“I love you.”
“You love me?” He sounds confused.
“Yes.”
Without speaking, he walks us backward a few steps until I can feel a tree behind me. Holland picks me up, I wrap my legs around his waist.
If he wasn’t holding me up, I’d be a puddle on the ground. The way he’s looking at me right now—I can hardly stand it.
And then he kisses me. Like I’m air and he’s drowning. It’s the sort of kiss which makes you lose your footing. Good thing Holland is holding me up. Enjoyably frantic and the kind of touch that stitches you back together. Gone is the hesitation and curiosity. It’s pure need. Understanding. Compassion.
Everything we try to say is in this kiss.
Holland slowly sets me down, my legs like jelly when they touch the mud.
“Ivy. I love you,” Holland says with the smallest of smiles on his face and kisses my forehead.
In this forest, on an actual hike, I feel a wave of change. I don’t know all the details but I know it’s here. I can feel it in my bones. Touching on the corner of my soul.
“I know a shortcut. Let’s go home.”
It’s funny, the way he sayshome. When I hear it, I don’t want to argue. My brain doesn’t panic and try to justify.
Holland feels like home.
I feel lighter when we’re back inside, out of the rain. I sit down to take my boots off but Holland beats me to it. He’s gentle with untying and taking them off. It feels good to be rid of the muddy boots and damp socks. We take off the first layer of rain-sodden clothes.
Holland walks to the kitchen and I follow. He washes his hands and pours me a glass of water. He sits down across from me. Our argument comes roaring back. I’m not sure which one of us will speak first.
Because I’m an anxious millennial and it’s the way I am, I make a joke. “I definitely preferred the weather of our first hike.”
“Agreed,” he replies, tinged with exhaustion.
The silence engulfs us like a cloud of smoke. We sip our water and take a minute.
“I’m not trying to keep you out. I just don’t know how to let anyone in anymore,” Holland says, eyes fierce on mine. “I tried showing you with the shopping, and putting together the list of things for you and Vivian to do, her comped room, getting her a rental car—”
“Wait, you did that?” I didn’t even know about the car or the room, and I thought Bea gave me the ideas.
“Yes, I did that.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I wish I could but I can’t.”
I know, all too well, what this is like. The random things my anxiety-riddled brain chooses to hold on to, are usually negative and never productive.
“You’re one of very few people who knows the story of Hazel. From my side. Not from Bea or from someone else talking about it or on social media. I’ve only told that story a handful of times. And I wanted to tell you.” He reaches his arm across the table. I put my own on top of it.
I look at him. It’s heartbreaking and sad to think of all he’s held onto this for so long. His gaze is intense and I know the wordsare hard for him. When we make eye contact, I want to stay here, forever. I believe him. I know he’s trying.
I stand in front of him. He turns the chair toward me. We’re both jagged in our own ways. All I know is I feel better when I’m with him.
“There’s a reason I’m here and not on a plane back to my apartment. I like it here. I like it here with you… and Slate,” I share. “And you’re right. I’m used to taking care of myself, to a fault.” I look down at my feet.
Holland leans back in the chair, runs hands through his damp hair, before letting his arms hang to his side.
“I like it here with you too.” His voice is quiet. His look is intense.
