by J. P. Grider
"What girl?"
"The reddish-haired one. There was a girl walking down your walk before I came in."
"Holly," I say out loud to myself. That's when it occurs to me. I drove her here. She has no ride home. "Lara," I blurt, "you gotta go. I gotta..." I trail off, grabbing my keys and pushing Lara out the door.
"Wait. Who's Holly?"
"Not now, Lara."
"Are you seeing her?" she asks angrily, as if I have no right to see anyone after she fucking cheated on me.
"Later, Lara." I ignore her outrageous question and hop on my bike, securing the second helmet behind me.
"But Mick..."
I rev the engine for effect and take off to find Holly.
What an asshole I am to make her walk back to Haledon.
Since I anticipate her walking towards High Mountain Road, I head in that direction.
"Get on," I order, with a rasp, when I catch up to her, after seeing her firm little ass wiggling ever so slightly in her denim jeans.
She grabs the helmet I hand her and says, "Lucky for you I wore my new sneakers today, 'cause if I'd worn my usual shoes, the heel would be jammed up your ass right now."
"Just get the fuck on."
After she climbs on behind me and her arms encompass my waist, her breath rolls down my neck like a warm breeze when she whispers, "I’m sorry if I said something that got you upset back there."
I nod, but don't respond. It wouldn't be right to accept her apology. She did nothing wrong.
It takes more concentration driving now, with Holly holding onto me, than it had earlier today. How can this girl affect me like a wool sweater on a hot day one minute, and in the next, her touch comforts me like she's been my safe haven forever? I don't get it. I almost want to prolong this ride and take her someplace far away, but my luck, we'll get there, run out of gas, and I'll be stuck with that wool sweater again. With no way out.
So I drop her at her car and shut down my engine. She swings her leg around, but I grab her arm, gently this time, to stop her from walking away. "You didn't say anything to get me upset." My words are spoken softly, because my stomach is in knots. "It was me, not you."
The early evening sun casts a golden gleam on Holly's dark brown eyes, and then her smile turns into a smirk. "It's not you, it's me, huh? You say that a lot?" But she smiles again, and I know she's teasing. "Give me your phone."
"What? Why?"
"Just give it to me."
She has a way of making me obey, so I do.
"I don't know what you want with it."
Her thumbs move expeditiously across my touch screen before it's back in my hands. I raise my eyebrows in question.
"It's gonna be another difficult night. I thought you might need to call me."
All at once, my heart is in my throat. I pull her by the wrist again, maybe not so gently, so that she's butted up against my chest, and then still holding on to her wrist, I wrap her arm and mine behind her and pull her even closer. Before I lose the nerve, I set my lips on hers in a firm kiss. Not one of those open-mouthed kisses, but the kind that will relay just how grateful I am that she decided to be there for me, even though we can barely tolerate each other.
I didn't want to remove my lips from her velvet ones, but unless I open my mouth and pry hers open with my tongue, my gratitude kiss would just turn into an awkward kiss.
So I pull away.
"Thank you," I manage to say again, half groaning from a newfound hunger for Holly Buchanan.
26
HOLLY
"He kissed me, Rose."
I hate the quixotic tone of my voice.
"Mick? The guy who can't stand you?"
"The very same." I sigh, sitting down at my desk and opening up my computer.
"Did you kiss him back?"
"Well, it wasn't like that exactly. It was closed mouth."
"Eww. How old are you? Eight?" she asks behind me.
I chuckle. "No, I mean...he was saying thank you. It was kind of like a thank you kiss, but...we let it linger a little."
"Do you like him?" Rose sits in the chair next to me.
I sigh in contemplation, smiling to myself. "When I don't hate him." Leaning back, I close my eyes to recall the moment he pulled me toward him.
Rose shakes her head at my silliness and gets up. "So what was he thanking you for?" she asks, now putting folded clothes into a small suitcase on her bed.
"Where you going?"
"A dance competition in the city. Didn't I tell you?"
"Maybe. On a Saturday night?"
"No. Tomorrow. But I have to check in at seven a.m., so my mom got us a room. She's picking me up in an hour."
"Oh. Good luck."
"Thanks."
She sits at the edge of her bed and sighs. "So you didn't answer me. What was he thanking you for?"
"Helping him clean his sister's house," I say with a smirk.
"No, really. What was..."
"Really. I helped him clean up his sister's house."
"You? Miss 'I-don't-like-to-sweat,-it-makes-my-hair-frizzy' cleaned somebody's house?"
"Yup," I say, slightly distracted, because I'm worried about Mick again.
"Why?" Rose asks seriously.
"It's a long story."
"I have to meet my mother at the coffee shop. Why don't you tell me down there? We'll have almost an hour."
"Okay. Why not?"
***
"We close at seven," the annoyed barista complains. "So you need to take your conversation outside."
Rose apologizes to the whiny brat and promises to be out in an instant. I, however, tell her to chill the fuck down, we got a whole five minutes left before it's seven o'clock.
The barista stomps away, while Rose rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me.
"What?" I ask her.
"You're like two different people." She half laughs, half scolds. "When you're in a mood, watch out."
