Mending Michael (13 page)

HOLLY

Oh my God. He's crying. Not just crying, but sobbing. Like waterfall spilling from his eyes sobbing. This has never happened to anyone in front of me before. I don't know what to do.

"There, there," doesn't seem to cut it, so luckily I keep those words to myself.

"Um, Michael," I mutter, edging closer to him, unsure of what he wants from me.

He drops his head and cries harder the closer I get to him.

So the only thing I can think of to do is hug him.

So I hug him.

And he
lets
me.

MICK

Her arms are warm. And comforting. And safe.

And yet I hate her.

I hate her for making me cry. I hate her for caring about Kenna. I hate her for wanting to help me through this. And I hate her for ever setting foot into the bar.

Because if she'd never set foot into the bar, she'd never have found her way into my heart.

But I let her hold me. Because I need to be held. Because I need to be held by Holly.

Half my ass is still on my bike seat, my legs, crossed at the ankles, are between Holly's legging-covered legs, and my head is pretty much tucked into the crook of her neck. And I am all too aware of her rapidly increasing vein pulsing beneath her soft skin.

My tears come to a stop, and I leave the remaining ones left on my cheeks to dry, while I pull back and look into Holly's brown eyes. "You were right," I grumble, my voice wet and raspy. "I
am
crazy...I'm just not bipolar or schizo, as you so tenderly put it."

Her pupils begin to get smaller, returning to their normal size, and she nibbles at the inside of her lip, as she suppresses a chuckle. "Yeah. Schizo, crazy, same thing," she jokes, but her voice wavers. She's uncomfortable with emotions. I get it. I totally get it.

While Holly was holding me, her hands had wrapped around my upper back, my arms had slid naturally around her waist. So now that she'd pulled away, her arms lay on my shoulders, while my hands are formed easily around her waist.

It takes us both a moment to actually realize this, and simultaneously, we drop our hands from one another, afraid to continue our embrace.

"I can't be alone again today," I say, finally, after another awkward silence. We seem to always entertain awkward silences between each other. Maybe due to the fact that I don't want to acknowledge feelings I shouldn't be having towards her? "I just keep seeing images of Kenna with some horrible family. I just..."

Her thumb rubs my bicep—maybe unintentionally, maybe not—when she cups her hand around my upper arm. "You don't have to be alone. I told you yesterday...I'm here for you."

Talk about mixed signals. She's hot. She's cold. But I'm grateful. "Thank you. You had no plans?"

"No." I can tell she's lying.

"Then why were you in the car with your friends?"

"Oh. We were going to breakfast."

"Were going? Then...why'd they drop you off?"

"Uh...I changed my mind?"

Despite my sadness, I smile. "You saw me ride by, and you had him turn around?"

"No."

"Yes." But I drop it, satisfied in knowing that she changed her plans for me. "So what you wanna do?"

"I noticed your house could use a little painting. You wanna paint?"

"No," I say vehemently. "I don't want to be inside that house. I can't."

She looks at me confused. "Didn't you sleep there last night?"

"No. I slept at my apartment."

"Oh. I think I get it." Holly looks up at the sky before returning her gaze to me. "Have anything in mind then?"

"I do. But you'll need a jacket. And a pair of boots. You cannot wear those heels on my bike."

She looks down at them and twists her foot back and forth. "What? They're not that high."

"No, but they won't protect your feet if we fall."

"Oh."

"A leather jacket would be preferable too."

She raises her eyebrows and says, "You're asking a lot, you know that don't you?" But she laughs and takes her keys out of her purse. "You wanna come with?"

Yes. I do. Very much so. "I guess."

Her room is exactly as I'd suspected—classy. Expensive looking pale gray bedding and real black furniture—not the plastic type that most college kids use as dressers—adorn her room.

"Nice poster," I say of the huge Audrey poster she has hanging over the top of her bed.

"You like that? Thanks." She fumbles through a small closet looking for something.

"Who?" I get closer to the giant photograph hanging on the long side of her bed's wall. "Is that...is that you?" I ask, squinting at the girl holding a bunch of balloons in front of some huge familiar landmark.

"What? Oh...that." She laughs. "Yeah, that's me...trying to recreate that scene in
Funny Face
. Do you know it?"

I'm not familiar, so I shake my head, still looking at the phenomenal picture.

"That's the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel," she says in a very smooth French accent. "In Paris." Holly is bending over tying her floral Doc Martens. "In
Funny Face
, Audrey runs through Paris carrying this huge colorful bouquet of balloons." She looks up at me, blushing. "When my parents took my sister and me to Paris a few years ago, I had them take a picture of me recreating the scene. Silly, right?"

I laughed, but didn't find it funny at all. I found it extraordinary. "No. Not silly." Every day, I seem to find a new reason to be in awe of Holly fucking Buchanan.

And it was driving me mad.

"So where we headed?" Holly asks, her arms in that familiar position around my waist.

"South."

HOLLY

Once we hit the Garden State Parkway, I conclude that we are heading to the Jersey shore, or as Rose would say, "We're going
down the shore
." I've only been down the shore once, but I wouldn't count it, because it was Atlantic City, and we hadn't spent much time outdoors. I'm no good at gambling and so never went back.

But now, I highly doubt we're headed to A.C., because if it's drinking Mick's trying to avoid, then he wouldn't put himself smack dab in the center of an alcohol-laden casino.

