Page 44 of Off the Beaten Path

“Wren,” he sighs, moving into the living room, although it feels as if the space between us is growing. “About before…”

That’s when I finally decipher the look on his face. Regret. It makes dread curl in my stomach. The taste of strawberry wine and beer go sour on my tongue.

“Oh,” I say, backing up a step, the backs of my knees knocking into his sofa and unsettling my balance.

Holden reaches out, as if on instinct, and holds me steady, his hand finding that same spot it claimed on my hip all night before drawing back just as quickly.

Regret turns to remorse, settling deep in the lines bracketing his eyes. “Wren, I’m sorry,” he says.

I wave him off. “It’s fine.”

“No,” he says, voice firm, tiredness clinging to his words. “No, it’s not fine. I just—” He cuts off, sighing heavily, tension tightening his shoulders. I can see them clearly through the transparent fabric of his damp shirt. “I’m a mess.”

I allow myself to trace the planes of his face, the tiredness clinging to him like a pesky cold you can’t shake. The dim lights catch in the first hint of grays at his hairline, the premature lines in his forehead, the ones surrounding his mouth, even though I rarely see him smile.

He’s right. He is a mess, but it doesn’t make him any less beautiful standing here in his living room in a damp T-shirt and faded jeans, the muscles in his arms flexing as he balls his hands into fists and releases them over and over again.

“My life is a mess,” Holden says, voice raw and tired. “I just don’t have room to add anything else right now.” He pauses again, eyes locking on mine. They look more brown than green or gold in this light. “Anyoneelse. No matter how badly I might want to.”

I wish I didn’t understand where he was coming from. I wish I hadn’t walked in here and seen the trash can next to the couch for a sick June, the pile of clean laundry waiting to be folded on the armchair in the corner, the overfull calendar amid the finger paintings on the fridge. His life is full and messy, and there isn’t room for me in it. I just wish that was easier to swallow, that it didn’t hurt so much.

Nodding, I say, “I understand.”

His eyes soften, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “You do?”

“Yeah, Holden,” I say. “I do.”

He lets out a sigh, and it echoes in the quiet room. “I’ve never really wanted it before, you know? But I do now.”

That hurts worse, burrowing beneath my skin. “Right,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I better go.”

I think he sees the pain in my eyes. I think I see it reflected in his. I think tonight wasn’t meant to be a one-time thing. I think things could have gone much differently if not for that phone call. I think a lot of things, but none of them get me anywhere.

“Wren,” Holden says when my hand lands on the doorknob. “Are we okay?”

I spin around to face him and force myself to nod. “We’re okay.”

“Friends?” he asks, and the word has never sounded so disappointing.

“Friends.”

It’sbeenaweeksince the kiss with Wren, and I still can’t get it out of my head. I can still feel the silky smoothness of her tights beneath my fingers, taste the strawberry wine on her tongue, hear the noise she made in the back of her throat when my lips ghosted across the slope of her neck.

It’s made it fairly difficult to focus at the cabin when she’s just a hairsbreadth away from me as I show her how to install floorboards and countertops, or when I watch her across the room, screwing door knobs into place on the newly painted doors.

And although we agreed to remain friends, it’s obvious that something has changed between us. I’m afraid we’ve crossed a bridge we can’t turn back on.

“Daddy,” June says from her booster seat in the back of the truck on the way to Mom’s for family dinner.

I meet her eyes in the rearview mirror for a second before returning my attention to the road. “Yeah, June Bug?”

“I wish Mommy could come to the musical.” She sounds so dejected that my chest hurts.

That’s another thing that’s gone wrong this week. Mia, of course, couldn’t attend June’s musical like she promised, and June has been practically inconsolable all week. I’ve spent the last three nights sleeping on the floor in her room after she’s woken up crying, my heart shattering into a million little pieces every time she squeezes my hand in her sleep.

“I wish she could too, honey,” I say into the darkness of the truck. “But I’ll be there and so will Grandma and Aunt Finley.”

“What about Uncle Grey?” June asks, pushing her feet into the back of my seat.

---