I miss you.
Lord, help me, but I just can’t seem to escape the presence of those words from Hollis’ text messages. They stubbornly linger in the recesses of my mind, haunting me.
Inwardly, I shake off my distracting thoughts and finally spot Grant in the crowd, my family standing off to the left of him, speaking with a few people I’m not familiar with. Merely seeing his handsome face smiling at me lifts my spirits.
I smile and wave back, intent on making my way through the crowd to him. I take a few steps when something—or someone, rather—to the right of Grant draws my attention. All I see is the man’s back, but something about him strikes me as familiar.
White shirtsleeves rolled up to just below his elbows reveal dark, intricate swirls of ink. His khakis fit him well, and he looks fit, lean but muscular. He’s tall, and his hair is dark, yet longer on top while the sides are close shaven, and—
Hollis.
My heart lodges itself in my throat and a faint whimper spills from my lips. Is it him? Or am I making a fool of myself, mistakenly seeing him in a crowd? Lord knows, I’ve done that dozens of times before, only to feel devastated in the end.
“Hollis?” The man falters at my raised voice as I advance closer.
When he slowly turns, as if resigned to do so, I’m utterly robbed of breath. He came. Hollis came to my graduation. Tears well in my eyes as I now stand a foot away from him.
He looks so different yet the same. He’s grown a beard that’s neatly trimmed, dark like his hair. Tattoos peek out from the small view of his upper chest granted by the button-down shirt. He looks like a devastatingly handsome stranger yet also like the boy I loved.
His smile seems brittle at the edges. “Congratulations, Shortcake.”
Good Lord, I’ve missed his voice.
I continue standing here, hating the uncertainty plaguing me about whether it’s okay to hug him or not. Finally, the urge is too strong to resist, and I rush forward and wrap my arms around his waist.
“I missed you,” I breathe against his neck. He smells crisp, clean, and just like…Hollis. It’s comforting, unlike anything else.
“Magnolia?”
At Grant’s voice, Hollis stiffens beneath my touch. Too caught up in this moment, I don’t respond. Easing away, I drink in the sight of my best friend.
“We’re headin’ to an early dinner, if you want to join us.” There’s no mistaking the hopeful tone in my voice.
He offers a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Thanks, but I don’t wanna be in the way.” His gaze flicks to something over my shoulder. “I reckon other things might be more important.”
His smile makes my heart ache because I know him. I know his smiles, and this one holds so much sadness, it makes me want to hold him tight to me.
“Congratulations, Shortcake.” He dips his head to dust a featherlight kiss to my forehead, and I close my eyes to savor every ounce of his touch. “On everythin’.”
He shifts to move away, and my eyes flash open in panic. I part my lips to call after him, his tall form already making quick work of weaving through the crowd, when I hear my name called.
“Magnolia Mae Barton.”
I spin around to see what Grant wants, and as soon as I face him, he drops down to one knee and opens a small black velvet box.
Text from Hollis
Hollis
SIX MONTHS LATER
Fairhope, Alabama
It was bound to happen eventually. Especially since the housekeeper, Teresa, I hired to keep up with the house had told me as much.
After Dad’s death, my mom had taken to the bottle. Hard. I knew she’d dabbled in drinking before, but she’d stepped it up to a whole other level once Dad was gone.
Maybe it makes me a terrible excuse for a son, but I hadn’t stepped in even though Teresa had given me updates periodically. Not because I wanted Mom to drink herself to death, but because I knew it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. My mom’s always done what she wanted, and I’m the last person who could’ve had an impact on her choices.
I’d done a hair above the bare minimum and allotted those funds Dad had appointed for her living expenses. She had a roof over her head and food in the pantry, a company regularly scheduled to take care of the yard and landscaping, and Teresa ensuring the place was kept clean on the inside. But I couldn’t bring myself to do much more.
Her liver gave out minutes after poor Teresa had received a tongue lashing about whatever rant my mother had been going off about. The housekeeper discovered her unresponsive when she’d gone to check on her before she was due to leave for the day.
I hired cleaners to come in and deep clean the house, and I either donated all furniture and furnishings or had them hauled to the dump. I really don’t know what I want to do with the place. It holds so many memories, both good and bad, but I know I should sell it and move on.
That would be the smartest move.
But then there’s the backyard. Hell if a damn treehouse isn’t holding me back from putting this place on the market.
I stand in the middle of the living room and glance around the empty house, now gleaming; the cleanest it’s been in years. The knock on the front door catches me by surprise, and I take another look around, wondering if the cleaners left something behind as I head to answer the door.
I haven’t seen him since I left after Dad died, and staring into his eyes now leaves me unsettled as hell.
I fix a polite smile on my face. “Mr. Barton.”
He nods. “Hollis.” With a cursory glance past me, he asks, “May I come in?”
Without a word, I step back and open the door wider, allowing him to pass before quietly closing it behind him.
He hovers in the small foyer, surveying the empty house, before turning to face me. At his somber expression, I realize this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed him without an air of confidence.
“Hollis, I”—he breaks off to run a hand over top of his thinning hair—“I, uh, owe you an apology.”
Wariness settles through me. Unsure of how to respond, I stay quiet.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize who you were until…” He trails off, averting his gaze. “Until much later.”
“But you knew.” He knew before I did. I stare at him as anger rushes to the forefront.
His dark eyes meet mine, the shade so similar. “I suspected. I just wasn’t one hundred percent certain until recently.” He drags his hand through his hair again, this time mussing it. “Your mother had too much to drink and showed up at my door, demandin’ I admit the truth.”
His sigh is long and defeated, and right now, he’s the polar opposite of the man who’s always impeccably dressed with a confident smile plastered on his face. “I tried to calm her down and managed to walk her back here before my wife got back from her Women’s Club dinner.”
“She doesn’t know.” I don’t pose it as a question because I can read between the lines.
He shakes his head slowly, remorse and a hint of fear lingering in his features. “No.”
I back up to lean against the wall and shove my hands into my pockets, attempting a casual pose. Inside, though, my emotions riot. “Why are you here?”