I slid my hand out from under his dry touch. I’d wasted his entire night. The least I could do was pay for dinner.
Outside the restaurant, we drew on our jackets and lingered in thatawkward what-do-we-do-now post-date silence.
“You want to go somewhere?” Brad asked. “Grab a drink?” Hisnicesmile turned suggestive. “I had a good time tonight. Kind of don’t want the night to be over.”
He leaned into me, his breath salty and tinged with his margarita’s biting sweetness. For a heartbeat, I froze, willing to let it happen. For Brad to kiss or even fuck Holden out of me so I could get on with my life.
Instinctively, I reared back before Brad’s lips could touch mine. “Sorry. I can’t. Early morning tomorrow.”
“Uh-oh,” Brad said, smiling tightly. “Pretty sure that’s code forthis isn’t going to work.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you… I’m getting out of a relationship.”
“Oh yeah? Did it end pretty recently?”
It hasn’t ended.
“Yeah, pretty recent. I thought I was ready to get out there, but I’m just not.”
“Well, it was a nice dinner anyway.”
Brad gave me a hug, and again, I waited for my body—deprived of sex for three years—to respond. But Brad smelled different, felt different in my arms, and I let him go easily.
“Have a good one, River.”
“Yep. You too.”
Holden, you asshole. Where are you?
We went our separate ways, and I drove back to my apartment. I flipped on the light and tossed my keys on the table by the entry. Hard. My heart pounded in my chest, and I fought for control.
I stripped down to my underwear and climbed into bed withGods of Midnight. Again.
Because I’m fucking pathetic.
But in moments, I was lost in the complex story of one man, Oliver, who lives a seemingly perfect life—loving husband and career—but who dreams of another version of himself every night: Jules, who lives awild, reckless life of sex, drugs, and alcohol…and who dreams of Oliver.
Holden seamlessly wove their narratives together until the climax where Oliver and Jules see each other on opposite sides of the same bathroom mirror in a seedy club in Amsterdam. When their reflections touch, they’re transported to a black lake in a snow-covered wasteland. Both struggle to the surface, but only one climbs out, shivering and naked. The reader is left not knowing which one emerged or if either truly survived at all. Maybe the life of one man was merely a drug-induced hallucination of the other as he died in that Amsterdam bathroom. Maybe not.
I felt Holden’s conflict dripping from every page, his yearning to be free of his demons, and the relentless power they wielded over him. But the open ending was a big question mark, leaving me without answers.
A sudden growl erupting out of my chest, I hurled the book across the room. The hardcover smacked the dresser and landed face down, pages bent and the spine dented.
“Fuck.”
The silence in the small apartment crowded in, and I nearly let go. Nearly screamed and let every ounce of grief—for my mother and for Holden—come pouring out. I felt it rise in my chest, like a boulder that needed to be coughed up.
It was going to hurt.
It was going to tear me open.
I fought it down while part of me begged to let it out.
My phone rang. Violet. I sucked in a deep breath. Then another. When I trusted my voice, I answered.
“Hey, Violet.”
“Hey, you,” she answered. “You sound terrible. Chest cold?”
