The Hollow Inside

by Brooke Lauren Davis

  But none of that mattered now. She knocked on her father’s office door, and when he opened it, she threw herself into his stiff arms and begged him to please, please, please forgive her.

  She was relieved beyond words when he patted her back twice before he gripped her arms and made her let go of him. Then he eased her down into a chair and put his coat around her shoulders. He pushed a wet curl out of her face before he said the first words he’d spoken to her in several days:

  “I think you’re going to have to go away for a while.”

  Chapter 23

  AFTER ALL THE FESTIVITIES yesterday, I’m exhausted. I trudge through an eight-hour shift at the Watering Hole, through customer meltdowns over slightly burnt toast and watery sodas, through scraping unidentifiable substances off the bottoms of tables and reciting the day’s specials so many times that I’m pretty sure I’ll be chanting nonsense about chicken chopped salad and broccoli soup in my dreams tonight.

  When the clock ticks down the last seconds of my shift, there’s a palpable feeling of release, a satisfying sigh that sweeps through my body.

  I did it. And I’ve got a pocketful of tips to show for it.

  Normally, Jill drives me home when I’m done, but she presses her keys into my hand instead and says, “I’m going to stay behind to help with the dinner crowd. Do you think you could do me a favor?”

  -

  Black Cat Lake is around the backside of Mattie Mountain. I ease Jill’s minivan off the street onto a dirt road that winds somewhere cut off from the rest of the world by crowded trees and jutting rocks that surround the glassy water. I park just off the path and step out of the car.

  Melody is giving swimming lessons at the lake today, but she forgot her gym bag with her suit in it in her mother’s car, so I told Jill I would bring it to her.

  I walk toward the lake with the bag slung over my shoulder. A group of girls stands talking at the end of a dock that stretches far out into the water, a mixture of high schoolers and little kids there for swim lessons. I notice a few from the restaurant yesterday—the ones I served dishwater coffee—and I have to suppress a smile.

  Everyone is in a swimsuit, except for one girl, who stands a little bit apart and pretends to be very, very interested in the dirt under her fingernails.

  The others look at her every so often and whisper to each other, like they’re observing an open-heart surgery through a glass window. And it isn’t going well.

  When Melody spots me, she looks embarrassed for half a second, taking an involuntary step closer to the group. But it only takes a moment for her eyes to settle into their customary glare before she stalks toward me.

  “I thought Mom was coming.”

  “It’s pronounced thank you. What the hell is your problem, anyway?”

  As of yesterday, I thought we had a truce. But she looks even more pissed at me than usual.

  Melody grabs my hand, yanks me toward the path, and drags me behind her Jeep.

  Then she pulls her shirt up over her head.

  Her flat stomach stretches, revealing a groove at the center of her torso, the soft outline of muscle. Her bra is pale pink against the honey gold of her skin. I watch her slide out of a pair of denim shorts and drop them on the ground.

  She holds her hand out to me, and for a moment, I’m too startled to understand what she’s waiting for. Impatient, she snatches the gym bag from my hands.

  “Turn around,” she orders. Still in a slight daze, I do.

  “Lou at the gas station told me he saw you drive my Jeep past the Circle yesterday,” she says. “Toward Pearl.”

  When I went to see my mother. It’s the last thing I expected her to say, and I’m not ready for it. If I had a quick answer, she might have believed me. But I pause for a few seconds before I say, “I went on a drive to clear my head. I didn’t know I needed to fill out a report for you.”

  She finishes changing quickly, then grabs my shoulder and turns me around, her face very close to mine. I can feel the heat rolling off her. “You’re lying to me,” she whispers.

  When I can’t come up with an answer, she walks away from me. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  I follow her onto the dock, the boards making hollow sounds under my boots. “Let’s talk about it now.”

  “Go away,” she says, without turning around.

  I grab her elbow. “Mel, I—”

  She whirls and shoves me. “I told you—”

  But that’s all I hear before I trip backward and plunge into the lake.

