Page 35 of Holly Ever After

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Fine, but only if you promise to stop looking at me like you're about to either kill me or kiss me.”

I don’t even think she realizes that she’s called me out, but when I don’t reply, her eyes widen and her throat bobs on a swallow.

I look at her, really look at her. The whiskey is blurring the lines. “Okay, let’s cut the bullshit. We're going to talk. Honestly. No dodging, no deflecting.”

She takes a deep breath, the first sign of vulnerability I've seen from her. “Alright, shoot.”

So I do. We talk about life, the past, our dreams, our fears. Every topic is a loaded gun, but for the first time, it seems like neither of us is aiming to shoot to kill.

“Alright, different question then. I've known you've wanted to be a writer since we were kids, scribbling stories in your notebooks. But why romance? Why not sci-fi or mystery?”

She leans back. “Because love is the one mystery that everyone wants to solve. You can have aliens and murders in a book, but if there's no love, something's missing. Besides, who doesn't like a happy ending?”

“Fair point.”

She pauses to think. “Why'd you stay in this town? You could've taken your skills anywhere.”

“This is home. Simple as that.”

She nods, as if she gets it. And maybe, for the first time, she really does.

“Do you ever write based on real-life experience? Like, are any of those hot, bookish carpenters inspired by anyone we know?”

She laughs, a full, hearty sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “I'll never tell. A writer has to have her secrets. But I will say, life informs art, not the other way around.”

I find myself leaning closer, captivated. “So, if I read one of your novels, will I find traces of you in them?”

She bites her lip, and I have to restrain myself from reaching across the table again. “Maybe,” she finally says, looking me straight in the eye. “Or maybe I'm just that good at making it all up.”

For the first time in so long, I see her guards are slipping. It might be my only opportunity to ask, so I do. “You doing okay?”

She laughs, but it’s awkward, and not her. “Oh, come on. Don’t go soft on me now?”

“For once, can you answer a serious question? I won’t ask again if you don’t want me to. No judgement. Pretend for a minute we don’t want to insult each other as a hobby. Just two people that have known each other forever.”

She swallows hard, clearly wrestling with whether to let her guard down completely. After a long pause, she exhales and speaks softly, “Okay, fine. You really want to know? Adam was cheating on me with so many women I lost count.”

“Jesus, Holly,” I say, the words escaping before I can rein them in. “That's—”

“Yeah, it's messed up. The real kicker is I went through his phone one day because I had this gut feeling, you know? And there they were—pictures that no fiancée should ever have to see.”

She takes a moment, as if gathering her thoughts or maybe her strength. “But the scariest part is, I thought I loved him, yet it was so easy to leave, like flipping off a switch. You were right about what you said with me and my relationships.”

Guilt lodges in my stomach. “Holly, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you were right and that’s probably the only time you’ll ever hear me say that so record it if you’d like.” She smiles at me. It’s one of those crooked smiles she flashes when she’s pretending and trying to hide the sadness. It’s as if her mouth can’t betray her and doesn’t tilt fully. “That's what terrifies me the most, you know? That maybe I'm incapable of the real thing.”

The vulnerability in her eyes hits me like a freight train, and I'm momentarily stunned into silence. Here's this strong, independent, fiery woman laid bare, and I find myself feeling protective of her, angry for her, and, if I'm being honest, relieved that she's no longer with that bastard.

“Maybe it's not that you're incapable. Maybe it's that you never really had it with him to begin with.”

She looks up, locking eyes with me, and I see a glimmer of something that might be hope—or maybe it's just the alcohol.

She lets out a soft laugh before draining her glass. “Maybe you should write a romance novel. You seem to have it all figured out.”

Draping an arm over the back of my chair, I lean back. “If I wrote a romance novel, I'd ruin women everywhere. They'd all be hunting for a guy who can build a house with one hand and make a five-course dinner with the other.”

“A Renaissance man, huh? You can build and cook?”

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