Miranda:The dude your mom brought for me just asked me if there’s a gas leak in the building and I think I’m going to stand up and yell FIRE just to break the tension and get everyone out of here.
Miranda:Goldie says to tell you that you can call her anytime. Holt can too. Are you there with him? I hope so. He’s a good guy. Waaaaay better than Fletcher, and if someone as amazing as Goldie Collins can fall in love with Fletcher Huxley and actively believe that he’s worthy of forever with her, then there’s zero reason for Dad to have any objections about Holt.
Miranda:Fletcher just got an award for team commitment and he accepted it with a fart joke and then called his future brother-in-law a fuckwanker. RIGHT THERE. ON STAGE. Gotta hand it to the guy—he knows how to break tension and cause a scene.
Miranda:Are you okay? Are you home? Please tell me you’re okay. I just need to know you made it home safely, or that you’re safe somewhere. This is going to be okay, I promise. I hope. Just please—please let me know you’re okay.
Miranda:I love you.
I text her back that I’m home, I’m safe, I love her too, and that I’ll be okay.
The little bubbles in my belly tell me that Tater Tot’s happy and safe and sound.
That’s good.
That’s reason enough for me to be okay.
Jessica lays her head down, over the edge of my leg, and lets out a long, happy sigh.
Holt kisses my forehead again. His chest rises and falls against me as he holds me.
I am.
I’mhome.
I’msafe.
And everything I want and need to feel at home and safe is everything that my parents object to.
“I just don’t understand why,” I whisper to Holt. “Who can object to you? Why is he being such a stubborn ass about this?”
He clears his throat. “It’s possible…if he’d found out while we were both…fully clothed with our hands to ourselves…that he would’ve taken it better.”
I contemplate that for a second.
Then I shake my head. “Honestly? I don’t think he would’ve.”
Holt tightens his arms around me. “Maybe a little.”
“There might’ve been less yelling, but the sentiment would’ve been the same.”
“Everything will look better in the morning.”
I hope he’s right.
I don’t think he is, but if he can hope, then so can I.
37
Holt
Ziggy’s crying again.
It’s early, early morning. Pitch black. And she’s huddled on the other side of the bed, crying quietly.
I scoot over behind her and wrap her in a hug, ignoring the ache in the growing bruise on my face.
“Go back to sleep,” she chokes out. “I’ll be okay.”
