The memory comes together like a time-lapse video of a jigsaw puzzle. The crisp, late-September air on my face, chilling my tears as they tumbled down my cheeks. The whooshing sound of city traffic that replaced the restaurant’s hubbub as I stepped outside into the night. A man’s voice—thisman’s voice—reaching out of the dark, asking,Hey, you okay?
Hollis Hollenbeck. From my ex’s MFA cohort. One of those fancy literary friends Josh talked about and constantly compared himself to but rarely let me interact with beyond hasty introductions and quick hellos at parties. Hollis was there that horrible night eight months ago, leaning against the brick wall beside the restaurant’s entrance, the light from the old-timey lantern suspended above him highlighting the different colors of his eyes.
Now, Hollis leads me to the row of chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows as a plane zooms down the runway in the distance. His blue duffel bag waits in front of the seat he vacated to save me. I consider joking about how he must have missed the last twenty years of PSAs about not leaving your bags unattended in an airport, but instead I say, “Thank you. That was getting... gross.” I am grateful, of course, for his intervention. But I also can’t ignore the tiny twinge of shame deep in my stomach, as if part of me feels like what that guy said is somehow my fault, that I should have shut it down or prevented it or been able to walk away without Hollis’s assistance.
“Getting? Dude rocketed past gross and was well on his way to abhorrent.” The look on his face is almost comical, the way hismouth droops into a perfectly symmetrical arch. Like a postcard of St. Louis.
“Hey. I know you, don’t I?” I say.
His thick eyebrows raise in question. “Do you?”
“You know Josh Yaeger, right?” Somehow my smile stays perky and unaffected by the name coming out of my mouth.
“Yeah. And you... also know Josh.”
He doesn’t say it like “Wow this is so awkward because you dated my friend for three years and probably would be engaged to him right now if he hadn’t betrayed your trust.” It’s more of an “I can only guess that’s why you know me, but I really have no clue who you are.” So maybe he wasn’t looking at me because he remembered me after all.
“Um. He and I were together for a while,” I say.
“Right.”
“Back in September... at Josh’s book release party at that restaurant in Georgetown. You drove me home,” I explain, hoping to jog his memory. “So I probably owe you a thanks for that too.”
“Oh. Did we...?” He waves a finger back and forth between us.
“What? No. You didn’t even come upstairs, just waited to make sure I got inside okay then left.”
“Then you must be mistaken. That doesn’t sound like me.”
I don’t understand the game he’s playing here, why he’s fighting against my good impression of him. “Well, from the little I know, helping a woman out of an unpleasant situation sounds very much like you.”
“No way.” He shakes his head. “I never do anything out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Then what was that a minute ago?”
“Purely selfish. If I had to listen to another word about that guy’s wet dreams, a tidal wave of vomit would’ve escaped my mouth and swallowed up this terminal.”
The mental image of that makes me chuckle, but his expression remains serious. “Whatever,” I say. “Regardless, I’d like to thank you somehow, both for today and for that night.”
I immediately regret the open-endedness of my offer as his eyebrows raise again, but he eventually shakes his head. “Not necessary. Like I said, I was just being selfish. Now, not to be rude, but I went over there to stop a conversation, not get roped into a new one. So if you’ll excuse me...”
Hollis navigates around his bag and sinks into the chair. He pulls a clicky black pen and a small red spiral-bound notebook from the front pocket of his duffel. By the way he focuses on the pages as he scribbles something down, it’s clear he does not intend to pay me any further attention. Which is fine, because he’s kind of being a dick.
I stand there, searching the terminal for somewhere I can go to leave Hollis alone without the creeper taking it as an invitation to resume our conversation. There are about a dozen airline staff huddled around the little desk (which, frankly, seems excessive, but what do I know?). Perhaps if I sit close to them, I’ll blend in with the hustle and bustle...
Hollis lets out a heavy sigh and looks up at me. I stare back. He moves his eyes from me to the chair beside him repeatedly, wordlessly directing me to take a seat and stop annoying him.
I have to admit, remaining in Hollis’s little bubble of protection and apparent exasperation isn’t a hardship. Especially now that I’m sitting beside him and I can tell that he smells really good. Comforting. Like the scent version of reading your favorite bookin a worn leather chair with a cup of Earl Grey tea while rain patters against the windowpane.
“Although, cinnamon rolls,” he says abruptly.
“What?”
I’m about to tell him that, while delicious, those don’t really fit with the vibe of the scene I’m imagining when he says, “I accept payment in the form of cinnamon rolls.” Hollis nods toward the Cinnabon stand near our gate.
“You want me to buy you a cinnamon roll?”
“Yes. No—actually, two of them.” In response to my raised eyebrow, he says, “Hey, according to you, I’ve helped you out twice. So two cinnamon rolls and we’ll call it even.”
