I couldn’t help messing with her. I wished I could see her face. God, the way she looked after that kiss last night. The way she’d felt when I pressed into her core. I wanted more.
Holly:I’m going back to sleep.
I grinned and went back to my workout. After a minute I picked up my phone again.
Me:You’ll need it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Holly
There was noway I could tell him what I was wearing.
I snuggled deeper under my covers and sniffed his jacket again.
Yes. I slept in it. It was soft, and snuggly, and it smelled just like Hunter.
I’d bottle this scent if I could.
The fact that he was already up and planning his day shamed me. Rolling over I grabbed my journal and unclipped my favorite pen. Ever since Bernadette’s death I’d been trying to document my emotions. I’d been studying psychology for nearly six years now. This crap was supposed to work.
I wrote about how I met Hunter, Gert and Ralph, the stupid auction and before I knew it I was analyzing his guilt about one single pitch and how he had so totally embraced it. Old habits die hard.
Guilt.
I had my very own toxic relationship with it.
Hunter believed his one mistake had cost them the game. I didn’t really even consider it a mistake.
And it had cost him a ballgame.
My mistake had cost my best friend’s life.
My phone vibrated as another text came in.
Paralyzing anxiety struck at the speed of light when I saw that it wasn’t another playful comment from Hunter, but Star.
Star:Tell me you got him.
Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit! I just sat there. I realized I was going to have to fess up. I just hadn’t expected my time of reckoning to come so quickly. Which had been stupid of me. Of course, Star wouldn’t wait until Monday to ask me about it.
My finger hovered motionless over my phone as I tried to get up the courage to come clean.
“Holly!” My mother knocked once and then peaked in the door. “You were certainly late last night. Simon said Miss Martin sent you to bid at the auction for her. How exciting that you’re getting more responsibilities. Simon was afraid you might make him look bad, but I told him to trust you.” She carried her cup of coffee over to the foot of my bed and made herself comfortable “So how’d it go?”
“Great.” Her comment sucker punched me. “Just great.”
“To think that my daughter is responsible for setting up an interview with a United States Senator! Oh, Holly! I’m just so proud of you.” The smile on her face dropped when she noticed my journal sitting on my pillow. “We’ve been so worried about you sweetheart. You’re going out last night couldn’t have made me happier.” And then she wiped the corner of her eyes. “You have to let things go. Move on with your life.”
Even though my mother was trying to be helpful her words had the effect of fingernails on a chalkboard. She spoke as though Bernadette hadn’t mattered! Every time she said something like this I felt worse.
Except Mom was only trying to make me feel better. This wasn’t her fault.
“I’m trying mom,” was all I could get out. Those cold icy fingers wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
I’d been going through the motions. I journaled. I worked. I even exercised sometimes. My guilt was not something that would go away anytime soon. And then I pictured myself embracing it. Like a big comfy pillow, I clung to it tightly.
Mom rose from the bed and picked up some sweats and socks that were lying on the floor. When she came to my ‘clothes-horse-chair’ she lifted my dress from last night and held it out. “Oh, wow. Is this what you wore to the auction? I bet you looked amazing!” She then brushed at a few spots. “It needs to be dry cleaned. Want me to drop it off when I go out today?”
