Page 65 of Touch

“But sometimes it’s too much. I know where it’s coming from. His family was verbally abusive while he grew up, constantly saying he’ll never amount to anything and belittling his ambitions.” Holly’s mouth turns down. “He wanted to be an artist.”

Andrew hunches forward and speaks to the ground. “I didn’t know that.”

“It stayed in the family and didn’t circulate much.” Holly shakes her head. “Griffin wanted to be a set designer for theatre productions and films. He moved away for a while, tried getting work, then fell back on contracting house renovations. His heart’s not invested, though. So I think… maybe he resents anyone who’s creatively successful. Especially someone he went to school with.”

Andrew winces, but Holly continues. “It’s not fair, and it doesn’t make him less of a prick for that incident in the park, which I blame both of you for. But seeing you succeed? It’s gotten to him, even if it actually has nothing to do with you. Griffin’s family hasn’t let him live down the choices he’s made. He’s forever beating himself up, trying to win their approval, hoping to prove himself worthy of the people in his life.”

“Including you,” Andrew concludes.

Holly swallows. “Including me. It’s hard for him to believe he’ll ever be good enough to keep someone. And oh, God. I’m ranting. It’s not as if you asked. We’ve never really known each other, yet I’m saying all this personal stuff.”

“You can say anything you want.”

His reassurance makes her grin. She shifts his way, the movement causing his notebook to fall from the bench. “Shit, sorry.” She beats Andrew to it, plucking the item off the floor, then pausing at an open page.

“A woman forged of iron, ebony dresses, and lonely smiles,”she recites.“A treacherous, remorseless soul. An unattainable myth.”

Love gasps. He’s been writing about her.

“Wow,” Holly marvels. “Is this for a new book?”

Andrew seizes the binder, his fingers tightening on the edges. “It’s nothing.”

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she rushes to say. “The writing’s beautiful. That character sounds like she’s everyone to you.”

He sneers as if to reply,Love would like to think so.

“Or maybe this is a real person?” Holly ventures. “Someone you know?”

Turning the book in his hands, Andrew’s throat contracts. “I thought so.”

Holly sighs in understanding, her features crumpling once more. “Does it ever stop being complicated?”

She ponders the snow, as if the question has landed there. Love does the same. Why is the complication worth it?

“It’ll never stop,” Andrew murmurs. “If it’s easy, it’s not earned. But if it’s earned, that makes it stronger.”

Solemnly, Holly nods. “I don’t know why I’m bringing this up, but I remember in college. Although we weren’t friends, I noticed you. Lots of students did. You were striking to everyone, and you never seemed like the type who ever wanted or needed attention. You were confident, but also quiet.”

“Only because there was a lot more going on in my head,” he says. “Usually I was having conversations with fictional characters. Perfectly reasonable excuse.”

They laugh without humor. Love yearns to draw him back to her. Instead she stands there, letting herself be forgotten.

Holly and Andrew can touch. Theydotouch.

After a second’s hesitation, Andrew covers Holly’s hand with his own. The gesture only intensifies her grief, the floral scents of melancholy and heartache rising to the surface, permeating Love’s sensory perception. Holly longs for Griffin—to forgive him, to find a common ground. But since he isn’t here, she turns to Andrew, the need for comfort plain on her face.

She studies Andrew’s hand covering hers. Then she peeks up at him, the rhinestones of her eyes watery, pressure building behind the eyelids like a river shoving against a dam. In that instant, Love tastes the fermented flavor of the woman’s intent, the desolation she longs to suppress, the yearning for an alternative. For someone who doesn’t complicate her life.

There are moments that don’t require Love’s intervention, moments when human nature works on its own. Laughter, clinking glasses, and pumping music resonate from inside. Whereas outside, the mortal female scoots closer to the man watching her with a furrowed brow, and a helpless goddess spies on them.

“You delivered that book to my house even though I didn’t order it,” Holly recalls. “I thought maybe it was your way of reaching out.” Her gaze drops to his mouth. “Because if it was, maybe that’s okay.”

Love wants to shut her eyes, to look away. But she cannot.

Andrew stiffens, catching Holly’s meaning. “Holly, I—”

But the woman presses forward. With a deprived gasp, she slides her palm across his jaw and clamps her mouth over his.

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