by Ney, Sara
I’ve been to her place to pick her up twice now already and know the way like the back of my hand. It’s late afternoon, and I imagine she’s probably starting dinner—or crying, or stuffing a voodoo doll. I brace myself for an argument.
Unless she’s not alone.
Which is exactly the case when I arrive.
Hollis is not the face that greets me at the door and for a moment, I step back to check the number on the outside of the building to make sure I’m at the right address.
Seven one five.
This is the place, but that isn’t Hollis.
“What do you want?” the girl—her best friend, I think—rudely asks, only cracking the door open a few inches, a gold chain linked near the top.
She catches me off guard and I waver. So unlike me—I always have something to say. “Is Hollis here?”
“Obviously.” The friend rolls her eyes, and I wish I could remember her fucking name. Madge? Brittany? Sue?
“Can I talk to her?”
“What for?” The pretty brunette narrows her heavily mascaraed eyes into slits. “Here to rub salt in the wound that is her love life?”
“Huh?”
“Did that dickhead teammate of yours send you? Huh? Huh!”
“My dickhead teammate doesn’t know I’m here because he has absolutely nothing to do with the reason I’m here.”
“So you admit he’s a dickhead.”
“Yes.”
She sighs, reaching up to unlatch the chain, opening the door for me to enter. “Fine, you can come in.”
“What was the secret password?” I want to know, stepping into Hollis’s entryway, sliding my shoes off. I don’t know if that’s the rule here, but I don’t want to find out the hard way. Plus, it’s nice flooring and I’d hate to scuff it with my beat-up sneaks.
“Secret password?” Now the girl is acting perplexed.
“What made you let me in?”
“Oh—Hollis is in the bathroom, but we saw you drive up through the window. She told me to let you in to wait. She’ll be right out.”
What the fuck? Jesus, this girl is the female version of…
Me.
I have no interest in getting into a battle of wills with her while I wait for Hollis, hands stuffed into the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt with the Steam’s logo emblazoned across the front. It has a comfy kangaroo pocket and that’s where I bury my paws.
“You can come into the kitchen,” she says, leading me into the next room.
My eyes dart around, drinking in the living room as we pass it. Learning Hollis’s style. Looking at the bold artwork hanging on her walls, the stark white color of them. The bright pink and blue pillows on her white couch. The red square rug on the hardwood floor.
“Hey,” the friend says, snapping her fingers. “Eyes to the front, pal.”
She doesn’t want me rubbernecking, staring off into Hollis’s place and I don’t blame her for not trusting me.
Hollis’s townhouse is standard, narrow and stacked and several stories high. Living room and dining on the main floor, kitchen probably on the second, bedrooms on the third.
I’m led up a flight of stairs, the wood stained a rich cherry, shined to a gloss, my hand dragging along the smooth wood as we climb farther to the next level of living space. As a contractor via side hustle, I can appreciate the details of the house and the architectural elements, and I wonder if Hollis bought the place this way or refurbished it.
I also wonder if she bought it with family money or on her own—then get my head out of my own ass for even wondering, considering it’s none of my fucking business. Who cares anyway? What difference does it make?
I’m just curious. Sue me.
The friend and I arrive at the kitchen. There’s a balcony overlooking a small, fenced-in courtyard and a view of the neighbor’s balcony. Views of the entire neighborhood and their backyards—it reminds me why I don’t live in the city.
No privacy.
I bet everyone knows her business all the time.
It’s strange that she’s not living in a more private, secure building, considering who her family is. They’re loaded. Hollis is ripe for kidnapping and ransom demands, and maybe the girls aren’t the only ones who are dramatic.
I clear my throat, feeling like a giant in this feminine space. Pull out a chair at the table, but then push it back in. I’ll wait for Hollis to come out from wherever she is before I sit or don’t sit, remaining rooted to the floor near the stairs we just climbed.
Her friend leans against the counter, arms crossed. As if I’m the asshole in this scenario.
