Page 5 of Fierce Love
Me: I’m fine. Stand down. It was a shock. But I’m handling it fine.
I almost write that I knew Verna in another life, but I know at least Maren and Sawyer won’t buy that I feelthatmuch indifference toward finding her dead. If I oversell, I’m fucked.
Maren: I’ll be stopping by in a few days to make sure that’s true. I’ll let you know if you need to come home, Gage.
Me: You won’t need to come home.
But that night, when I crawl into bed, emotionally and mentally exhausted, I sleep the sleep of the dead, except I dream. Vivid lies. Surreal memories. Hollyn and me. Happy. Together. In love during an endless spring and summer that ended far too soon.
When I wake up the next morning, instead of being angry or upset, I just long to go back to sleep, to live it all over again, one more time.
Two days later, I arrive back from watching a cut of the documentary project I’ve been producing, on Prince Nicholas and his wife, Julia’s, Tanzanian school initiative, to find Maren and Sawyer have made themselves at home in my kitchen. A pot of coffee has been brewed, and they’ve raided my freezer for thechocolate chip cookies Michelle, the family housekeeper, makes—my favorite.
My penthouse apartment in the center of Tucker’s Town is huge—the perks of being wealthy and privileged and coming from old money—but I also own a house outside of the city. This apartment has been in the family for multiple generations, but I’m the current inhabitant. At some point, the roof of the building was raised to create cathedral ceilings, which makes the space feel even bigger than it actually is. It was either done illegally, someone paid a lot of money into a politician’s pocket, or the renovation happened before Bellerive made external architectural changes impossible. The Tuckers have always been more of an “ask for forgiveness rather than permission” family.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask, eyeing the cookies. “Thawing these without my permission should come with a fine. Michelle is more of a nanny to Gage than a housekeeper to all of us lately. I don’t even know when I’ll get more.” I pluck a cookie off the pile. Which reminds me I might want to hire another person to look after the apartment and vacant house while Michelle is gone to Los Angeles with Gage, Ember, and Nova. “You even warmed these cookies?”
“Your mental health is the special occasion,” Maren says, her long dark hair falling over her shoulder, “and warm is when all cookies are best.”
“My mental health is fine,” I say, stuffing the rest of the cookie in my mouth. I shed my suit jacket on the back of one of the island chairs, take out a cup, and pour myself some coffee. After my first sip, I realize this check-in is serious. They drove across the island for the special coffee blend I can only find in Rockdown—the one that’s been my favorite for years. I ran out last week and haven’t been motivated enough to make the drive or hire someone else to do it.
“You haven’t run into Hollyn yet?” Sawyer asks, her voice gentle. Her blue eyes are soft with kindness.
“I don’t think either of us would want that,” I say evenly. “It’s not like I’m seeking her out.” And I knew, in an abstract way, that Hollyn was likely on the island by now. Having my sister confirm that she’s definitely here is going to make me search every crowd, wonder if every woman who looks vaguely like Hollyn could be her grown-up self. My mental health was better when I let myself forget what had happened, that anything was happening. Kept Hollyn firmly in the past.
“I don’t know,” Maren says, tipping up a cookie from the plate and breaking it in half. “Talking to her might help you move on. Get some answers. Get past this mental block you have where women are concerned.”
“There’s no mental block. I’ve dated several women.”
“And not one of them has lasted beyond four months,” Sawyer says. “You never let yourself get too involved.”
She isn’t wrong. At a certain point, it becomes clear I’m not going to feel enough, that we aren’t a good fit, and it seems mean to waste their time. After feeling led on and then ghosted by Hollyn, I’m careful not to do the same to any of the women I date. When we break up, I’m up front about why.
“Every woman you’ve dated has told me at a party or some other function thattheythought your relationship was going well. Each time, they’re shocked when you break up with them,” Sawyer says.
This is news to me—sort of. Almost all the women took the breakups well—even if a bit surprised—and I’m friendly with all of them at social functions.
“You feel what you feel,” I say with a shrug. Which, for me, hadn’t been a spark. Attraction, maybe, but no connection.
“And I think you don’t let yourself feel too much anymore,” Maren says. “The pilot light is still on for you with Hollyn, and maybe it’s time you snuffed it out.”
“There’s no pilot light,” I say with a huff. “She made her feelings perfectly clear when she disappeared and made it so hard to find her. Message received.”
“You won’t care at all that she’s meeting with Otis Williamson’s funeral home, then,” Maren says.
“Otis? She went to Otis?” I can’t keep the disgust out of my voice. He caters to the rich crowd, and his prices reflect that. There are no deals to be had, and in fact, he’s likely to gouge Hollyn for every penny she’s budgeted to lay her aunt to rest. “Why wouldn’t she have gone to Little John?”
“Maybe she’s got more money than sense now,” Maren says.
I don’t say anything in response, but my mind starts turning over this piece of information. The Hollyn I knew would have never gone to someone like Otis, wasted her money. It’s the perfect indication that she’s not the woman I remember, and the last thing I want to do is keep talking about her. I’d rather forget she’s even on the island. She can go back to being a ghost in my dreams.
“Either of you get the call about being tested as a kidney donor for Mom yet?” I ask.
“I go next week,” Maren says.
“Me too,” Sawyer says. “What about you?”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
