by J. P. Grider
"Your mind has been quite occupied these days."
"Yeah. Let's go in," I say, standing, stretching my tight muscles. "I desperately need to get out of these clothes."
"Where are your shoes, by the way?" She asks, behind me.
"In the house. I wasn't too...aware this weekend."
I open the door and allow her to step in first.
"I guess not." Holly's eyes survey the kitchen. "You painted. When?"
"Last week. I thought maybe that services lady would come back, and I wanted...never mind. Last week. I painted the house last week."
"I see you have stuff from your apartment." I now follow Holly to the living room.
She blushes. She must be thinking about my parents' parties. "It looks...different. I like the cranberry and gray. It's very classy. Looks good with your black leather couch."
"I couldn't stand my mother's furniture. It's all in the apartment out back."
"I'm proud of you, Michael. It must have taken a lot to do this. Not the painting and all. Coming back here...to this place you hate...for your niece. It's self-sacrificing. It's a quality we don't see too often."
I don't know how Holly does it, but she always manages to make me feel good about myself. Even when she's cutting me to pieces. She makes me feel... worthy. "Thank you." I want to say so much more. Do so much more. I've missed her terribly this past week. But I don’t tell her so. "Make yourself comfortable. The remote's on the coffee table. I hung my flat-screen up." I proudly point to it on the wall.
"Go. I'll be fine."
And with a huge smile on my face, I go take a shower.
What a difference a day makes.
What a difference my Holiday makes.
50
HOLLY
Mick comes back into the living room, holding his white shirt in his hand and smiling. With his hair a black wavy wet mess and his jeans slung just right on his hips, he is gorgeous.
"You look happy," I observe, confused.
"You make me happy," he says, smiling, taking a seat next to me and tossing his shirt on the coffee table. "Thank you, Holly. I don't know what it is about you, but...you make me feel like...things are tangible." He takes my hands, both of them, and holds them on his lap. His left knee is touching my right knee, and we're facing each other. "I was so depressed this weekend. I...I actually thought about...I wanted to die. I did. I was in such a low place Friday night," he says almost as a matter of fact, his sadness is hidden. Not gone for good, because I see it in his eyes, but he's less sad than he's been. That I can tell. "I drank a lot. I slept a lot. I drank some more. But as I stared out at that pool, the place where my life all fell apart, I thought, 'if I take my life now, then Kenna's life will fall apart.’ I couldn't let that happen. I can't let that happen. So that's when I started to clamber out of that deep hole of pity I dug for myself." He shares a half-smile with me. "I have a lot of shit to get together, Holl." His hands tighten around mine. "But between you and Kenna... I want to get it together."
Since he's got such a grasp on my hands that I can't turn them around to give him a squeeze, or set them free to give him a hug, I lean in and kiss him right on the mouth. One of those kisses like he gave me that first time. A gratitude kiss. He makes me feel good about being me. When I pull away from the kiss, I whisper, "Thank you."
He's still staring so deeply into my eyes, and I am not a fan of deep emotions. No, sir. They make me uncomfortable, and I think I've reached my quota for the weekend, so I gently, yet forcefully, remove my hands from his death grip and declare, "It's time for a burger. I need to eat. And so do you, unless you enjoy your body feeding off of itself."
He stands and grabs his shirt. "You are disgusting."
I watch him cover his lean, muscular chest with the flimsy white t-shirt. "Me? You are. Thank God you finally put a shirt on."
I see him roll his eyes before he turns to go out through the kitchen. "Uh," he stops to turn to me, "I left my bike at...I don't have my bike. I walked home. We can take T's car, it's in the garage, unless you want to drive."
"I'll drive. You're probably still drunk from all that vodka you drank."
"Eh. Maybe. But yeah. You drive. We can go in your fancy car."
"It's not fancy."
"It's pearl white, it's a Mercedes, and it's a convertible. In my book, that's fancy."
"Okay," I say with a shrug. "Fancy it is. That's what I'll name her. I always wanted a car with a name."
He shakes his head and laughs quietly, but the smile stays on his face as he gets in the car.
"So where's Fancy taking us?" I start the car, but don't pull out of his driveway.
"Not to Donny's. I'm not in the mood to see people I know." When I look at Mick, I see hints of the man I saw by the pool today.
"Okay. How 'bout pizza? I know a place. It's nice and quiet."
"Sure."
When I pull away from the curb, Mick leans forward, lowering the volume on the already low radio. "Holly?"
I glance quickly at him, saying, "Hmmm?" and return my attention back to the dimly lit roadway in front of us.
"How is your internship going?"
"Eh. I hate it. But...I like my paycheck."
"Yeah? It pays well? I thought internships were usually done for little or no money."
"Not on Wall Street, I guess."
"Why didn't you call or text me?"
"What?" I ask, caught off guard.
"I hadn't heard from you in over a week."
"Oh." I peek over to him, trying to concentrate on the now busy road that we're on, while attempting to gather the seriousness of his question. "I'm sorry, Michael, I...it was an exhausting week, and..."
"It's okay," he says quickly, "Forget I mentioned it."
I nod, but I know it's not okay.