  Mom and I ran away from my father’s house the summer I was supposed to start swim lessons. After, we only waded into the shallow edges of ponds and creeks long enough to rub the grime from our bodies and let it float downstream.

  In other words, I have absolutely no idea how to swim.

  I pride myself on being good in a crisis. On my ability to stay calm and think quickly and save myself. But it’s hard to stay calm when there’s water burning up your nose and stealing the air from your lungs in a plume of rippling bubbles. I flail and thrash and try to claw my way up, but I don’t know where up is, and I’m terrified that I’m just pushing myself deeper.

  Then I feel strong arms lock around my waist, and through the murky lake water, I see a glint of gold hair. Melody pulls me against her chest and kicks for the surface, effortlessly, like she doesn’t even notice my fingernails hooking into her back.

  When we break through, I cough up water. My first breath is painful, too deep, but I keep heaving it in. I don’t let go of Melody until my hands are braced on the edge of the dock. I lift myself out, water streaming from my clothes. Her hand is on my back, pushing me up.

  I crawl away from the water on my hands and knees. The girls swarm me, all their frantic words streaming together. Oh my God are you okay what happened did she push you can you breathe do you need to go to the hospital?

  Melody hauls herself out of the lake and hurries over to me, squeezing the back of my neck. “Phoenix? Phoenix?”

  I throw my elbow into her chest, and she falls back onto her butt with a surprised oomf. Then I push myself to my feet and storm down the dock, back to Jill’s van.

  My clothes cling to my body. The breeze makes my teeth chatter, my hair sticks to my neck, and my socks squish inside my boots.

  “Wait,” Melody calls, running after me. I yank on the handle of the minivan’s door, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. I fumble in my wet pocket.

  Melody grabs my elbow. “Shit, Phoenix, I didn’t mean to knock you in, I swear.”

  I laugh without humor and throw my hands up. “They’re gone.”

  Her brows furrow in a way that might have been cute, if I weren’t so ready to strangle her. “What’s gone?”

  “The keys. They were in my pocket. And now they’re probably at the bottom of that goddamn murder pit you call a lake.”

  Chapter 24

  WE DON’T GET BACK to the house until a good three hours later, because that’s how long it took Melody to find her mother’s car keys. She dove into the murky lake water again and again, long after everyone else had gone home, while I sat on a rock under a tree, a safe distance from the water, and sulked.

  I can tell when we walk into the kitchen that Jill must have already gotten about a dozen phone calls from concerned parents. She’s waiting for us at the table over a cup of coffee.

  Jill just crooks her finger at her daughter and walks up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Melody gives me a long look, her eyes hollowed out with exhaustion, before she follows her mother. The second the door closes behind her, I creep up the stairs, just far enough to make out their voices, muffled through the door.

  “Did you push her?”

  “No. I mean—she grabbed me, and I—”

  “Were you fighting?”

  “Not fighting. I wouldn’t call it fighting.”

  “What were you not fighting about?”

  I hold my breath, waiting for her to rat me out—to t
ell her mother that someone saw me driving the Jeep where I wasn’t supposed to be. But she stays quiet.

  “Whatever it is,” Jill says in a low, steady voice, “you need to work it out.”

  “But—” Melody starts to argue.

  Something makes her shut up. I can’t be sure what, but I picture the look Mom has given me a hundred times, so poisonous that it never fails to make me bite my tongue.

  I hear Melody walk toward the door, and I hurry back down the steps, flitting down the hall to my own room, settling into bed with my back against the headboard like I’ve been here all along by the time Melody knocks on my door.

  I ignore her, but she comes in anyway.

  Melody’s hair is still damp, her cheeks flushed red from a sunburn. She doesn’t seem to know what to say. I watch her with my lips pressed shut.

  I’m angry. Which is ridiculous. I’ve done a lot worse to other people than she did to me. Sure, she almost killed me with one push, but I’m the one who’s got it out for her family in the first place.