"What? We got five more minutes."
"She wants to clean up, let's go."
We take our near empty lattes and leave the girl to her cleaning.
"Well, it's really nice of you to be helping him out," Rose says, picking up her suitcase, because her mother just pulled up. "That poor little girl," she says of Kenna, since now Rose knows as much of Mick's story as I do.
"Yeah. Well, good luck tomorrow. Kick some dancing ass." I give her a tight hug goodbye, because, well, I love Rose, and I’m not so sure I show her that love enough.
"See you tomorrow night," she says, hugging me back and rubbing my back.
We separate, I wave her off, and I head back to the dorm. As tired as I am, I will not go to sleep at seven o'clock on a Saturday night.
"Griff," I say when he answers my call.
"Holl."
"You hanging tonight?"
"We are. My house. Come on down."
"'Kay. Be there in a few."
I'm just done drying my hair after my shower when my phone dings. It's a text from a number I don't recognize.
Are you busy tonight? I don't want to be alone. Trying not to drink.
Right away, I know who it is. I’d given him my number, but I never took his.
Me: Mick?
Mick: Yeah. It's me.
Me: Where can I meet you?
Mick: I can pick you up. Where do you live?
Me: Hunter Hill. Resident Building #3. Do you know where that is?
Mick: I'll find it. Be there in ten?
Me: K. I'll be outside.
I can't believe Mick actually called. Admittedly, part of me hoped he would, but I thought asking for my help already today probably exceeded his pride-swallowing limit. But he did call, and he's on his way.
Since I thought I was going to Griffin's to chill, I had just thrown on a tank and an over-sized cardigan with my leggings, and flip-flops. I'm guessing the flips are a no-no on the bike, but would I be setting some kind of precedent by changing into something nicer?
&nbs
p; In a concerted effort to stay indifferent toward Mick, I decide that yes, it'd be unwise to change my outfit, so I keep on my loungewear, even though it goes against every fiber of my being, and slip on my floral Doc Martens to protect my feet on his motorcycle.
Now all I have to do is put out the raging fire in my stomach.
27
MICK
Her hair is the color of an autumn leaf—not quite brown, not quite red. And out here in the moonlight, a translucent glow drips down the long strands, glossing it like the hair on one of my sister's old porcelain dolls.
In lieu of a hello, I sigh inwardly, too tongue-tied to speak.
"You owe me." She greets me with a wink, a smile, and one of her usual snarky comments.
I untie my tongue and say with a raised brow, "And how do you want to be paid?" But then I immediately regret letting those words slip from my lips. Especially since I am kind of grieving right now, not to mention the fact that I don't want her knowing I have any attraction at all to her.
She grabs her helmet, hops on behind me, and laughs. "Don't you wish you could be so lucky," she says, lowering the helmet onto her head.
She's already as comfortable getting on my bike as I am having her strapped around me. God, I can get used to this.
Since it is impossible to have a conversation over the bike's engine and the passing traffic, we settle into a comfortable silence. The constant beating of her chest against my back and her steady breath against my neck lulls me into auto-pilot. I let my bike lead the way, while my thoughts turn to my increasing attraction towards the girl who renders me completely insane.
These new thoughts about Holly provide a relief from my grieving over Kenna's welfare, which makes me wonder if subconsciously, my mind is playing tricks on me.
Up the four lane highway is a little ice cream place that sits along the river. I figure it's as good a place as any to forget I'm in need of my Grey Goose.
"I've never been here," she says, laying her helmet on the back of the seat.
"City girls don't visit the country?" I joke.
"Country?" She looks around, noting the highway in front of us. "This here don't look like no country land," she mimics in a southern accent.
"It's more country than Soho."
We get in back of the long line of people waiting for their turn to be served.
"And how do you know where I'm from?" she asks slowly, and, if I'm not mistaken, flirtatiously.
I shrug. No need to tell her I had a thousand questions for Donny, most of them about her. "Good guess."
"No. People don't just guess things like that," she says, her hands clasped behind her back.
"It's not too hard to guess where you're from." I look down at her. She's nipping at the inside of her lip again.
"I'm not that easy to figure out, am I?" she asks softly now, as if she's hurt by what I'd said.
"You don't like to be easy to figure out?" I ask her seriously.
She shrugs her right shoulder. "Not really."
"Ah. Now I got ya. You like to keep people guessing."
"Something like that." She smiles, but I'd punctured her confidence, I can tell.
Part of me feels bad—the part that's growing fond of her. The other part of me—the part that wants to smack her most times—smiles proudly.
"What're you smiling for?"
I shake my head, "Nothing. What would you like? My treat."
"Oh gosh, we're next. Um..." She looks up at the menu. "Chocolate's good. A cone."
"That's it?"
"I can only eat one cone at a time." She chuckles.
I'm getting the feeling that Holly doesn't stay down for long.
"So you're a vanilla man?" she asks after we sit at a table that overlooks the river down below.
"And what exactly are you implying?" I respond, aware of the vanilla implication.
She laughs. "Not a risk taker, are you?"
"No." I refuse to expand on that.
