My heart stuttered in my chest. Did having Major’s jam give me away?
Oh, stop freaking out, you ninny. Major gives his preserves to all his friends. It’s fine.
Right as I’d talked myself down, however, Holden’s eyes shifted from the label to me. “Dad, can I talk to you in the living room for a second?” His tone was glacial.
Beckett shot me a look as he took the orange juice from Ru and started pouring it into the funny little juice glasses Robert had found during one of our Saturday morning market dates.
“Sure, Son.”
Still gripping the jar, Holden stalked out of the kitchen, past the main entryway, and into the living room.
I followed him, then froze when he turned on me, showing me the jar’s label, to which a yellow sticky note had been affixed.
Fuck. I’d forgotten that Major liked to do that.
To: Ren
From: Major
In case you ever foolishly forget: I am never not thinking of you.
—Virginia Woolf
Major’s efficient, blocky handwriting somehow underscored the sentiment, and it set my heart racing. In that singularly brutal moment, I understand how one could feel two diametrically opposed things at the same time.
Major’s words buried themselves in my chest, and the sentiment gave me hope of a future when my own brain had struggled to see it. I wanted to take the note and frame it, set it by my bed to have something lovely to read right before slumber.
But the agony on my son’s face… I didn’t know how to bear it. I couldn’t have spared him the grief of his father passing. This, however, felt preventable because I was the one hurting him.
“Holden…”
“I thought he was my friend,” Holden said quietly. “When I considered the pros and cons of moving back to Texas, my main consideration was you and Pops. But I also thought of myself as becoming one of the Lost Boys, especially after Pops died. And there was something about Major that reminded me of Pops. I thought?—”
“He’s not replacing Pops,” I said gently.
Holden’s eyes sharpened, locking me under his gaze. “Isn’t he?”
Before I could answer, understanding dawned on my son’s face.
“Wait.” He shook his head. “Is that why you shuffled us out to the garden earlier?”
More awful realization.
“Becks walked in on you, didn’t he? Is that why he’s still here?”
“Your dad was waiting for the right time to tell you,” Beckett said, entering the living room.
The hurt in Holden’s eyes deepened. “So you knew.”
“I suspected. I only had it confirmed this morning.”
Holden nodded, though I doubted he was agreeing to anything. “And how long were you going to withhold that information from me?”
“Not long,” Beckett said, reaching for his arm.
Holden stiffened but didn’t pull back from his touch. Beckett and I knew how Holden struggled with trust—both as a result of his previous relationship and from being so badly hurt by that fucking DeWitt kid. So we stood quietly and let him gather his thoughts. Finally, he said, “I want to talk to Major. Call him back.”
Beckett and I shared a look. I couldn’t imagine Holden lashing out at anyone, let alone a friend, but I had no idea how he’d handle this.
