Page 7 of Merry Little Hate Notes

“I hope you do too. You know, I always hoped you two would end up together.”

I tilted my head. “You did?”

“What mother wouldn’t want a Holly for her son? She’s one of a kind, that girl. What she’s done for her father is nothing short of incredible. And remember how she would always come over and help me bake cookies or put together gifts for the homeless shelter and group home. Oh, and that babysitting night she would do every December for all the parents on our street so they could go Christmas shopping?”

Holly was amazing like that. So amazing, she gave up her own aspirations to take care of her father. The guilt I felt for it ate at me. I should have never let Christian on the slopes, knowing he’d been drinking.

“It’s so sad what happened to thatfamily,” Mom choked out.

“It’s my fault.” I owned it.

“Oh, honey.” Mom reached for me. “You need to stop blaming yourself for Christian’s death. It was a terrible accident. And it’s not your fault Gloria and Harrison divorced or that Harrison started drinking his life away.”

I took my mother’s hand, feeling like a little boy, needing her to make it better. “He’s stopped drinking, right?”

“I believe so. Holly doesn’t say much when we meet for lunch once a month. She’s protective of her dad, maybe embarrassed about the life they lead now. I try not to press. I’m just glad to spend what little time with her she has to offer. I love that girl.”

We had something in common there. I’d been in love with Holly since before I even liked girls, even though no one had aggravated or tormented me more in my entire life. “I’m happy to hear he’s doing better,” I said, relieved.

Mom squeezed my hand. “So what’s your plan, Bran?” She chuckled at her rhyme.

“My plan for what?”

“Oh, please. I know you didn’t just decide to come home for the holidays on a whim, or even for your father and me.”

“Of course I came home to see you.”

“We all met up in Scotland last month. I don’t think you’ve been pining to see us. Not to say I’m not thrilled you’re home for the holidays,” her voice hitched.

“I know. It’s been too long.”

“I understand why.” She let go of my hand and retrieved a zester and a bowl from two nearby drawers. “So tell me how you plan to win our Holly over.”

I folded my arms and leaned against the island, feeling guilty for breaking my promise to Christian. But I couldn’t stay away from Holly any longer. “I’m not sure that’s possible. My hope is she’ll at least give me the opportunity to apologize.”

Mom set the zester and bowl next to me on the island. “It’s Holly, so you can’t just come out and say it after all this time. She won’t believe you.”

“I know,” I groaned. “I actually left her a sticky note today,thinking if I ticked her off, she would at least acknowledge me.” Then, I hoped we could go from there.

“Hmm. It’s not a bad idea. Those notes seem to be Holly’s love language.” Mom giggled. “It’s obvious she wrote them because she wanted your attention. Boy, could she write some zingers.”

I cringed, thinking about my mom reading any of the notes. While some were just ridiculous, others were quite crude. “How many did you read?” I asked, not really wanting to know.

“Worried?” She wagged her brows.

“A little,” I admitted.

“Not many,” she assured me. “But when you were packing for college, I noticed a box where you kept all her notes. Do you still have it?” she teased.

The answer was yes, but I didn’t need my mother to know that. It was juvenile. But the notes were all I had of Holly. It had been our game. Our thing. I smirked and changed the subject. “She didn’t respond to my note today.” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with my mom.

Mom slid the bowl of oranges in front of me. “I assume that means you kept the box. But you can keep your secret. So, what did your note say?”

I grabbed an orange and the zester. “Something dumb I googled.” Holly was always better at the game—wittier and more sarcastic. “It was along the lines of,You’re a gray sprinkle on a rainbow cupcake,” I murmured, embarrassed.

Mom’s nose wrinkled. “Oh, Bran.”

“I know. It wasn’t my finest. And it’s not like I meant it.” I was just trying to get a rise out of her. See if she’d throw more Shakespeare at me and call me a bull’s pizzle or something like it. If anything, I saw Holly as a shiny sprinkle—too pretty to eat or touch.

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