Page 43 of Off the Beaten Path

When Rae and Leland met ten years ago, Leland, like most men, was not versed on the 2005Pride & Prejudice, but the three of us spent his first visit to Fontana Ridge locked up in Mom and Dad’s living room, watching the movie, pausing every few minutes to give our commentary.

“So Holden looks like the hand-flex type?” Leland asks.

I dig my nail into the little hole he left in my tights, where his fingers gripped my thighs hard enough to tear the delicate fabric, and my skin goes hot at the memory. “He definitely does.”

“I’m so happy for you, baby,” Rae says. “So why are you going to Smithville?”

I steer my car into the big box store parking lot and shut off the engine. “His sister was watching his daughter, June, and she called to say that June was throwing up, so Holden had to leave to get her. I thought I’d drop off some ginger ale and saltines. Electrolyte drinks. Disinfectant wipes. You know, the essentials.”

Rae lets out a soft sigh. “That’s so sweet of you.”

Something warms inside me, thawing the unease. “You think it’s okay? He said he didn’t need anything, but he was frazzled and rushed.” I’ve never dated someone with a kid before, and I know how protective Holden is of June, so I don’t want to overstep or insert myself where I’m not wanted. But I also can’t just go home with all this energy still crackling beneath my skin. I have todosomething, and I want to do something for him and for June.

“No, it’s perfect,” Rae assures me.

“Good,” I say. “I better get off here so I can get everything I need.”

Rae says, “Let us know how it goes, okay?”

“Will do.”

We hang up, and I sit in the darkness of my car, the lights in the parking lot casting shadows through the interior. Fingering the rip on my thigh once more, I decide to get another pair of tights while I’m in here. I’m going to keep these, though, a little memento of this night. Gasping breaths and flexing hands. Strawberry wine and sour beer. Kiss-stung lips and the scrape of a beard on sensitive skin. Passion and tenderness and that feeling of free-falling into something new.

My hands shake when I pull into my driveway an hour later. Holden’s truck is parked beside his house, and dim lights pour through the cracks in his curtains. I don’t know why I’m nervous to see him, except that two hours ago, he had me pinned against the wall, his mouth on my neck, his hands in my hair and on my thighs. I wanted to see what he looked like when he came undone, and I got it. I don’t think I’ll be able to forget the memory of his hair ruffled and coming out of that ever-present bun, his cheeks stained pink from desire, his hazel eyes turning gold in the diffused lighting of the hallway, shadows playing across the planes of his face.

Climbing out of the car, I brace myself against the cold, remembering how Holden’s hands felt at the back of my neck, tugging up my collar. I reallyshouldget a warmer coat, although I can barely feel it now. Warmth floods through me, stealing up my chest and cheeks as I climb Holden’s front porch steps, bags in hand.

Softly, I knock on the door, then hear footsteps making their way across the house.

When the door swings open, Holden looks even more disheveled than when I saw him last. He’s pulled his hair into a haphazard bun, and he’s stripped his flannel off, leaving only a fitted white tee beneath. It’s wet, plastered to the planes of his chest, and I can’t help the way my eyes dip to examine it.

“Wren?” Holden asks, his brow wrinkled. “What are you doing here?”

I hold up the bags, plastic rustling. “I thought you might need supplies.”

Relief colors his features. “June just threw up on the couch. I got most of it cleaned up, and she’s in the bathroom, waiting for the shower to heat up. I need to get back to her.”

I nod, motioning him forward. “Of course. I’ll just put these on the counter.”

He holds my gaze for a fleeting moment, and I can’t quite read his expression. His jaw tightens as he nods. “Thanks, Wren.”

Turning, he disappears down the hallway, jogging in the direction of what I assume is the bathroom. I follow him inside, shutting the front door behind me with a soft click. His house is much like I imagined—dark wood, sleek countertops, minimal decor—but as I drop the bags on the kitchen counter and turn around to examine the living room, surprise spreads through me in increments. The wall behind the couch is painted a warm, golden yellow, the exact shade of the accent wall in my own living room. It’s a splash of sunshine in the otherwise minimalist landscape.

I can see evidence of June everywhere. Her artwork is taped to the refrigerator, and there’s a pile of friendship bracelets stacked on the counter. I recognize them from the ones Holden wears on his wrist, a new one each day like he rotates through the many she makes. There are little pink shoes stacked by the door, and from what I’ve seen of wild, untethered June, I can imagine Holden following behind her, straightening them after she discards them in a haphazard heap. Holden even has some of her projects hanging on the wall, along with candid pictures of June and of the two of them.

Something about this house makes my chest ache in the same way that listening to Leland and Rae does. Like I’m being confronted with an essential thing that I’m missing and have ignored thus far. I can feel it right beneath my breastbone, hollow and spreading.

Turning back around, I pull out the disinfectant spray and wipes and move through the dining area that separates the kitchen and living room. The couch is a soft, supple brown leather, thankfully, which means that Holden had easy clean-up earlier. I go ahead and wipe everything down before consulting the back of the spray can to make sure it’s safe to spray on leather. Then I set to work spraying all the surfaces.

When I turn around a few minutes later, Holden is standing at the end of the hall, eyes focused on me. He’s still wearing that unreadable expression, his jaw in a tight line, dark circles making purple half moons beneath his eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, watching me.

I hold up the spray can and disinfectant wipes. “Thought I’d disinfect.”

Holden palms the back of his neck, exhaustion written in every line of his body. Guilt pricks me, because when I get home, I can go to bed and sleep easy. Holden will probably end up on the floor in June’s room, one eye open, waiting to see if she will get sick again. I have the overwhelming urge to offer to help, even though I know he’s not there yet,we’renot there. We made out once in the hallway of a bar, even if it was the single most intense experience of my life. I can’t offer to take a shift watching over June, to let him sleep, knowing his day was as physically taxing as mine, but every part of me wants to be able to do that, to take something off his plate and let him be the one to be taken care of. I get the sense that he never gets that treatment.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, and when his eyes meet mine, they’re raw.

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