Guilty by association, or just someone to take the brunt?
I’m about to find out.
Hollis appears from down a hallway, wearing jean shorts and an oversized white sweater, hair in disarray. Tiny and cute, I want to hug her—but also have no desire to be sacked in the ball bag by the bodyguard in the corner. Her stink eye is freaking me the fuck out.
“Hey.” Hollis crosses her arms and does that thing where it looks like she’s giving herself a hug. Or like she’s cold and trying to stay warm. She glances at her friend. “Did you introduce yourself?”
The friend raises a brow. “Oh, he knows who I am.”
My head shakes, half out of fear, half out of spite. She scares me. “I can’t remember your name, sorry.”
“How can you not remember my name? We met before.”
“I don’t think you—”
“Ugh,” she loudly groans. “It’s Madison. Madison! We met at that fundraiser.”
“I meet lots of people, sorry.”
“Whatever. What do you want to say to Hollis? Make it snappy.”
“Madison!” Hollis gasps. “Don’t be rude.”
“Um, I thought we hated men tonight.”
She glances at me, grimacing. “We do, but you don’t have to be rude.”
“Well,” I can’t help adding, “this is awkward.”
“Buzz, want to…go outside and talk? It’s still nice out.”
And light, with no bugs. Although I could eat again, I follow her to the patio doors and the balcony beyond. It’s small but has a few chairs and a tiny table. I imagine she comes out here in the mornings for coffee or to watch the sun rise.
Or like, to fuck.
I can picture banging out here at night—risky but private, depending on how dark it is outside and how many lights are shining from the surrounding house lamps.
Maybe even sex against the sliding door? Her ass cheeks pressed against the glass—believe it or not, I’ve never screwed anyone against a window, not even at a hotel, though I could totally get into it.
Is that weird?
Hollis leads the conversation, which surprises me. “I’m assuming Noah told you what happened.”
I nod, pulling out a chair across from her and plopping down. It’s cold and uncomfortable, an intricate metal contraption that looks pretty but feels like hell against my back. “He did and I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m fine. Marlon is a jerk.”
“Jerk. Asshole. Douche. Prick.” Take your pick. “How do you feel?”
“Shitty.” She’s playing with the ends of her sweater, fiddling with the cuffs, which are a bit too long. “I know none of it is true, but it still makes me feel crappy—that’s what breakups do. I’ve never felt right about ours because he always made me feel like less of a person.”
Then why the fuck are you wasting time worrying about it? “Are you still hung up on him?”
“No!” She pauses. “I think what I’m…‘hung up on’”—she uses air quotes around the words—“is how taken advantage of I felt and how easily I let him.”
I can relate. “That’s one of the reasons I haven’t been in a relationship since I was in eighth grade.”
She looks up at me as if suddenly remembering that I have the same shit happen to me on a daily basis, people wanting something from me, wanting to be seen with me. Autographs
, appearances. Some paid, some free—it’s all the same, and occasionally? It feels shitty.
“You haven’t been in a relationship since middle school?”
I lean back, recalling it fondly. “Stacy Blinkiwitcz. She and I were in the same algebra class and I used to stare at her all the time because I was fascinated by her braces. She used to wear these overalls all the time, with a t-shirt underneath, and the t-shirts were different colors depending on her mood.” Hollis laughs at my memory. “Anyway, I slipped a note into her locker because my parents wouldn’t let me have a cell phone. Folded it up into a triangle and all that shit, asking her to ‘go with me.’”
Another laugh and Hollis relaxes, her horrible day beginning to melt away.
I go on. “So we go together, which was really just passing notes back and forth. I’d tell her she looked good in her rolled-up jeans and denim jacket, or that I liked her new kicks, and she would ask about my games.”
“What happened?”
I shrug. “There was a dance, and I remember her telling me while we were slow-dancing to whatever boy band happened to be popular at the time—she was like, ‘Trace, I think you’re super cool, but Alan Owens has a car.’” I shoot a peeved look at Hollis. “I did not have a car.”