Tout suite, I want that radio back on, because I don't know what to say. I didn't not text him because I wasn't thinking about him. On the contrary, I thought about him all the time. Truthfully, I hadn't known what to say. His whole ordeal with Kenna and Charity is just so serious, and I had such a terrible week trying to get the hang of the stock market that I thought my problems couldn't compare. My three day a week job turned out to be every day. My father lied.
"Michael," I say after parking the car in the pizza lot and turning off the engine. "I'm really sorry." Turning in my seat so I can face him fully, I explain why I hadn't called or texted him. "I wanted to call you many times last week. I did."
"Holly. It's fine." His hand is on the door handle, ready to pull it open.
Setting my hand on his thigh, I plead, "No, Michael, it's not fine. I need to explain."
His hand drops from the door, and he turns his body towards me. "Okay."
"I was having a bad week, I couldn't grasp my responsibilities at work. The job ended up being every day. At first, I was commuting back and forth, and..." I look at his tight expression and realize I'm not really giving him a proper excuse. "Michael, I didn't know what to say to you. I didn't want to burden you with my problems, I'm not used to talking about...well complaining about myself, and I was in a bad mood," and I sigh, "and I didn't want to bother you, and..." I look at Mick's frown, and I realize there is no excuse and I'm just rambling. "I'm sorry, Michael." I pause for a really long time. "The truth is... I didn't know if I should call you. I've never been in... well, in a relationship, and, well, I don't know," I move my finger back and forth between us, "what we are, and sometimes you hate me, and sometimes you don't, and..."
The corner of his lip starts to turn up and his frown disappears.
"I don't have a good reason. I'm sorry. I should have called you. I didn't. But I thought about you every night. Every night," I say quietly.
Mick looks down at my hand on his thigh and picks it up. The next thing I know, the back of my hand is pressed up against his lips.
When his eyes meet mine again, they're genuine and warm. "It's okay, Holly. Really," he insists, smiling and holding my gaze, as well as
my hand. "I missed you, that's all." His smile brightens and he says, "You know what? I haven't eaten since sometime Thursday, aside from a few handfuls of Frosted Flakes I shoved in my mouth here and there. I'm starving. Can we..."
"Oh my goodness, Michael, of course." I pull the key out of the ignition and open my door.
"It's a tiny place," he says of the small red modified Cape-Cod style building.
"But it's awesome. Really. Brick oven."
"Mmmm."
The brick oven pizza comes fairly quickly, and after Mick inhales a few slices, I apologize again.
"Holiday. Stop. I'm not mad. I was just wondering why, that's all. But I get it."
"You do?"
"I do. We haven't established anything...it's fine."
"About that..."
51
MICK
"About that," I repeat.
Her tentative smile makes me nervous to say what I should say.
"I... would love to start something with you. Something steady," I take a breath and continue. "And I want that. I do. Really. But... I don't think it would be fair. To you. With all I..."
"Michael. I get it. We've had this conversation before. It's fine."
"No. I can't make you my first priority, Holly. And you deserve to be."
Her mouth moves to speak, but I lower my hand to hers to stop her.
"There is just so much of my shit, to quote someone very wise," I raise an eyebrow, "that I have to get together."
She cocks her head apologetically.
"And I am so far from getting it together." I squeeze her hand. "But I will...I will, Holly. And if you...are still interested then...then I would absolutely love to start a relationship with you."
My throat is dry, and I am completely anxious about saying what I'd just said. I know I've said this to her before, but I feel I have to say it again. Make sure she knows I really like her. I want her so damn badly, but I’m fucking messed up. Too fucked up to be in a relationship with her. Not now when I'm so depressed and my life is in such turmoil. "I get it, Michael. I understand," she says disappointedly, a sad expression paints her face.
I don't know if that should make me feel flattered or contrite. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, please, don't be. It's not a good time. I understand. We've gone over this. Besides, I'm going to be spending a lot of my time in New York now, and...I'm probably dropping out this semester and..."
"Dropping out?" I ask, surprised by her decision.
"I can't do both. It's just...too hard for me," she admits.
"Wait. Is that what your father wants? Because I would think he'd want you to finish your education before taking some job."
"He's crazy. He wants me to do both. He expects me to do both, but..." Holly takes a sip of her red wine. "I can't. I'm not that smart."
"Holly. The semester is done in two weeks. Just take your finals. Tell Wall Street they have to wait."
Dark brown eyes jump wide in front of me. "Are you crazy? Tell my father to wait? No way. I mean, I can't really drop out anyway, it'd be more like fail, but..."
"What about the classes you’re doing well in? You're just gonna skip out on the finals?"
"Well, oh, God, I don't know." She puts down her glass and lays her face in her hand. I'm still holding onto her other hand, caressing her palm with my thumb.
"Does your internship have to be five days a week? I mean, for the next two weeks, they can't handle things without you for a couple days a week?"
She laughs beneath her breath. "Of course they can handle things. They're still teaching me everything. It's just, well, my dad told me to come in every day, and...I'm kinda embarrassed to say this, but...I don't usually question my father."
"Oh, Holly. I understand. He must be a powerful man, but...can you at least tell him you're sick? At least on exam days. It'd be a shame to just drop out."