  Maybe it’s got more to do with the fact that she saved me. Maybe I’m mad at myself because of the way I clung to her.

  But she doesn’t know that. She stutters for a moment before she gets out, “I’m here to—”

  “Apologize?”

  “Right. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “I didn’t think you would.”

  “So you only came in here to make your mother happy.”

  “No. I really am sorry. And—and I want to make it up to you.”

  My hands still burn hot. But I wait for her to explain.

  “Forgive me, and I won’t ask again about where you went in the Jeep.”

  I scowl. “I told you, I went for a drive to clear my head.”

  “And I told you that’s bullshit.”

  “Well, unless you can prove it, I’ve got nothing else to say to you.”

  She catches her full bottom lip between her teeth. “Then what do you want from me?”

  Before I can bite back a reply, Neil pokes his head in the room. “Make her give you a foot massage,” he says. “Mel is grossed out by feet.”

  “By your disgusting feet,” Melody says, shoving his head out of the room and slamming the door shut. She turns back to me. “Whatever the hell you want. Whatever will make you stop being mad at me.”

  I think that over for a few seconds before I say, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a foot massage in my entire life.” I point one of my toes at her. “Do they really gross you out?”

  She makes a face but moves to sit down on the bed. “As long as yours aren’t as hairy as my brother’s.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to use lotion?” I tilt my head at her expectantly, just barely suppressing a smile.

  She growls but goes into my bathroom and comes back out with a tube that she squeezes into her hand. She settles in at the end of the bed, legs pretzeled, and takes both of my feet in her lap.

  The lotion is cold, but her hands are warm, her fingers pressing firmly into the soles of my feet.

  “How is that?” she asks.

  I tilt my head back against the headboard. “I should have started making people do this for me a long time ago.”

  Her mouth quirks. We’re both quiet for a few minutes. I close my eyes and feel her thumbs move in little circles over my skin. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d never had a foot massage before, and I wonder vaguely if it’s normal to feel like you’re turning liquid under someone’s touch. Her hands warm my blood until I’m boiling, and somehow, I can’t quite remember what I was angry about.

  My eyes open again to watch her hands work up to my ankles, and then she’s rubbing slow, firm circles into my calves. “Does that feel good?” she asks. And maybe I imagine it, but her voice sounds a bit breathier than it did before.

  I try to answer, but I can’t make words take form, because she’s moving higher now, gently tickling the backs of my knees.

  She has to feel it—the way my skin burns under her fingers. And it has nothing to do with anger at this point. She gets on her knees now to lean over me, her touch light as a breath, tracing over my thighs. She catches her lip between her teeth, and I can see the flush in her own face.

  I hold my breath, waiting for her to go higher.

  But then she looks up at me, and something about meeting my eyes makes her embarrassed all at once. She pulls back her hands. “I—I’m sorry.”

  “Mel—”

  I reach for her, but she’s already pushed herself to her feet and she’s striding toward the door.

  “Wait,” I say, but she’s gone.

  I sigh and flop back against the pillows.

  She’s going to hate you when she finds out why you’re really here.

  Mom would be angry if she found out what you’re feeling right now.

  There’s still work to do.

  Very good points. But I’m having trouble concentrating on anything but the way my skin feels where Melody touched it, so warm and sweet that it’s almost an ache.

  Chapter 25

  A FEW DAYS LATER, I’m at the Watering Hole, sitting at the counter and catching my breath after the lunch rush with one of Jill’s fluffy pan au chocolats, renowned all over Jasper Hollow as better than anything you could find in Paris—even though there probably aren’t many people from Jasper Hollow who have wandered past the borders of Ohio.

  “The secret,” Jill whispered to me when she handed me the plate, “is extra chocolat.”

  I glance over my shoulder every few minutes at Ellis, who’s been here since we opened, tapping away industriously on his laptop. But I doubt he actually gets anything done. He’s here for the people. His people.

