“I wish you’d stop doing that,” he interrupts. “Stop taking the blamefor things that aren’t your fault. People cheat for a lot of reasons and that’s on them. It’s probably not even partly your fault.” He says it like he’d been thinking about it for a bit.
This is unexpected. I had no idea Holland noticed my change in demeanor when Royce continued to dig at me about the mishap this morning, and found another way to bring up Jack, like my presence and contribution weren’t satisfactory. I’m speechless on this swing in the middle of the night.
“You’re also not stupid or careless. I heard you giving yourself quite the talk outside the conference room yesterday morning,” Holland continues. “I mean, maybe you are…” He laughs. “But not when it comes to those boxes.” He’s clear, to the point, and calm.
“Also, Royce is a dick.” He crosses his arms.
Taken aback by the kindness and compassion shown by someone I just met puts tears behind my eyes. This feels like a Vivian rant, even with one of her favorite words. She’s usually calling me out for doing things like apologizing when an apology is unnecessary or taking blame for anything that goes even a little amiss.
Holland looks over to see me wipe my eyes and his face crumples with concern. “I’m sorry. Shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry. I don’t know why I brought it up. I’m a jerk—”
“You’re not a jerk. And to be honest, I cry a lot. Almost burst into tears when Bea hugged me earlier.” I dab my eyes and look over at Holland to see him intently listening and like he’s a little afraid to move.
“I’m crying because you’re being so kind. Also, because I wanted to cry earlier about the chaos, and for Royce constantly making me feel like I’m not competent.” It’s so easy to think of all the things I could’ve cried about so I keep going. “I could’ve cried when you found my boxes, and again when you helped me set up my table. The list goes on and on.”
I have this nostalgic feeling that hits me. Almost like whenan unexpected night or encounter would happen when you were a teenager. Staying out too late, sort of breaking the rules, or meeting someone new. No matter what it was, it felt like you’d always remember it. Nothing could wreck the memory. That’s how I feel right now.
He turns and catches my eyes. We don’t say anything but we’re still telling each other secrets.
Chapter Fourteen
I WOULDN’T HAVE put this on my daily bingo card.
Ivy and I are sitting with each other, in complete—but comfortable—silence, enjoying each other’s company. This isn’t like me, socializing by choice, but I couldn’t just wrap it up in the bar.
Especially when Royce made her react like that. I hated how he talked to Ivy. Hated how her face drained of color. I knew this fucking guy was going to be an issue.
I break the silence. “When do you head back home?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m leaving for vacation the day after,” she answers and I can hear the joy in her voice.
Ivy chats for the next five minutes about her friend, Vivian and where they’re going. About how she’s going to finally take their “spooky sisters” vacation.
What the hell is that? Sensing my unanswered questions, she fills in the gaps. Sounds like they’ve been trying to take this trip for a while. I don’t feel like I totally get it but I can feel the excitement rolling off her.
A cool breeze comes through and leaves goosebumps on my skin. I love that feeling. It brings me back to nights in our backyard when I was younger. We’d sit on the deck and stare at the stars. My parents with their wine andbourbon and Hazel and I with hot chocolate.
I acted like I was too old for hot chocolate but it was a lie. I’d take the mug, reluctantly, and scoff at the mound of whipped cream. Honestly, it was one of my favorite family traditions.
The city had a lot but it’s never had this. The stars. The nostalgia.
“I should get to bed,” Ivy says as I’m reminiscing. “And you probably have someone waiting for you at home.”
“Oh yeah, sure do.” I joke. “I’m sure Slate has taken himself to bed already.”
“Slate?” Ivy’s voice is higher.
“Yes, Slate. The spoiled French bulldog who has a nicer bed than I do.”
“You have a Frenchie?” she exclaims. “I love Frenchies. Wish I was sticking around to meet the little guy.” She’s swooning.
For a second, I think about inviting her to meet him but I quickly dismiss the thought. I met this woman yesterday. Not a good idea. For probably more reasons than that.
I get off the swing slowly, trying not to bump into her. She puts her legs over the edge and I reach out my hand. When Ivy attempts to put both feet on the ground and reach for it, she stumbles. Directly into my chest. Her soft brown hair is under my chin and some of it touches my face. She smells good. Like a smell you know but can’t place.
Instead of her hands, I’m holding her elbows. Her skin is chilled under the fabric. Our bodies are close. Her green eyes snap up. I hold my breath but see hers. It’s the only thing between us. My hands are on fire, burning to touch her.
I finally exhale and Ivy steps away.