Holly stares at me, responding with silence.
"If I've overstepped my bounds, I'm..."
"No, no, no," she interrupts. "You're not overstepping. No. You just... make sense. Maybe I can...call out sick. That's a good idea. Maybe." Her words are weak, contemplative, but I let it go.
"Holl. We seem to always talk about me."
"Well..."
"No. Tell me about you. What is it you really want? Because I know it's not a job on Wall Street."
"No," she says with a sad laugh. "It's not a job on Wall Street that I want. But that's the thing." She sighs. "I don't know what I want. So..."
"So you're going to do what you hate."
Holly bites the side of her lip.
I finish my second beer and suggest we leave.
Back in my driveway, I sit, uneasy, in the passenger seat. "Listen, Holly, I am so sorry if I said anything to upset you." Running my fingertips up and down her arm, I say, "You do so much for me. You're always there to make me feel better, and you help me make...well, important decisions. I only wanted to do the same for you. But...maybe I was wrong."
She's looking at me thoughtfully, her brown eyes squinting, thinking. "No. You're not wrong. You're right. It's just. I wish it were easy, you know, to figure out what I want to do with my life and all. It's my problem, I'm sorry."
My hand lands on her forearm when I stop rubbing. "Now see, you're wrong there. Because I want to be involved in your life. I want to know..."
She interrupts me, yanking her arm from my grasp. "How? Why? You don't want to start a relationship with me, you said that merely an hour ago, yet you want to be involved in my life. How does that work exactly?"
Now this takes me by a bigger surprise. She's not angry, just factual. "Oh. I guess." I shake my head. She's right. She's right. "You're right. It doesn't work. I'm..." I look at her again, then I tell her, "You do what you need to do, Holly. And I'll do what I need to do. Maybe we can...meet up when we're done."
Her sad smile mimics my own feelings, and I send her away with a chaste kiss. As I watch her drive away, a fiery ball, the size of a melon, burns up my insides and tears me apart. I want so badly to be with her. I need her. She heals me. Being with her, holding her when I get the chance, helps me to see that things aren't as bleak as they seem. She pulls me up and out from my despair. And I want to be able to do that for her as well. But with the huge mess I'm in, it wouldn't be fair, not at all, to try to make things work with her. Not until I can give her my all.
I just wish that could be right now.
52
HOLLY
The drive back to my dorm sucks. I hadn't meant to use Michael's words against him—him wanting to be involved in my life but not wanting a relationship—it just came out. But it started bothering me when the longer he went on about not wanting to start something with me that he hadn't mentioned Lara, or the tender embrace I found them in after he lost Kenna in court. Maybe it was something purely innocent and platonic. But maybe it wasn't. And furthermore, where does she fall on his priority list? Does she come before me?
I try to push thoughts of Michael aside over the next few days, but it's impossible. For one thing, I notice that I think of him as Michael now, and not Mick. When did that happen? When did Mick Ross become Michael Ross? And when did he start taking over every other thought in my head?
***
I take Michael's advice and call in sick with my father on final exam days. Though I try to spend most of my very rare free time studying, I admit I spend a lot of the last week thinking about Michael. Wondering how he's been and if anything has gotten better for him. I avoid Donny's, not only because I don't want to see Michael just yet, but because I've been working so freaking hard, still not grasping what it is I do at my job, and I'm so damn exhausted. Since it's exam week, schedules are messed up, and I don't get to spend much time with Rose and the gang at the coffee shop. But today I promise Rose that tonight we can get a bite to eat, since I'm not going into New York right after class.
Today's exam question in Developmental Psychology is to choose one of the different types of a
ttachments in children and give an example as to what could cause the type of attachment and how a child with the chosen attachment would act. I decide to choose the resistant-insecure child attachment, otherwise known as the ambivalent child. I discuss how an ambivalent attachment develops when a caregiver's inconsistent emotional and physical availability confuses the child, causing the child to worry incessantly about the caregiver, and by doing so, behaves fussy or clingy and will naturally be wary and insecure of anyone who is not his or her usual caregiver. I go on to discuss examples and how psychotherapy could help a child with resistant-insecure attachment and what techniques would work best.
When I'm finished with my essay, I can't help but think of Kenna and Charity. Not knowing Charity, or her parenting techniques, I can't fairly or accurately assess what goes on in their household. But I do wonder what type of attachment a child raised by a drug-addict may develop. I recognize the familiar pull in my chest that now comes when I think about Kenna or any of those children I'd heard about in court last Friday. I want to take each and every one of them and tell them that somebody loves them. I may not be perfect, and my parents may not be perfect, but I have never doubted their love or their undying protection of me. And it had never occurred to me before meeting Mick and Kenna that some children may not have ever experienced that type of security. I wish I could change that.
Since it's Thursday night, the pub on the other side of town is crowded with college kids, most of whom who are done with exams and getting ready for their last weekend on campus.
"So, you going home this weekend?" I ask Rose while we wait for our drink order to come.
"I am. Saturday morning."
"Oh my God, Rose, I'm gonna miss you so much."
"Me too. What about you? You going home this weekend?"