  Everyone who comes through the door seems to think they need to stop and talk to him. Some of them only nod hello, but most of them slide into the booth across from him to shake hands and exchange news about their families. More than half the conversations end in tears, people telling him about their sick mothers or lost jobs. Ellis nods sympathetically, clasps their hands, and offers wisdom in the form of inspirational quotes and anecdotes.

  He’s careful to keep a somber look on his face, but I know he loves it. Every second. It’s one thing to know he’s got the world eating out of his hands. It’s another to see it in action.

  He works here often, when he’s not out of town for speaking engagements and interviews and meetings. I used to watch him carefully whenever I could, trying to see if he would give me anything to use against him—furtive exchanges, secret touches, or hushed arguments. But I always came up empty.

  I asked Jill once how she felt about it, and she only shook her head with a half smile, not looking up from the dish she was scraping clean. “As long as he sits next to the front window, where people can see him. He draws in a good chunk of business.”

  But I’ve seen her peering over his shoulder sometimes, when he spends too long with the women. To my frustration, he never gives them any special treatment, but they definitely seem to think he’s something special. When they let their eyes linger too long, or their voices get too husky, or they lean in too close, Jill makes sure to stop by to run her fingers through his hair and ask, “Need another coffee, dear?”

  Between clients, Ellis gets a phone call, and I’m trying to eavesdrop when a storm cloud blows through the door.

  Pastor Holland usually doesn’t miss a chance to complain to Ellis about something going wrong in the world, but when he sees Ellis is busy, they exchange a short nod before the pastor shuffles to a booth in the back, leaning heavily on his cane. He hunkers down with a copy of the Jasper Hollow Weekly.

  As it happens, the clock above the kitchen door just ticked down the last few seconds of my break.

  I retie my apron around my waist and walk over to him. “Good afternoon, Pastor Holland.”

  He raises a thick, black eyebrow at me, his frown heavy. “Good afternoon.”

/>   “What can I get for you?”

  Asking is only a formality. One of the boys in the kitchen got started on his black coffee and two eggs over medium the second he walked through the door.

  “Black coffee,” he says. “And . . . ,” he ponders, chewing his lower lip. “Two eggs, over medium.”

  I nod and turn to go.

  “Shouldn’t you write that down?” he says.

  I tap my temple. “Don’t worry. Got it all up here.”

  “Hmm,” he grumbles. “Well, I want sausage, too. Links, not patties. And bacon. Extra crispy.”

  “Got it.” I take another step away.

  “And some biscuits. With apple butter.”

  “Done.”

  “You’re still not writing it down.”

  “Still don’t need to.”

  He adds a glass of water with two lemon wedges, a slice of blueberry pie with whipped cream, and a hot fudge sundae with no more and no less than one tablespoon of fudge.

  I clink every plate down on his table after it comes out of the kitchen, and he combs it all over with a critical eye.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  I don’t try to hide the satisfied smile that curls my lips when he can’t find any mistakes to complain about. I nailed it, and he knows it.

  I tap my temple again. “Told ya. All up here.”

  All he can do is glower at me like I’ve spoiled his appetite. I’m about to let a snide comment slip out when someone latches on to my shoulders from behind.

  Ellis is shaking me, laughing, but when I look back at him, there are tears streaming down his face. “Jill!” he calls. “Jill! Get out here!”

  His wife runs out of the kitchen, breathless, sprigs of auburn coming loose from her bandana. Ellis sweeps her up in his arms, laugh booming, her shoes a foot off the ground. She giggles and teeters when he sets her down again, and he turns to the dining room to address all the people staring at him.

  “I just got a call,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re all with me to hear the news.” He takes a deep breath, his grin stretching impossibly wide. “You’re the people who’ve known me since I was only a kid digging for worms at Black Cat Lake and climbing Harriet’s Oak, dreaming of nothing more than speaking and being heard.”