“What eighth grader has a car?”
“Alan was a freshman, but he’d been held back in kindergarten, so he had his license.” I pause for theatrical flair. “And a mustache.”
That part is a lie—Alan did not have a ’stache, but it’s funny and adds a lighthearted element to the story. Alan did indeed have a car, the little fucker.
“Had you and Stacy even kissed?”
“No. I got robbed.”
“What’d you do after she told you she was dumping you?”
This is by far the worst part of the story. “I cried.” Then I hasten to add, “Just a little! It wasn’t like, sobs or anything.”
Not really…
Tripp found me in the boys’ bathroom crying in the last stall, pounded on the door and called our mom to come get us from the payphone in the lobby.
“Oh you poor thing.” Hollis leans forward to pat me on the cheek and I do something totally stupid.
I lick her palm.
“Ew! Trace! That’s disgusting!” She wipes the saliva onto the sleeve of her sweater, but she’s laughing and smiling, and isn’t that what counts?
“I could eat you up.”
She swats at me, batting like a cat. “I want to hear the rest of your story, the part about you crying.”
I begin shaking my head to refuse, but since I started the story, I know I have to finish it—she needs to hear what a pussy I am.
“My brother found me in the bathroom and called our mom—he was also a giant loser with no car—and she came to pick us up. I refused to tell them what had happened, so the entire ride home—we had to sit in the back—Tripp was giving me charley horses for being a baby.”
“That wasn’t nice.”
“In my defense, I had snot running out of my nose, and I was inconsolable.”
“You said you weren’t sobbing.”
“Men say a lot of things so they sound masculine. I try to block the whining and crying part of this story out of my memory.”
“Go on. So then what?”
“Then…when we got back to the house, I raced up my stairs and threw myself on the bed and continued bawling into my comforter. Then I got out my yearbook and looked at her picture and cried some more. I listened to my CD of the song we’d just danced to, by the boy band whose name I can’t remember.”
Another lie. It was the Backstreet Boys, the song was “The One”, and it touched me because it was about soulmates and that’s what that liar Stacy Blinkiwitcz was to me.
Allegedly.
“That’s…a very dramatic story.”
I look to the sky. “Tell me about it. Try living through it.” I raise my brows. “Do you think my older brother let me live that shit down? The answer is no. Last Christmas he got four of the five members of the band to FaceTime me and sing the song.”
Sometimes being famous has its perks, but I didn’t think that was as hilarious as my family did.
Bunch of assholes. Even Dad thought it was hysterical.
“And you have no idea what the song was?” She doesn’t believe that I don’t remember.
I shake my head adamantly. Press my lips together. “Nope.”
“Oh you are such a liar!”
“No, Stacy Blinkiwitcz is a liar!”
Hollis cannot stop laughing. “How?”
“She knew she was going to dump me and waited until the dance, publicly humiliating me. It was premeditated—a premeditated dumping.”
“That’s what everyone does in lower grades because not a single one of us had balls.”
I raise my chin. “I had balls.”
“By default.” Hollis stares off into the cityscape, studying the skyline. Then, “Could you have done it? Could you have broken up with you? I bet you were pretty darn cute.”
I shrug. “I was okay—a few hearts were probably broken before Stacy crushed mine. But…I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Breaking up with someone isn’t easy.”
“No, it’s horrible, even when they treat you like shit. Because when it’s tumultuous, the breakup ends up being a huge screaming match. On the other hand, if it’s amicable or the other person doesn’t see it coming, that’s just as bad, because he or she is blindsided—like you were when Stacy dumped you.”
“I’m still not over it,” I say stubbornly with a grin.
Hollis smiles. “What do you suppose Stacy is doing right now?”
My mouth shifts in thought. “Mmm, probably a reporter for tabloids, spreading fake news. Or an actress.”
