Page 47 of Holly's Grizzly

18

Irving

The silence Holly leaves behind is deafening.

I wander into the living room, drifting like a ghost through the space that’s too quiet, too empty, horribly still and somber after how bright it’s been for the last few days.

Her scent lingers in the air, and the shirt of mine she was wearing last night lies crumpled on the floor where I took it off her.

I should have told her to take it.

Because I’ll be damned if I’ll ever be able to wear it again without thinking of her.

I’ll be damned if there will ever be one single day I won’t think of her.

My phone is a lead weight in my pocket, and I’m half out of my mind with the urge to call her, tell her to have Vic turn the truck around and bring her back here. I want to ask her to stay, to be with me, to…

The thoughts stop right there.

In what world would Holly want that? She’s got a career and a life and friends back home. All I’ve got to offer her is a lonely, small life all the way up here.

Sitting down on the couch is another mistake.

Holly’s scent is all over it, and so are the memories of being tangled up with her in the firelight, losing myself in her, the unimaginable pleasure—

Biting out a low curse, I throw an arm over my eyes and slump back against the cushions, willing myself to stop thinking about her.

It’s no use.

Holly’s in my blood, in my bones, in my soul, and I can’t get the image of her leaving to fade from where it’s seared into the backs of my eyelids.

Letting her leave like that makes me a godsdamn coward.

I trust Vic more than almost anyone I know, and I’m certain Holly’s in good hands with him, but…

I should have gone with her.

I could have guilted Vic into bringing me back up here afterward. It probably only took one look at me for him to understand how gone I am for this woman, and how his very helpful offer also meant our time together came to an abrupt end.

But seeing her get in her car and drive away just might have broken me.

Who am I kidding?

I was going to be broken either way.

With no idea what to do with myself, no idea what might make all of this stop hurting so fiercely and my disappointment in myself stop cutting so deeply, I push up off the couch, pull my boots on, and head for the door. Swinging it wide, I let myself out into the winter dusk, happy for the bite of cold against my skin and fresh air that doesn’t scent of everything I’ve lost.

My eyes land on the woodpile at the edge of the yard. Holly and I burned through a good bit of what I’d already chopped for the winter keeping the cabin warm and cozy and festive for the last few days, and I suppose cutting some more is as good a wayas any to do some penance. With any luck, I can tire myself out completely with a few hours of chopping and stumble inside to pass out. A night of dreamless, exhausted sleep sounds pretty damn good right now.

So I get to work.

The wood on top of the pile is from a tree that fell last spring at the edge of my property, and the cross-sections of its trunk are huge, dense, a real pain in the ass to split, which is perfect. More work for me to lug the heavy logs from the pile to the stump I have set up for cutting, more swings of the ax to be my punishment for letting who might be the best person I ever met walk out my front door.

One after the other after the other, I savor the ache in my arms, the sting of my hands gripping the handle, the frigid rasp of air in and out of my lungs.

Only, after splitting twenty or thirty logs, after I’m too damn tired to keep up the pretense of my own bullshit, something in me snaps, too.

It leaves me weak-kneed and shaking, clear-headed enough after all that exertion for the weight of my mistakes to nearly topple me into the snow, with my answer right in front of me.

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