Page 83 of Holly Ever After

There’s so many emotions swirling in my chest, I’m not sure which one will win.

“Why?”

I know he’s not talking about why I want him to be quiet. He wants to know why I did it. It’s a reasonable question. It’s also one I wish I had the answer to. The only answer I have, I’m pretty sure my brother won’t want to hear.

What am I going to say? It started because I was horny, and Sean is really hot.

That answer is insulting even to me. It wasn’t some one-night stand with a guy I’d never see again.

It was more.

It was so much more.

Yet, I can’t put my finger on it. It’s too much. How do I explain to my brother that Sean makes me feel like all the pieces of myself I had lost, all those pieces that were broken and scattered around… Sean helped me find them, and I felt more like myself with him than I have in a long time.

I can’t stand to see the hurt in his eyes, so I turn around like the coward I am to grab the trifle out of the fridge.

“You’re not walking away from this.” He hurries to my side, nudging me to grab the bowl out of my hand.

And then it happens.

He drops the bowl on the counter with too much force and the lovely, smooth cream that my mother worked so hard on, splatters… All. Over. Me.

I gasp, standing back, but it’s too late. I taste it on my tongue, see it dangling from my hair, and don’t get me started on my clothes.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” I’ve lost all notions of keeping my voice down.

War has broken out in the Winter household.

Mark's eyes widen in shock, a mixture of horror and an attempt to suppress laughter evident on his face. “Holly, I... I didn't mean to—”

But I'm already scooping a generous handful of the ruined dessert, the sponge soaking in jelly, and with a wild swing, I fling it right at him. It splatters across his face and chest, the red jelly dripping down his shirt.

“Oh, it's on.” In seconds, he retaliates with a spoonful of the creamy mess, which lands with a splat right in the middle of my forehead.

The next few minutes are a blur of flying trifle and escalating voices. We're both drenched in layers of cream, custard, fruit, and sponge cake, the kitchen looking like a battlefield of dessert carnage.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and our audience expands beyond just Rachel. Little Mia laughs her little head off before scooping some cream off the floor and eating it. Our parent’s gape at the scene, their expressions ranging from amused to shocked.

“Holly! Mark! What in heaven's name—?” our mother gasps, her eyes wide as she takes in the chaos. She rushes forward, trying to play referee, but unfortunately, she's caught in the crossfire, and a blob of custard lands comically on her cheek.

“Mom!” we exclaim in unison, our food fight coming to an abrupt halt.

She wipes the custard off her face. “Enough! Both of you, into the living room, now!”

We're scolded and ushered out like two misbehaving children, leaving everyone behind bewildered and a kitchen that's seen better days. Our mother follows us, grabbing each of our arms, not hard, but enough to let us know she means business.

Forcing us into the living room, we face each other but avoid eye contact.

She stands, hands on her hips “I don't know what's gotten into you two, but you're adults, not bratty toddlers. Sort out whatever this is. You're siblings. You're supposed to have each other's backs, not throw food at each other. And for the love of God, don’t sit or touch anything.”

We both mumble apologies, still not meeting each other's eyes.

“I'll be back, and we will clean up the kitchen together,” she warns before leaving the room.

Silence envelops us, punctuated only by our heavy breaths. I steal a glance at Mark, and despite the mess, there's a vulnerability in his eyes I haven't seen in years.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, feeling the sting of tears as I drop my gaze to the floor.

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