“He might be on a job,” I said softly.
“I don’t care. Have him come back.”
Beckett lowered his chin, thoughtful. After a moment, he nodded to himself, then directed his attention to me. “Call him.”
I excused myself and ran up the stairs for my phone, which I’d left on the bedside table. Major had somehow remembered his phone but forgotten his wallet, which would have amused me in any other context.
I brought up the text app.
Me:Holden found the note on the jar of blueberry jam. Can you come back?
Me:He’s upset and wants to talk to you.
Major:I’ll be there in ten minutes.
CHAPTER 25
major
I pulled into Ren’s driveway, no longer concerned about hiding the truck in the garage. That wasn’t as comforting a fact as I would have liked.
I cursed myself for the hundredth time as I climbed down from the cab. The sticky note had been a last-minute addition. Influenced by Ren’s love of literature, I’d started rereading the classics, and something about Virginia Woolf sat with my soul.
The note was my way of telling him that I loved him. I thought I’d been so clever, adding it when he wasn’t looking. In wanting to surprise him, I hadn’t warned him not to let anyone else see the jar.
I walked up to the front door, and before I could knock, Ren opened it.
“I’m so sorry,” I said as I crossed the threshold into the familiar hallway.
Ren wrapped his arms around me in a brief hug. Stepping back, he said, “It was going to happen sooner or later. Thank you for returning so quickly.”
Putting his hand at the small of my back, he led me toward the living room. Before entering behind me, Ren glanced into the kitchen. My heart dropped when I spotted Hikaru sitting at the table with headphones on, playing on the phone as he ate breakfast.
This hadn’t ever been about just Ren and Robert. It was about the entire Paige family. Sure, Robert’s passing had impacted all of us, but his family’d had a hole blown into the center of their souls. Even though Ren and Holden had done an admirable job of rebuilding their lives, nothing about this was easy.
The living room’s warm wooden floors, colorful rugs, and overstuffed couches flanking the fireplace would’ve seemed cozy on any other day. Today, however, Holden stood facing the fireplace between the two couches, like a painting, his only tether Beckett’s hand awkwardly placed on his elbow.
I cursed again as I realized that Beckett’s presence meant he’d canceled his counseling appointments—something he never did. I’d put him in a terrible position, a truth made clear by his tight expression and the amount of space Holden left between their bodies.
Beckett and I had known each other since we were kids, but Holden was, and would always be, the love of his life. Ren rubbed my back, then let his hand drift down to my waist as they turned toward us.
It felt as though we were facing a firing squad.
Holden went to the side table where the cursed jar sat. He plucked the sticky note from the glass and thrust it toward me. I took it, rereading the words I’d so carefully written out for Ren.
“She’s English,” Holden said, accusation in his tone. I didn’t follow.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, noting how grief and pain and anger seemed to be at war in his expression. His mouth was a thin line, but his eyes shone with unshed tears.
“Virginia Woolf. She’s not an American writer. She’s English.”
“I don’t?—”
“Dad teaches American literature. Why would you give him a quote from an English writer?”
“Oh.” I looked at Ren. “I thought she was American. I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “I loved it. Thank you.”
