Page 56 of Grump Hard
The couple finally seems satisfied—or more likely, simply tired of screeching at each other, the dog, and Holly. They gather up the still trembling Colette and start back toward Main Street without so much as a thank you.
“The photos will be ready by Tuesday,” Holly calls after them.
The woman waves a hand dismissively without looking back. “Just email them.”
And then they’re gone, leaving Holly alone in the wide alley.
I watch as she tucks her camera back into her over-the-shoulder bag, then stands there for a long moment, unmoving. Slowly, her spine slumps forward, and her features begin to crumple.
She raises her hands to her face, pressing her palms against her eyes as her shoulders begin to shake.
The moment is so raw, so vulnerable, I feel it like a knife between my ribs.
I can’t leave her like this.
I won’t.
I have to remind her that the world isn’t always this awful, and I have to do it now. Before it’s too late.
Sixteen
Holly
That’s it. I’m done.
I can’t hold it in anymore.
The tears come in hot, silent waves as I press my palms to my eyes, my shoulders shaking with the force of the emotion I’ve been holding back for days.
Those people were awful. Truly, genuinely awful in a way that makes my soul ache. Their casual cruelty, their breezy dismissal of a living creature’s fear and pain, the way they treated me like I was a talentless hack instead of an artist with years of expertise working with animals and producing incredible work—it’s all just too much.
But it’s not just them.
It’s everything. How hard I’ve been trying to juggle work and holiday obligations. The fifteen-hour day I pulled on Wednesday, and the weight of this horrible week pressing down on me like an avalanche of confusion and heartbreak.
And it’s Luke.
God, it’s Luke, and the way he turned into a completely different person overnight. The way he cut me off for no reason, without an explanation or so much as the decency to look at me like I was something other than a complete stranger.
And well, as far as public places go, this alley isn’t the worst place to crash out. The country store keeps the snow meticulously cleared, and it’s off the beaten path for the average tourist. That’s why I do outdoor shoots here in the first place.
I sink onto the railroad tie surrounding the now-empty flower beds beside the building and give in.
The tears fall freely, hot against my cold cheeks, blurring my vision, dripping off my chin. I let them come, let myself feel every bit of the hurt I’ve been pushing down. There’s something almost cleansing about it, like lancing a wound that’s been festering.
I cry and cry, until my head is full of cotton and I finally have to slow down because I’m just…tired.
And thirsty.
And too messy to let this go on for much longer.
I’m digging through my bag for my water bottle—and a tissue—when a soft voice rumbles my name, “Holly?”
I flinch so hard I nearly drop my water and turn to see the last person I expected to see near the local home of overpriced fudge standing a few feet away.
It’s Luke, my grumpy, possibly sociopathic—according to Candy—billionaire. He’s holding two paper cups from the country store coffee shop, steam rising from the lids into the frigid air. His expression is uncertain, like he’s not sure saying hello is the best idea.
But at least there’s an expression on his face, light in his eyes.
