Page 51 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

And I shouldn’t ask. I should not vocalize the question that’s playing on repeat in my head. But…I need to know. Don’t ask me why; all I know is that if I’m left wondering about this, it will haunt me until I go crazy.

“Molly?” I say hoarsely. “You moved on, right?”

“From this conversation? Yes,” she says. She stands abruptly, teetering until she throws her arms out for balance. “I’m going to use the restroom, and then let’s find something to eat. I’m hungry.”

“Yeah,” I say. I’m barely paying attention to what I’ve agreed to, but I’m still stuck on her refusal to answer.

There’s no way. Right? There’s no way she’s liked me this whole time.

My anxiety spikes the second she’s out of my line of sight, but I force myself to stay calm. Her medicine situation has me on edge; no matter what else I’m thinking about, that worry is always hovering in the back of my mind.

Which is why, when we’re getting ready for bed later that evening, I fill her in on some of my thoughts.

“All right,” I say, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Here’s the deal. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to sleep on the floor in here.” I point to the spot of carpet next to the mattress on the floor. “Because I’m worried you’ll have a seizure in the middle of the night.However.” I hold one hand up before she can interrupt. This next part kills me to say, but I know I need to. “If you truly do not think I have to worry about you having a seizure in the night, I will trust you. So”—another deep breath, another rough exhale—“can you look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you’re confident you’ll be all right?”

I know what answer I want to hear; I know what answer will make me feel better. But I also know that Molly understands her body and her triggers better than I ever could.

“No,” she says quietly, and though my heart sinks, I’m not surprised. It’s what I expected her to say. “I can’t promise nothing will happen. I’m sleeping in a different bed, I’m stressed, I don’t have my meds. So…no.” She fiddles with the hem of one of her new t-shirts as she speaks, and she’s back in my basketball shorts from earlier.

I nod. “I’ll sleep on the floor here, then.” I toss the pillow from the loveseat onto the floor and then dig my one spare blanket out from under my bed. There’s no point in genuinely trying to get comfortable; my carpet feels like the equivalent of felt stretched over marble. It’s going to be a rough night no matter how many blankets or pillows I use. I lie back anyway, resigning myself to my sleepless fate as Molly turns out the light and gets in bed.

The cool night air drifts in through the cracked window as we lie there. In the distance I can hear a dog barking. But the only sound I’m paying attention to is the sound of Molly’s breathing, a soothing hypnosis in the dark. Every time I close my eyes, they snap right back open. I end up just staring at my ceiling, my ears straining as I listen to make sure she’s okay as the minutes bleed on.

Some time later—maybe half an hour—I hear something.

“Beckett.”

I startle at the sound of my name, whispered but audible.

“Yeah,” I say immediately, sitting up in the dark. I glance over at Molly; all I can see without light is the rough shape of the mattress and some dark, blobby shapes on top.

“You can’t sleep?”

I sigh. “No.”

“Because of me?”

“I—it’s—no,” I say. “I’m just—”

“Worried,” she says, and she sounds sad in a way I don’t understand. “Yeah.”

I don’t want to lie to her. So I don’t say anything.

“Here,” she says a moment later. “Hold my hand.”

I swallow. “What?”

“Hold my hand,” she says tiredly. “That way you’ll be able to feel if something happens.”

And from the darkness I feel a soft, warm touch on my arm—searching, hesitant, then more sure as her fingers glide over my skin. I flip my palm up to meet hers when she reaches my hand, threading our fingers together in silence.

She gives my hand a squeeze, and I reciprocate, my heart thudding.

When’s the last time I held a woman’s hand like this? It’s intimate in a way I didn’t expect. But in this room so dark and this house so lonely…I like it. I like having her here with me.

I lie back down, waiting for her to get comfortable so I can adjust accordingly. The mattress she’s on sits directly on the floor, so she’s only elevated a foot or so above me; that makes it easier to hold on.

So I keep her hand clasped in mine, small and warm, and I listen to her breathe. And it’s only when her breaths even out, some twenty minutes later, that I let my eyes flutter closed.

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