“Well,” she says. “You happen to be a good dad. Go figure.”
“I heardyourdad lives in New York.” It’s a bold move on my part, because both of us remember what happened on the one and only visit he paid to his daughters in Highland Hills. It was the first time I got a taste of Holly. She laughs. “He’s a sixty-six-year-old man masquerading as Peter Pan. As long as I accept his limitations and expect nothing, then it works. I’m begrudgingly fond of him.”
“And your mother?”
“She’s in Florida with husband number four, living the child-free, unencumbered life she was meant to lead. We all hear from her occasionally, but it’s usually because she wants to brag about something or ask for favors, like the time she asked my sister Ivy to send her twenty signed books for her book club. Ivy was smart enough to tell her to go fuck herself.” Her lips firm. “You know, Mom left Asheville when Ivy was pretty little, but at least she had a supportive dad who was happy to have full custody. That helped.”
She takes a big swig of her beer as though trying to wash away the bad taste of her parents.
While I knew most of this in theory as teenager, it hits me in a whole new way. Rowan and I were both on the football team, and I used to be jealous that he didn’t have a curfew even though he was two years younger than me. None of them did. My parents and their friends called them the Lawless Mayberrys. I saw it as the Mayberry kids having freedom, but now I realize their supposed freedom was really a loveless cage.
“Stop that,” she says in disgust, her eyes flashing.
“Stop what?”
“The pity party you’re currently throwing for me. I don’t need or want it.”
I can tell she’s on the verge of leaving. I suspect she won’t go until she finishes setting up the computer, but I can’t imagine she has that much more to do.
I scrunch my nose. “Get over yourself. Who says I feel sorry for you? Every kid has complaints about their parents. Cry me a river. My mom used to iron my boxers.” I lean closer. “Yes,boxers. I’m sure you can imagine how rough my life was in the locker room.”
Relief flashes in her eyes so quickly I would have missed it if I didn’t have my gaze locked on hers. “Forget the locker room, what about the girls who went down on you?”
Despite our playful tone, my back bristles in anticipation of her naming Millie. Sure, she went down on me on Overlook Road in the front seat of my car more times than I can recall, even after we graduated, but I refuse to talk about it so irreverently with Holly. “Who says girls went down on me in high school?”
“Please,” she drawls. “You were notorious for it until you finally settled down with Millie.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “A lot of that was rumor.”
She gives me a piercing look. “And a lot of it wasn’t. Which is why I don’t believe you were wearing boxers during those encounters. Girls talk.”
I lift my shoulder in a good-natured shrug. “Ask Rowan if you don’t believe me.” I finish the last of my sandwich and pick up my beer bottle, leaning back in my chair.
She gives me a probing look. “You know, there was a time when I thought you and I were going to be friends. But you did your damnedest to ignore me after that day in the woods.” She lifts up one side of her mouth. “At least I got a Crunch bar out of it.”
There’s real hurt behind her words, and I’m struck speechless for a second.
Holly never acted like she was hurt back then. No…she lashed out at me.
Now that I think of it, though, taking a step back from her after she made herself vulnerable was probably the worst fucking thing I could have done.
I feel like an asshole, but something tells me she didn’t tell me because she wanted an apology. Maybe this is her way of explaining why she’s been so touchy with me.
She pushes her empty plate away and picks up her own bottle. “I guess I should get back to work.”
I sit up straight in my chair, anxious to keep her here and talking. “But we haven’t had dessert.”
She smirks. “Did you graduate from Crunch bars to making cookies?”
I smirk back. “I’m totally capable of making cookies.”
“You bake the premade dough, don’t you?” She’s teasing me again. I’m grateful for the familiar ground, but I also like that she opened up to me tonight, and me to her. I shouldn’t, but I do. “That doesn’t count.”
“It most certainly counts, and while Jane loves that stuff—gross—I’ve made plenty of batches of homemade chocolate chip cookies.”
She crosses her arms under her boobs, drawing my focus. “Proof or it never happened.”
It takes me a second to lift my gaze back to her face. “I don’t have any. I was going to offer you ice cream.”