Several miles down the quickly budding tree-lined roadway, Mick bears onto the Exit 82A ramp merging onto Route 37 headed towards Seaside Heights.

***

I remember this place from the news a year and a half ago—the boardwalk that was demolished by Superstorm Sandy. It doesn't look so demolished now. In fact, it looks alive and well, and for it being near the end of April, the boardwalk is teeming with shore-goers.

"It doesn't look like the news shows portrayed it," I say of the busy boardwalk.

"You didn't see it last year. These people have been working their asses off restoring this place," Mick says thoughtfully. "There's still a whole pier missing, but this place is really something now. See that spot over there?" He points to a yellow-hazard-taped barricaded spot where new construction of a roller-coaster is happening. "That's where the old rollercoaster sunk into the ocean, completely intact. The boards broke right off, sinking the coaster."

"I saw that on the news."

We pass a lot of games that I'd love to play, but I know Mick's not very happy, so I don't know if it's an appropriate thing to suggest. Consoling friends is kind of new to me, so I'm unsure what's etiquette. With that being the case, I refrain from suggesting playing a game and let Mick lead the way.

We continue walking the boards until he says, "Wanna walk on the beach?"

"Of course. I love the beach."

We stick our socks inside our boots, tie them together by their laces, and swing them over our shoulders.

The cold water lapping at my ankles, while Mick walks the hard sand next to me, is almost painful. "Holy shit that's cold," I cry out.

Mick laughs...softly...but he laughs. My heart hurts almost as much as my feet do, he is so sad. Stoic is more like it. Aside from the waterfall of tears he shed this morning, his face shows no emotion at all. Though because of those tears, I know his expressionless face is because he is sad for his niece. Who wouldn't be? A toddler, thrust from the only people she knows, into a family she's never met. That has to be ridiculously hard for all involved, but that little girl must be scared to death. And I know Mick is afraid
for
her.

I follow him out of the water's edge up the sand, where he throws his boots down and sits next to them. With his elbows on his bent knees, he covers his face in his hands. I sit down close to him, my shoulder practically touching his. "Michael," I say softly, because I've decided still that he needs to be reminded of the strength he has burrowed deep down. "You'll get through this. You all will." And for some reason, I believe what I tell him. I've never experienced a sixth sense before now, but I have today. Michael Ross, his sister Charity, and his niece Kenna, will all have a happily ever after. I am sure of it...even if I have to have something to do with that happy ending.

He sighs, but I can tell he is not crying. Not this time.

With my right hand, I lean across myself to touch Mick's arm. "I'll go to the lawyer with you, I'll go to court if you have to, I'll even use my father's money and status to get Kenni back into your arms." Quietly, I say, "Even if that means doing everything my father wants me to do, I'll do it, to use his power."

Mick lifts his head from his hands and says, "What does that mean? Do everything your father says?"

"I mean, I'll take the internship, I'll pass my classes, I'll do what he needs me to do to keep him happy. When he's happy, he's very generous, and I know he'll want to help. He knows lots of great lawyers."

He spreads out his legs and runs his hands through the sand, filling his palm with it, then dumping it out. While he mindlessly plays with the soft sand, he keeps his gaze on what he's doing. "You were thinking of not taking the internship?"

I lean back, my palms on the sand behind me, while I bury my toes in the sand in front of me. "I was contemplating going against my father's wishes, but I don't have to...I want to help you."

He looks at me now and keeps his hands still in the sand. "Why would not taking the internship have anything to do with your asking for his help...not that I need him to help me, I...I was just wondering why you said it that way."

I keep my gaze down when I say, "Because going against my father isn't a pretty thing. He's a prideful man, and if anyone disagrees with him, he makes life hard for them."

"And if you don't take his internship, he'd make things hard for you?"

I nod.

"In what way?"

"He won't pay for the rest of my education. I'll have to find my own place to live, or...get a full-time job and pay him rent. He has the power to do anything he wants, so..."

Mick raises his brow. "And yet you were thinking of not taking the job? I'm impressed. You're more dauntless than I thought you were."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" I ask, somewhat offended, because I don't really know what he's getting at. Is he being sarcastic?

"Your act," he says simply.

"My act?"

"Your arrogance, your sarcastic mouth...I thought it was all a cover for a weak interior."

"A weak inter.. .You have a lot of nerve,
Mick
." And don't think I call him Mick by accident. No. It is so intentional. "If anyone puts on acts and masks what's inside, it's you. You act all tough and rough and like you couldn't give a damn, but..." he has me so riled up at the moment that I lose my train of thought. I don't even know where I was going with that...I just know he pissed me off with that comment before.

"And what, Holiday? I what? You tell me about myself, because I want to know...yes. I want to know what you think about me, because you are so all-important
that what you think really matters to me." His tone is severe and cruel.

I stand up, brush the sand off of me, and throw my boots back over my shoulder. "Fuck you. I'll get my own ride home."

I walk up towards the boards, but in an instant, his hand is gripping my arm and spinning me around. "You are so fucking full of yourself...so...so...so pretentious...and...and entitled. And god-damned sarcastic. I never know when...oh God, I hate you.
Hate
you."

I yank my arm away from him and with both palms, I push him hard against the chest. He doesn't budge, but he grabs at both my forearms and pulls me back. The soft sand causes me to stumble, and his hands move up my arms to right me, to keep me from falling. His dark eyes are brooding when they pierce mine. They move from my eyes to my lips and back again before I'm slammed up against his chest and his mouth is assaulting mine.

But I let him...