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I hope.
I’m not ready to lose Hollie’s presence in my painfully drab life.
Chapter 24
Hollie
Nice while it lasted.
The cliché is a thread weaving its way through the folds of the depression that draped me two days ago, capturing and holding me hostage.
John showed up in my life with equal suddenness. After a rocky start, I welcomed his addition to my dull existence. People, the few I allow into my life, tell me I’m strong. I don’t feel it. My arms are too short to wrap around my troubles, and my grip and shoulders are weak.
John’s are strong. Everything about him is, both the good and the bad.
Wasstrong.
Still is, I suppose, in the same way a tree falling in the forest makes a sound—but I won’t know since I won’t be seeing him anymore. Relationships, even friendships, don’t work out for me—and yes, I know I’m the common denominator.
A weak draft from the shattered window reaches me facedown on the sofa where I’m huddled under a snagged and worn throw. John duct-taped cardboard over the gaping hole a few nights ago, but a thin current of autumn air finds its way through. The Parsons have a contractor scheduled to replace the glass tomorrow, but for now, the reminder of my troubles shakes me.
Last night, I laid awake for hours listening for any out of place sound, hoping my ears would return nothing. All has been quiet, the nasty threat apparently empty.
For two days, Jacob has refused my texts, much less my calls. I finally gave up trying last night. Time will cool him off and bring him back to me, I pray.
Or I did, but after the initial hours in the wake of our blowout, something snapped. This is far from the first time my prayers have hit the ceiling, bouncing back to me like a bad check, but it is the first time in years they’ve refused to constitute themselves, even in thought form, in my brain.
I’m not sure God listens, anyway.
A sob consumes my throat and jars the otherwise silent apartment.
I am alone.
And it’s all my fault.
∞∞∞
The rumble of a knock rips my eyes open.Jacob!I stumble through the dim lamplight, fumble with the chain I clumsily installed years ago, and yank open the door.
John.
Of course. Jacob would use his key and then call for me to unhook the chain.
John’s deep brown eyes consume me, assessing, while the rest of his face postures itself into a frown. “You didn’t ask who it was.”
Sleep on top of grief has my mind in a mushy muddle as I stare back. Why is he here? I accused him of lying and threw all the kindness he’s done back in his face.
I grip the edge of the door, two days of not eating spinning my head. “What are you doing here?”
His frown deepens. “I went by the diner. Your waitress friend said you haven’t showed for two days.”
If I say nothing of consequence, will he leave me to my shame? His first take was on the money. I’m a run-of-the-mill, greasy-diner waitress who chronically makes bad choices. He never said the words, but it was in his eyes the night I approached him with my sad tale. Somewhere along the way, he changed his mind—but he shouldn’t have. I’m a waste of his effort.
“She also said you’ve only called in sick one day in all the time she’s known you.”
“So what?” What does anything matter?
He folds his arms over a very solid chest that can amazingly do duty as a place of rest. “You don’t look good.”
