I look at her door and it’s overwhelming. The same door I practically slammed the other day after our fight. The same one I stood in front of, building up the courage to knock on.
When Ivy comes back into the hallway, her face is red but freshly washed. She’s wearing leggings and one of the tops she bought on our shopping trip.
Her hair is out of its tight bun and the waves kiss her shoulders. I let her speak first.
“I know what I want,” she says but her voice is quieter than I’m used to, and she sounds tired. She doesn’t touch me but stands close. “A peanut butter bacon cheeseburger.”
Chapter Forty-Three
WHY DOES IT FEEL like Royce stole a piece of me? Even if he offered it back, I’d never take it. I picture it dripping in black and frayed at the edges where he ripped it from me. My mind has always been too good at visualizing trauma.
It feels like hundreds of bugs are crawling over my skin. I wore a long sleeve shirt because I knew I’d want to scratch. That’s how disgusting I feel.
Tears prick at my eyes when I think about Holland coming in when he did. There aren’t words to express my gratitude. And I don’t even attempt.
I’m in Holland’s truck and we’re driving in silence. He asked if I wanted to listen to any music. I don’t. His voice is soft and kind. Much different than the last time we were together.
The whole nightmare with Royce spanned a minute or two and it’s on replay in my head. His disgusting touch. His mouth, hurtful, on mine. Holland’s face, full of rage. My body shaking.
I’m humiliated. And ashamed. Why didn’t I scream? Or yell for help? Or get away quicker?
When we walked through the lobby, Holland stopped at the front desk. The concerned looks and hushed tones were hard to miss. I’m sure it was about Royce. There weren’t many people who saw what happened betweenthe two men, but I know some of them did.
Holland doesn’t ask me anything about Royce or what happened and I’m grateful. He still looks rattled. I look at his hand, now on the steering wheel, and notice his knuckles are split open.
We get twenty minutes into the drive before I panic about the aftermath of this whole situation.
“Stella. I need to call Stella. I have to tell her. She’s going to ask about the contract. What the hell do I say to her?” My words stomp over one another. I fumble my phone.
“Ivy. Breathe,” Holland says while taking my phone from my hand, his other on the steering wheel. “You don’t need to worry about this right now.” He’s trying to reassure me.
“I know... but she’s expecting my call. She’s going to think something happened.”
“Somethingdidhappen.” His eyes are soft when he glances at me, just for a second, before he’s back staring at the road. “If you’re comfortable, I can call Stella once we’re at the restaurant. I can let her know what happened. That way, you can call her when you’re ready,” Holland offers. “We’re not going to call her from the car, ok?”
“You’d do that? Call her?”
I know he can hear the tears in my voice. There are no jokes about crying. And he doesn’t tell me to stop.
He doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes.”
Slumping back against the seat, I close my eyes. Holland rolls down both windows and the wind is loud in my ears. Like the best kind of white noise. Loud and distracting. I spend the rest of the drive doing my deep breathing.
Holland doesn’t ask any questions.
Even though my brain and body are exhausted, I feel safe.
My mouth starts watering when we walk into The Bun Room. It smells like fried food and burgers. My stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. When Holland asks if I want to stay here to eat or get it to go, I choose to stay.
I need some space from the lodge. Even if it’s just for a meal.
It’s a little busy but we get a table tucked away in the back. It seems like everyone knows Holland and is surprised to see him out. He doesn’t let anyone pull him into a conversation; his focus is solely on me.
The server tells us the specials, which are mostly drinks, and leaves us to browse.
“How bad would it be to use alcohol as a coping mechanism right now?” I say as I scan the long list of local cider, beer, and wine. “Would you judge me?”
Holland smirks. “No judgment at all. You have a designated driver.” He points at his chest. “If you want to have some drinks, I’ll be sure to remind you about drinking water.” He looks content and confident as he browses the drink menu.
