Page 15 of The Holiday Hookup List
“I—yeah, probably. Because other people would’ve seen it.”
“Ah.” A knowing look crosses her features. “What would you have written if it were private?”
I blow out a breath. “I—”
“Wait, don’t tell me.” She opens a drawer in the antique wooden coffee table and pulls out a pen and a spiral notebook made from recycled paper. “Write it down.”
“Write what down?”
“What you would’ve written in my yearbook if no one else could see it.”
Adrenaline floods my body. “Right now?”
“Yes. You owe me this.”
“Oh, my God.” I accept the paper and pen, feeling extremely silly.
And then I take a moment to get my head on straight.
Ralph would tell me there’s nothing wrong with looking silly. That my father is gone, and even if he weren’t, I don’t need to live up to his definition of masculinity. That being vulnerable and having feelings doesn’t make you weak. That rejection and failure aren’t death sentences.
I glance at Valencia, who’s sipping her tea and scratching her cat’s odd folded ears.
Second chance,I think.
Then I click open the pen and begin to write.
Chapter 7
Gideon
Dear Torres,
I’m sorry. I could write those words on every line in this notebook, and it still wouldn’t be enough. I was an insufferable little shit, and I made you the target of my insecurities for stupid and childish reasons that had nothing to do with you.
The truth is, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and the smartest person I’ve ever known. I wish I’d had the courage to tell you that before, and the guts to apologize sooner.
I mean this with all sincerity: Have a nice life. No one deserves it more.
Love,
Gideon
I stare down at the words I’ve written. They flowed out of me, like water bursting through a dam, but as I imagine Torres reading them, panic grips me in a vise and my face flames.
No. Fuck vulnerability. This is too raw. She can’t see this. She—
Rips the notebook out of my hand.
I lunge for it, and Torres dances out of the way, laughing. But as she reads, her gleeful smile fades.
“There. Are you happy?” I feel exposed, and I can’t help snapping at her. God, I’m so fucked up. I reach for my cold tea and gulp it down, wishing it were whiskey.
She’s still staring at the paper, but I know she’s finished. What is she thinking? Is she going to laugh at me? Kick me out? Accuse me of lying again?
Once upon a time, I would’ve sneered at her and turned the whole thing into a joke. Anything to avoid being viewed as weak. That insecure kid still lives inside me, and his protective impulses persist, even though I’ve matured enough not to act on them.
“You have to learn to sit with discomfort,” Ralph’s always telling me. “It won’t kill you.”
