Page 102 of When We Were Young

“That doesn’t surprise me about him. He was always so thoughtful back in college until—shoot. Never mind.”

“I know what he did,” Delaney says quietly.

“You do?”

“Holden and I have had some good conversations. When Harrison and I were apart, it was heart-to-heart talks with Holden that made me realize what I would lose if I stayed away from Harrison.”

“Why did he tell you about college? And did he tell you⁠—”

“Don’t worry. He didn’t spill any of your secrets except that you broke up and you started dating someone else.”

“You know the funny thing is, Holden and I weren’t even really dating.”

“Yes, he said you spent all your time in the library, which is super romantic, by the way. Now that’s a meet-cute.”

I laugh, but what she doesn’t know is that the fact that I’d rarely see him outside of the library was a painful point in our relationship. I force the thoughts away.

“Do you want a glass of wine?” Delaney nods.

I walk over to the bar, uncork the bottle, and begin to pour us each a glass.

“Oh my gosh, those bar doors are absolutely gorgeous.”

“I know. When Holden brought them over, I fell in love.”

“You fell in love?” The teasing air in her voice matches the sparkle in her eyes.

I look at her and chuckle. “Yeah… with the doors. They’re gorgeous. Henry did an amazing job on them.”

Delaney’s eyes widen.

“What?” I ask her, noticing the change in her expression.

“Henry didn’t make those doors, Lizzie.”

“He didn’t? Then who did?” I ask.

She studies me quietly for a few seconds before speaking. “Who do you think made those doors?”

I don’t answer right away. It can’t be.

“Did Holden make me the doors?” I whisper. My heart races. It pounds in my chest, and I suck in a deep breath, needing a minute to grasp what she just told me.

“He’s not a carpenter,” I say.

“No, he’s not. But he probably told you how he used to spend time with his dad working on projects.” She pauses. “Holden made those doors.”

And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Holden

Ipace across the town square in the dark, talking to myself. Every once in a while, I catch myself closing my eyes while I walk, just like I used to in college, so I can focus my thoughts. Every minute or two, I pause and stare at Lizette’s place, then resume pacing.

There’s still a light on, so it’s not too late to walk across the street and tell her my truth.

“You can do this. You have to do this,” I mutter.