That makes her laugh. “Seriously? She’s probably a nurse or something. Or a teacher. I bet she’s changed, no longer breaking hearts.”
“Lonely hearts club,” I say.
My hand goes to the tabletop, resting on its cool surface, palm spread, facing the sky. I don’t know why I place it there, but I’m surprised when Hollis leans forward and extends her hand, placing it in mine.
Electricity shoots up my arm, straight to my chest.
“Thank you for coming over. You really cheered me up.” She’s sort of beaming at me, happy and glad, cheeks rosy.
I glance behind us, into the house, searching for a glimpse of Madison. “Your friend in there wasn’t getting the job done?”
“Maddie was too angry on my behalf to have done any good—I would rather be smiling than pissed off. I’ve done too much of that, and I’m over it. Marlon isn’t worth it. I know that now.”
She’s right, he isn’t worth it, and maybe someday he won’t be such a fucking asshole that women blindly follow around—but for now, he’s toxic to anyone he’s in a relationship with. Including his friends, I imagine.
I detest dudes like that.
I like Noah Harding, Miranda, my parents, and like, three other people.
Plus construction, ice cream, and riding mopeds when I’m on vacation.
Not necessarily in that order.
“Is she even here anymore?” I can’t see Madison through the glass.
“Who—Stacy?” Hollis teases.
“Oh how you wound me.” I clutch my chest. “No, your friend. Where’d she go? I would have thought she’d have her eagle eye on me. She doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
Or at all.
Hollis cranes her neck. Pulls her cell phone out of her pocket and checks it. “She left.”
She left? “How come?” I don’t know shit about women, but I know some shit about women, and her best friend said more than that.
Her shoulder rises in a demure shrug. “She said we looked serious so she wanted to give us privacy, and I should text her when you leave.”
Well, well, well—this is a new development. “Does that mean she semi-approves of me?”
A mean poker face stares back
. “We haven’t discussed you.”
I think my eyes damn near bug out of my skull and I almost lurch across the table, belting out a laugh. “Who’s the liar now! Bullshit—you girls tell each other everything! There is no way Madison doesn’t have the entire 411 on me. No fucking way. You’re such a damn liar.”
Hollis’s stalwart expression breaks, a cute little snicker erupting from her throat. “I mean—maybe.”
I start to rise, unable to bear it. Now that I know we’re alone? I have to kiss her.
Shoving up from my chair, I move the table aside—an easy task since it’s basically tinfoil—and swoop down, scooping up a squealing Hollis.
“What are you doing! Put me down! Are you insane?”
“I’m trying to be romantic here. Cut me some slack and stop wiggling around before I drop you, ’kay?”
Her lips clamp shut. She nods.
Using my foot, I toe the sliding door open, pushing it on its track so we can get back into the house. Use my ass to slide it shut, stride a few feet back into the kitchen.
There’s a small sitting area on the far end, with a fireplace and a television, and in a few seconds I’m there, setting her on the couch. Lower myself to my knees in front of her and take her face in my hands.
“I’m sorry you had a shitty day, but I want to help make it better,” I croon, knowing my voice has dropped a few octaves.
She shivers. “How?”
I reach for the fly of her denim shorts, measuring her reaction as I tug down her zipper. Waiting for any indication she doesn’t want this.
Hollis tilts her head back and spreads her legs wider, arms hitting the couch cushions. Body sinking into the fabric.
From my position in front of her, I pull those shorts over her hips, down her thighs. Her smooth, smooth thighs…
Let them fall to the floor, give my attention to her underwear. It’s white, basic cotton—not what I was expecting, but sexy just the same.
She watches me, blushing. “I wasn’t expecting company.” Not quite an apology, but close.
“You could be wearing thermal underwear and I would be turned on right now.” I lean forward, pressing my mouth to her core. Kiss her stomach, inching my way down. Warm between the apex of her spread legs, blowing hot air right where she aches.
Hollis’s fingers clench the seat cushions.