. In fact, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed on the Saturdays I woke up and she wasn’t there. Hollis became just as much a part of my small family as I became a part of her big, crazy one.
As if she understands what I’m not saying, without skipping a beat my mom comes back with, “Well, why don’t you see if she wants to come to breakfast tomorrow? I can run to the farmer’s market on Main Street and get fresh blueberries for pancakes in the morning.”
Chuckling, I put the last take-out container in the fridge and make my way up to my bedroom. Mischa Merrimack is playing dirty right now. That evil genius knows her blueberry pancakes are Hollis’s favorite. As we’re talking, I make my way upstairs, only staying in my bedroom long enough to grab a medium sized gift bag off my dresser and two hoodies from my closet.
Apparently, the “okay, I will” in response to inviting Hollis over for breakfast isn’t a good enough answer for my mom, the impatience obvious in her voice when she says, “Well, I mean, if she’s there, just ask her right now, Chase Matthew.”
It only takes me a minute to jog back down the flight of stairs and through the first floor. Purposely, I wait until I open the door to roll my eyes and say, “Alright, alright. I will ask her right now, Mother.”
Hollis’s eyes light up and instantly an ear to ear grin slides across her face at the mention of my mom. The adoration has always been mutual.
“Hol, Mom wants to know if you want to go over to her house for breakfast tomorrow. She said to tell you she’ll make blueberry pancakes,” I very loudly say, before covering the mouth piece with my hand and whisper, “You can say no.”
“As if I could pass up Momma Merrimack’s blueberry pancakes. Tell her I'll be there, with or without you,” she winks at me. Or well, tries to, after finishing off the last of her margarita. She closes her left eye for thirty seconds, scrunching her now rosy cheek while her body shakes with laughter. Pink cheeks only mean one thing. Hollis Capparelli is tipsy and well on her way to drunk.