But Hollis checked.
Hollis kept tabs.
The drive to the hotel goes by in a flash that takes forever. I’m out of time, out of rhyme, and out of my element. Every minute from Gus’s home to the restaurant seems to flow herky jerky – too fast, too slow, too something – because my muscles are twitching and jumping, and my body doesn’t seem to want to listen to my mind, and my limbic system is firing away on overdrive.
Before I get out of the vehicle, I take off the necklace Ford gave me and drop it in the cup holder.
I don’t remember walking to the door of Hollis’s shoddy hotel or stepping inside. I don’t even remember the name of it or the restaurant-slash-bar where we’re meeting.
There’s an ocean in my head, and…
And.
And, then.
And then I see him.
My entire world stills, narrows down to one defining sound.
The beat of my heart.
As much as I thought I was ready for him – ready for the weight of his stare, the power of his attention – I’m not. At all.
“Becca.”
Blue eyes with green striations. The left flecked with gold.
Perfectly imperfect.
I can’t believe I’m here.
With him.
The hotel’s restaurant-bar is small and intimate, with dark décor and muted amber lighting. And I’m thankful for the ambience; I use it as camouflage, hoping the dim setting masks my nerves.
My palms are sweating, so I swipe them against my jeans before tucking them discreetly under my thighs. But then, realizing I want (need) a drink of water, I have to shift around again so I can free my hands and grab my glass.
The vinyl booth squeaks with my movement.
“You look beautiful.” Hollis lifts his beer bottle to his lips, watches me as he takes a sip.
I close my eyes and gulp my water.
Seconds tick. Tick, tick, tick.
“I, um, read your book. It was,” I take a deep breath and release it, “amazing.”
Hollis’s smile is modest, but his eyes light up with my compliment.
I decide to test the waters. “So the main character’s love interest? She seemed…familiar.”
His grin turns from modest to knowing. “Well, she should.”
I feel a sharp movement in my chest when he confirms what I guessed – what I knew – all along.
“She’s you.”
As over-the-moon happy as I am to be right, having Hollis confirm what I suspected to be true all along suddenly, and strangely, feels almost…overwhelming.
I take another sip of my water and think about ordering something stronger.
“So,” he says, setting down his drink and folding his hands on the table, “this is slightly awkward, isn’t it?”
“Not really.” My voice is casual, boasting a confidence I’m annoyed I don’t feel. But actions speak louder than words, and when I shift in my seat again, Hollis smirks.
So much for the ambient lighting.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Maybe a little. Given our past and everything that happened the…well…the last time we saw each other.”
Okay. So maybe bringing up that day isn’t the smartest move. But that day, the day I walked out and didn’t look back, is like a big fucking elephant in the room. We can’t ignore it forever. We need to deal with it, feed it just enough so that it’ll mosey on its merry way and get the hell out of our lives.
Hollis’s eyes cloud over, murky shadows that hint at murky depths. But it’s gone in a flash, and if I didn’t know him as intimately as I do, I probably wouldn’t have caught it.
But I did. I caught it all in one revealing blink.
Flickers of pain.
Shades of memories.
Ghosts living rent-free in his head.
“That was a long time ago. I hardly remember it anymore.” He reaches for his bottle again. Curls his fingers around the glass, then releases it just as quickly.
Actions speak louder than words.
“I do.” It’s just a whisper, an unconscious expression that I hadn’t meant to let slip. But Hollis catches it. Just like he catches everything.
We’re silent, as silent as two self-conscious teenagers on a first date.
But the thing is, we’re not self-conscious teenagers, and this isn’t our first date. And I refuse to let our reunion become befuddled with the unease of the past. Hollis and I share a wound, and though we’ve each chosen to dress the injury in different wrappings, it doesn’t change the fact that we were sliced by the same dagger.
The cuts are deep; they’re still bleeding. And the only way to heal them is together.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” I bite my lip, sigh again. “I mean, I know that I hurt you, but…”
Hollis laughs, and though I expect it to be tinged with anger, it’s not. It’s soft, but it carries the weight of a symphony. “I wasn’t just hurt. You broke my fucking heart.”
“I know.” Again, another whisper
“You…you were the love of my life.” He leans back in his seat, swipes a hand over his mouth, and cranes his neck toward the bar. But when he finally turns back, his eyes are filled with so much, too much, and I can barely breathe because of the way he’s looking at me. “Christ, Becca. You’re still the love of my life.”
• • •
Heaven is real. It’s real, and it exists in this shitty little hotel restaurant-bar.
I’m never leaving.
Hollis and I can subsist on martini olives and onions, drinking wine and soda water, and fashion bedclothes out of recycled paper napkins. This scarred, rickety booth will be our home, our forever home, and the only thing we’ll need, ever need, is each other.
“Becca?”
I jerk out of my reverie. Remember Hollis’s words.
Tell myself to get a grip.
“Well?” He’s staring at me, expectant, those dazzling eyes all over my face. “Do you?”
I have no idea what he’s asking, because I was off in la-la land, doing spins and basking in the knowledge that I’m still the love of his life.
Fuck you, Marla!
“I just…I need to know. Because if you do, if you still have feelings for me, then…” He shakes his head. “Well, let’s just deal with one thing at a time. How does that sound?”
I nod.
“So do you, Becca? Still have feelings for me?” His eyes catch mine, and I can tell he knows the truth before he even asks the next question. It’s in the upturn of his lips, the slight lift of his chin. It’s the sudden surge of certainty that rings in his words. “Am I still the love of your life?”
I’m tired of lying. Tired of pretending. Tired of, just, everything.
So I give it all up.
I give him my truth.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”
And then, “You never stopped.”
I was wrong. Heaven isn’t in that shitty little restaurant-bar.
Nope.
It’s here. Now. In this dingy hotel room with the cheap lighting and the horrid, tawdry décor.
It’s in this bed. This bed with the creaky box spring and the scratchy sheets and the stiff polyester spread.