I stiffen, hovering by the doorway, studying Holly’s reaction.
“Huh?” Holly glances up from her computer screen in confusion. She looks at Janey, then to me. I offer a tentative smile and a pleading gaze. To my surprise, Holly responds with her most genuine, rosy-cheeked, thousand-kilowatt smile. Relief floods my entire body. I’ve missed her so much.
“Oh yes,” she exclaims in Janey’s direction. “Luisa is working on a piece about…” Her voice trails off, eyes cutting to mine.
“Buttered saltines,” I interject helpfully. “I’m doing a comparative taste test at all the clubs in Atlanta.”
“Well, I’ll be. Are you really?” Janey’s eyes widen before dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you know our recipe was stolen from the Altamaha Country Club?” She nods vigorously as if sharing a state secret. “Back in the early seventies. The sous chef at Altamaha had run out of oyster crackers and came up with the buttered saltines. Word got around.”
“I’m going to need a copy of that recipe,” I say, matching her conspiratorial tone.
“Of course! We can arrange that.” Janey is quick to oblige, but seeming to remember Holly is now the boss, she adds cautiously, “If that’s okay with Holly.”
“Thank you, Janey,” Holly says, standing. “I can take it from here.” She steps around her desk to usher her out, then closes the door to the office and turns to take me in.
“Are you okay?” she asks, closing the space between us. “I’ve been worried sick.”
I have a whole apology speech prepared, but before I can get one word out, Holly has her arms around me, pulling me into a hug.
“It’s been almost a week.” She exhales over my shoulder. “I was starting to think I’d never see you again. Why didn’t you call me back?”
I lean back, staring at her stupefied. “Because I was horrible to you,” I cry out, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “I was cruel and a shitty friend.”
“I was a shitty friend, too,” Holly cuts in, in a tone that implies our blowout, for her, is water under the bridge. “I’m just sohappy you’re here.” She beams back at me, holding on to my arms.
“Seriously, Holly,” I urge, a little annoyed that she’s not more upset. “I was a fucking nightmare. Just let me apologize!”
“Okay. Fine,” she says, releasing her grip on me. “Let’s apologize.” She waves one hand in the air. “But for the record, I think we were both freaking out, worried sick about Eli, and we took it out on each other.” She holds on to herself, the memory of that night darkening her expression. “All I’m saying is, we can’t judge others by their worst day, and judge ourselves by our best intentions.”
I tilt my head sideways, flummoxed by her words. “Are you really quoting President George W. Bush right now?” I bark out a laugh.
“Maybe?” she says sheepishly, then gestures to the wall behind us, where one of those derivative office quote posters hangs. “It was the old GM’s,” she explains. “Ol’ Dennis loved W.” The former president smiles down placidly at us. “It’s true, though—we can’t just throw away our friendship over one argument on one disastrous day.”
Holly leads me to a tufted dark leather couch, and we sit. Everything about this office, from the oversize furniture to the collection of muskets displayed in a glass cabinet to the tweed wallpaper screams hypermasculine.
“Luisa,” Holly says warmly, reaching for my hand, “we may be about to lose everything we’ve worked for”—her eyes travel around the room—“but I don’t want to lose you, too.” She squeezes my hand, and with it my heart. And before I have time to retreat into myself, put up any walls, or send for emotional reinforcements, I’m ugly crying. Again.
“What in the world is happening right now?” Holly’s gone slack-jawed, seemingly stumped by a mix of concern, disbelief, and surprise. “Is the tough-as-nails investigative journalist Luisa Martín Moreno crying?”
“This is what I do now.” I motion to my face, pulling in a long calming breath, trying to regain control. “I cry in front of people.” I fan my eyes in an almost comical attempt at drying my tears. “I hate this so much.”
Holly reaches for a box of tissues on a side table, then pulls out a handful and passes them to me.
“You have to let me apologize,” I demand, dabbing at my eyes with a tissue.
“Okay,” she acquiesces. “You go, then me.”
“You were right,” I admit thoughtfully. “Something changed inside me when my dad died.” I tap at my chest with my fingers. “I keep expecting the worst, for things to go wrong or for people to disappoint me.”
“It was a traumatic event, Luisa,” Holly says in understanding. “So to cope, you learned to always be prepared, react first, be hypervigilant.” I nod, wringing the tissue with my hands. “All the traits that also make you a great journalist.”
“But it’s also the reason I try to anticipate rejection and sometimes bulldoze the people I love.” Shame at the things I said and the pain I’ve caused spreads hot over my cheeks. I stare at the balled-up tissues. “I pushed you and Eli away in a preemptive strike.” Fresh tears well in my eyes. I let them fall, feeling every bit vulnerable and raw, but also open and tender. “I don’t want to be that person anymore. I want to be a good friend. To expect good things instead.”
“You deserve good things, Luisa,” Holly says quietly. She covers my hand with hers, and I allow myself to be soothed by her touch, to let my friend care for me.
“We both do,” I say. “You are an incredible mom, and excellent at your job.” I look her straight in the eyes so there’s no doubt I mean every word. “You should be the fucking boss lady. For real. Not just this interim bullshit.”
“Thanks,” Holly says, two circles glowing red over her cheeks. “Is it my turn now?”