She spends a couple minutes looking down at the moonlit water, probably searching her mind for something to say that won't have me giving her one word answers. My thought makes me chuckle out loud.
"What?" she asks, looking back at me.
"Nothing....I used to come here when I was little," I decide to tell her.
"Oh? You used to live around here?"
Shaking my head, I say, "No. My grandparents did. I used to spend my summers and weekends here."
"Oh. You were pursing your lips when I asked. Why?"
"I wasn't aware that I was." I shrug, answering her truthfully.
"Your grandparents don't live around here anymore?"
"No. They died in a car crash." I close my eyes, trying to wipe out the memory.
"I'm sorry. Was that a long time ago?"
"About eight years."
Holly nods and returns her sights on the river.
"My father was driving." I have no idea why I decided to reveal that.
She snaps her head around. "Oh my goodness. That's horrib... he must... wow. That's crazy."
"Yeah. Crazy it is," I deadpan, hating my father every day for that.
"He must feel so so bad."
"When he's sober maybe."
She opens her mouth to say something, but my divulgence renders her speechless.
"There used to be a rope hanging from that tree," I tell her... a much needed change in subject necessary. "The locals would swing from it and jump into the river."
"It's deep enough?" she asks, trying to switch gears, realizing she's probably still reeling from my revelation that my father was drunk when he'd killed his parents.
"It used to be."
"You didn't? Swing from it?"
"No." I shake my head, and now I feel myself pursing my lips, so I stop before she asks me why.
"You don't swim," she states, she doesn't ask.
"No. Never really did."
"And you're not a risk taker."
"You're trying to size me up?"
Holly's cute when she blushes.
"No. I'm not a risk taker." I think about something else to talk about again. The call to go to the nearest liquor store is loud, and I'm trying not to answer it. "What about you?" I decide to ask.
"What about me?"
"You ever go swimming in a river?"
"You're joking, right?" She chuckles. "No. I've never gone swimming in a river. At the Hamptons though. My parents own a summer house in Amagansett, not to mention a winter house in Florida. So...I do a lot of swimming in the ocean...not the river."
"You going there this summer? To the Hamptons?"
"No." She sighs, bringing her shoulders along for the ride. "That stupid internship, remember?"
"Ah, yes. On Wall Street."
"Yeah."
"You got nice parents?"
She sticks the last of her cone in her mouth and groans. "They're okay."
"That's it? Okay?" I should know better than to ask a question about parents. Lord knows, I don't want anyone asking about mine.
But the pull to know Holly better is so strong, and I can't help myself.
"They love me, if that's what you're asking, but...my dad's a controlling man, and mom goes along with everything he says, whether it's right or wrong."
"Sounds like you got some hostility toward your parents, too?"
"Too? What's wrong with your parents?"
"We don't have that much time."
She laughs, because I laugh, but there's nothing funny about what's wrong with my parents.
"C'mere," I stand and move to take her by the hand, but instead, I pull on the sleeve of her dark blue sweater. "I wanna show you something."
The flat brown rock that leads to the river is slick from the spray of the water, and it's dark, so this time, I actually take Holly's hand. I'd hate to be responsible for her getting hurt. She doesn't resist my hand, which encourages me to hold her a little tighter. I'm pleased when her hand squeezes mine back.
"Oh my
gosh. A rock seat," she exclaims.
"That's what I wanted to show you. It's cool, right?" Fortunately, the moon is bright enough for her to actually see it.
"Yeah." She reaches up the hand I'm not holding and touches the haphazard brush that juts out like a canopy to the flat rock bench beneath it. "Wow. Did somebody, like, make this?" she asks, fingering the bud-lined branches.
"I don't know. It's been here for as long as I've been coming here. I used to sit here and play my Gameboy while my sister and the kids who lived here were swimming."
"You sat here all alone?"
Looking at the frown on her face, I say, "I like being alone. Trust me. Besides, my Gameboy was my best friend."
She laughs, and lets go of my hand to sit on the seat. I can't say I'm not disappointed.
"You miss your grandparents," she states, not asks, her hands now cupped at the edge of the rock seat, her feet swinging from it.
I nod and sit next to her. "You know how when you're playing tag," I muse, "and everyone's out to get you, and the tree is, like, home-base?"
Holly's smiling one of those 'I-feel-sorry-for-you' smiles when she nods, but she's still swinging her feet.
"My grandparents’ house was my home-base." I can't help but sigh longingly. "They played games with me, took me for ice cream, and when my aunt was home from college, we'd go to places like New York City, or Cooperstown. Sometimes she'd tell us to ask a friend. I always asked Luke to come, Charity always had a different friend. But I loved my Aunt Liz. And I loved my grandparents. I just loved being there. It was my happy place." Then I say on an exhale, "No one could touch me when I was there."
I see the shock on her face, and I quickly correct myself. "Oh no, I wasn't abused or anything, more like...neglected, for lack of a better word, but...bad things usually happened around me. At my Grandma's...it was all good. I was happy there." I swallow back the lump forming in my throat.
"But they died when you were, what, sixteen? How much bad could have happened to you by then?"