Holden’s name was on the list.
And he’s been at the forefront of my mind ever since.
That’s when the nightmares—flashbacks—of the attack started. Each one came with a new repressed memory, and there were a lot of them. At least one every night. It’s ironic, really, because I know if I told Holden about them, he’d compare it to a puzzle.
Piece by piece until the whole image comes to life.
I force an exhale as my eyes drift shut, visions of his hand on my leg, his touch gentle as he urged me to draw. ”Just draw,” he’d say. “Anything. Everything.” So I would. For him. “God, I love you like this.”
My eyes snap open, and without thinking, I immediately reach for the pen on top of my notepad. I put the tip to paper and then release it quickly as if it’s fire at my fingertips. Shallow breaths harsh against my throat, I stare at the blank page.
So close.
So far.
“I need to get out of here,” I whisper to no one. I open a new tab on my browser and type in legal definition of squatting, but before I can look at the results, a knock on the door has my head snapping up, glaring at it.
“Jamie? You in there?” Maggie calls out, knocking again.
Reluctantly, I stand up and open the door.
She’s already smiling, and so I awkwardly return it. “Hi.”
“Dinner’s ready.”
“Oh no, it’s okay,” I assure. It’s only now I realize I haven’t eaten all day. I should probably change that. “I have food in here.”
Leaning forward, she looks into the small space of my RV, looking for evidence of said food.
“I have ramen,” I explain. And then I snort at myself because I’m being ridiculous. “And I really don’t want to put you out. You’ve already done so much for me.”
Maggie shrugs, then turns around, saying over her shoulder, “Suit yourself.”
I shut the door and try to refocus. My work should be my priority, but apparently, the legalities of squatting are far more interesting. Maybe if I just ask Holden if I could—
Sounds from just outside my RV break through my thoughts. Curious, I get up and open the door again. “Miss Jamie,” Mr. Eastwood greets while hauling a wooden cafe table toward me. He parks it next to my open door and then leaves, returning a few moments later with two matching chairs. “Did Holden show you around?” he asks, and I don’t know how to respond.
Holden left right after feeling me up and grinding his erection between my legs. Probably not something his dad needs to know. “Um…”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “That’s for the office,” he says, pointing to the building right behind me. “There’s a full bathroom in there. Toilet. Shower. It’s all yours while you’re here. And don’t feel like you need to be holed up in there all day and night. Walk around the gardens if you want.”
I’d always had some kind of weird obsession with flowers ever since my time at Gina’s, but it was mainly images of them. Facts about them.
The one thing I remember about being here the first time is the smell. It was so incredibly overpowering that I had to take a moment just to breathe it in. I remember standing there, wishing I could bathe in the scent. Over the past few years, I’ve collected moments in time where I could grant myself those wishes. Visits to botanical gardens and floral expos and even wholesalers, but this—this opportunity is a wish only he could grant, and I can’t help the grin that takes over me as I accept the keys from him. “Thank you.”
His eyes bore into mine, kind and soft, a complete contrast to his son’s only hours ago. “I want you to make yourself as comfortable as possible while you’re here, okay?”
I nod, speechless.
“And if you need anything, Mags and I are always around.”
“Literally always,” Maggie calls out, walking toward us, holding two plates. She dumps them both on the table and sits on one of the chairs. “And if you’re not coming in for dinner, then I’m bringing dinner to you.”
I look between them. “This really isn’t necessary.”
Mr. Eastwood chuckles before taking off toward the house again. I’ve barely sat at the table when he comes back with a full tray. He sets down a jug of iced tea, a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, and a small vase with a single pink gerbera in it. “Enjoy, ladies,” he says, then leans down to quickly kiss Maggie.
If the act of swooning had a dictionary definition, it would state The way Maggie looks at Mr. Eastwood. She squeezes his hand. “Thanks, Big H.”
We watch him go back into the main house before she turns to me. “Sorry we had to leave you today. Hopefully, Holden showed you around?”
Shrugging, I say, “It’s fine.”
She points down at my plate. “Don’t get too excited. It’s leftovers. We went to a barbecue over at my brother’s today, and his wife—she’s one of those handsy cooks, you know?”
I laugh under my breath. “It looks delicious.” It’s a smorgasbord of everything you’ll find in southern cooking, and I’m already drooling at the sight of it. “You call Mr. Eastwood Big H too?”
Maggie laughs. “Call him Mr. Eastwood to his face. I dare you.”
I grimace. “He doesn’t like it?”
“Nope. Mr. Eastwood is his dad, and he hates it when people call him that. He gets so mad, this vein pops out in his neck,” she says, pointing to a spot on her neck. “Anyway, everyone calls him Big H. He’s been that or just H even before your Holden was born.” I want to tell her that there’s nothing about “my” Holden that’s actually mine, but I keep my mouth shut. We both dig into the food while she continues to talk between mouthfuls. “He was twelve pounds when he was born, came out of the womb with abs of steel, bulging biceps and a head full of hair.” She lifts the bottle of wine, questioning.
“No, thank you,” I state. Then ask, “So how many Holdens are there here and how do you differentiate them all by name?” I don’t know why I’m so intrigued by this, but I’ve never known generations of men with the same name.
“Holden Senior, Big H’s dad, is still around. He comes here to help whenever he feels like it. Kids call him Mr. Eastwood, but most people call him Senior or Clint.”
“Clint?”
“Like Clint Eastwood,” she laughs out. “And then there’s your Holden. He’s just Holden. Sometimes people call him Junior, but he’ll rarely answer to it.”
“Interesting,” I murmur, causing her to grin over at me. I settle in my seat, get more comfortable. Five years ago, you couldn’t catch me dead having this level of conversation with a stranger. My experience in social situations was severely stunted as a child and remained that way through my adolescence. One of the most incredible things I’ve gained from my solo travels is meeting new people and slowly building the courage and confidence to act civilized.
“So, how did you and Big H meet?” I ask.
She laughs once. “It’s a long story.”
I look around us, notice the setting sun meeting the horizon far, far in the distance. This really is a beautiful spot. I don’t know why Holden had been so eager to leave it in the first place. I face her again. “I have nowhere to be.”