Page 30 of Holly Ever After

I can see the way he looks at me change. It's a look I've never seen from him before and never wanted to—something between confusion and pity.

“Fuck you, Sean,” I spit out, venom in my voice. “You should leave.”

Surprisingly, he doesn't fight me on it, but then again, Sean has never been great with emotions. Seeing a woman cry renders him mute and incapable of knowing what to do with his limbs.

There's no insistence, no pressing me to talk things out. Just a taut line of his jaw that tells me he's boiling with an anger I can't fathom. He grabs his coat from the hook near the door, forcefully pushing his arms through the sleeves.

“If you want my opinion—”

“I don't.” My own walls are up, high and unyielding, and I don't want his insight or judgments breaking through them.

“Well, I'm giving it anyway.” His eyes meet mine, stormy and intense. “Look at me, Holly.”

Reluctantly, I lift my eyes to meet his.

“He's a fucking idiot,” Sean says, his voice so low it's almost a whisper. “When you get a chance from someone like you, you don’t risk it. Not for anyone, not for anything.”

And just like that, he turns, walks out the door, and leaves.

Thirteen

Sean

She probably didn't expect me to return, especially after her outburst a few days ago. But here I am. I've invested too much time and energy into this place; I want to see it through to the end. The quicker we finish, the sooner we can stop this awkward dance around each other.

To move things along, I've brought two of my crew members, even though they're needed elsewhere. We have to wrap this up today—for both our sakes, but perhaps more for Holly's than my own.

As I lay the final piece of her dark wooden floor, I grind my jaw, attempting to alleviate the tension that's been coursing through me since overhearing that phone call last week.

That son-of-a-bitch cheated on her.

I never liked the guy; he was a conceited jerk who looked down his nose at everyone. And all the while, Holly was too smitten to see his true colors. But to cheat on her? That's a new low, even for him.

Now I understand why she got so heated about me and Ashley. Even if she was wrong, it obviously pinched a raw nerve somewhere.

It's her expression that's seared into my mind: the distant look in her eyes framed by snow-laden trees outside her living room window, her bottom lip chewed raw, and the single tear that broke free. No one has the right to mess with her like that, especially not with her heart. No exceptions.

Mark has been concerned about her. He keeps asking if I know what's up since I've been around, working on her house. I've had to lie to him. Holly's story isn't mine to tell.

His concern isn't misplaced, though. She's been uncharacteristically silent since that call—no snarky comments, no jokes. She's even stopped retaliating when I try to provoke her. I'd rather she hurl insults at me than see her this muted.

She's been hammering away at her laptop lately. I remember how she used to fill notebook after notebook with her stories before the family got a computer. Then, she began printing her tales and handing them out for everyone to read. It's surreal to think that little Holly has turned into a best-selling author.

Whatever she's working on, it doesn't seem to be lifting her spirits. Eventually, she took refuge in her bedroom, possibly to avoid my presence or sidestep my questions. When even that didn't work, she donned her boots, snatched her laptop, and muttered, “I'm going to the café. If you burn down my house, I swear I'll kill you.”

She's been gone for hours now.

The final floorboard slots into place with a satisfying click, and I straighten, taking a moment to survey the work we've done. The room has transformed from a shell of its former self into something livable. Something that should be a source of joy. But Holly's absence fills the room like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over everything.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of my thoughts. I pull it out, half-expecting, maybe even hoping, it's a message from her. But it's not. It's a client, asking about another job, another house to repair and remodel. Business as usual.

Except it's not. Nothing feels usual anymore, not since I heard that call, not since I saw that tear fall from her eye.

The question nags at the edges of my mind: Why is this affecting me so much? Holly is an adult. She's been away from this town for years, living her own life, building her own world. She's clearly capable of handling herself—even if she still needs a step stool to reach the top shelf of her kitchen cupboards.

So why can't I shake this feeling? Why does the thought of her, of what she's going through, sit so heavily in my chest?

Because I’m a fucking idiot who thought her return wouldn’t affect me, but I’m suddenly twenty-two again wondering why my stomach knots when she’s close or why none of the women I’m with challenge me like she does.

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