A sigh so heavy it could fall right through the floor escapes him. “I’m not mad at you, Millicent.”
“But you’re... huffy.”
“That’s just my personality.”
“Well, what can I do?” I ask.
Hollis chuckles, but there isn’t much humor in the sound. “To change my personality? Nothing. Many people have tried, none have succeeded. I’m like a haunted house. They go in very brave and confident, but they always run away screaming.”
If he’s a house at all, he’s a gingerbread one that’s been baked a few minutes too long but still has plenty of sweetness to offer. I’d tell him that, except his scowl is a great reminder that he’s already annoyed enough at the moment.
Hollis mentioned his low premiums before, and he wanted a thousand dollars for letting me come along with him to Miami. Maybe it’s about the money. “I’ll pay for the repairs. I know I won’t be with you when you pick up the car from Chip Autobody, but—”
“Insurance will cover it,” he says, hanging his hoodie on a hook beside the door. “Now, I would like to get to sleep before anything else terrible happens. Do you want the bathroom first or second?”
I hang my head in defeat. Whether Hollis actually blames me or not, the result is the same: I’m going to have to share a bed witha hot grump who probably wishes I would disappear. “First, I guess.”
“Fine. Go ahead, but make it quick. I’m completely beat.”
The small pink bag that holds my toiletries is still right on top inside my suitcase, despite the thing getting jostled throughout the day’s adventures. I’m already inside the bathroom with my jeans halfway off when I realize the problem. “Um. Hollis?” I call through the door.
“What?”
I open it just enough to stick my head out while still hiding my underwear-only lower half. “Uh. Do you happen to have an extra T-shirt or something? I didn’t pack any pajamas. I don’t... I don’t usually wear them.”
He looks at me wide-eyed for what feels like forever, then blinks a few times as if trying to catch up for the ones he missed while staring. “You don’t... wear...? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I sleep hot,” I explain. “So the fewer layers...”
“You sleep hot.” Eyes wide again, lips pressed together, Hollis turns to the painting hanging by a large oak dresser. “She sleeps hot,” he tells the portrait of Jesus shaking hands with Elvis. Okay, Ihaveto find out where the hell Connie is finding these ultra-specific kits.
“Do you have a spare or not?” I reach my arm out, waiting.
Hollis goes to his duffel in the chair and riffles through. He pulls out an old, faded blue Bookstore Movers T-shirt and tosses it toward my outstretched hand. I fail to catch it, and it falls to the hardwood floor outside the bathroom. Before I can reach down to pick it up, Hollis is in front of me, balling it up and pushing it into my palm. “Here,” he says. Our eyes meet and his look... lustful.Or maybe just annoyed. Perhaps one is lustful and one is annoyed. It’s hard to tell with them being different colors. Regardless, it’s making me feel like I ate some static, so I slam the door shut in his face.
When I’m stripped to nothing but underwear, I pull the T-shirt over my head and down my body. It falls to mid-thigh—short, but it covers what it needs to cover. I pee, brush my teeth, wash my face (only accidentally poking at the painful lump on my forehead three times in the process), and secure my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head.
“All yours,” I say to Hollis as I slip back into the room.
As he passes me, his gaze hastily sweeps my body. He murmurs something unintelligible and disappears into the bathroom.
After throwing my dirty clothes into the designated plastic CVS bag in my suitcase, I pull back the covers and climb onto the absurdly high-off-the-ground mattress. Even though I haven’t shared a bed with someone else since Josh, I notice I’ve automatically claimed my usual side. Old habits die hard, I guess. The bedding smells like lavender, which is one of my favorite smells. When Hollis comes out of the bathroom in his gray T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, I’m rubbing my face all over the comforter like I’m a cat in a patch of catnip. He doesn’t acknowledge it, only turns off the overhead light. How quickly he’s grown accustomed to—or maybe completely fed up with—my eccentricities.
The weight of his body settling into the mattress makes me feel like I’m a piece of space trash getting pulled into his planet’s orbit. I shift a bit farther toward the edge, trying to resist snuggling up beside him. The bedding is nice and warm, but I bet he’s warmer. And I might sleep hot, but right now I feel chilled to the bone.
“Hollis,” I say to his back since he’s turned away from me. “I know things aren’t going as planned, but—”
“Ha, you think?” His sarcasm is harsh, cutting deeper than anything else he’s said to me over the last few hours. Throughout the day it’s been easy to tell myself he’s actually a really nice guy inside. That the snark and rudeness is only a mask he wears for some reason, and that I shouldn’t take it personally. But right now, with the weight of everything at stake heavy on my brain and my heart, it’s not so easy to let it roll off me. I get the message loud and clear. I’m going to let it go, stop trying to get him to drop the facade and let me in. Maybe he’s right; maybe people aren’t as good as I want them to be. Maybehe’snot as good as I want him to be.
I close my eyes tight against the pressure building behind them, but open them again as the mattress bounces in response to his shift in position. He’s facing me now. It’s dark, but I can see his frown. His default, I already know, so it tells me nothing.
“I should be in Miami right now, sweaty and inspired after round six with Yeva. Instead, I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with a damaged car, twenty-five Jesuses staring at me—and yes, I counted while you were in the bathroom, there are twenty-five of them—andyou.” He spits the word “you” as if I’m the worst part of it all. “So no. Things are not going as planned.”
“Hollis—”
“Go to sleep, Millicent. It’ll all be equally miserable in the morning. We can discuss it then.” He turns away again and pulls the covers over his shoulder.
He’s right. This is miserable. If Hollis likes me at all, it seems like he resents me more. We’re losing valuable travel time that might mean the difference between delivering Mrs. Nash to Elsie and being too late. And the deer! Oh no, the poor deer. What ifDr. Gupta was wrong and it’s dying, or it’s already dead? Officer Jones said it wasn’t my fault, and that the deer hit the car, not the other way around. But I feel terrible about it anyway, and extremely guilty, and oh god, all the blood, and it was on myface—I’m not sure whether to puke or cry. Cry. That’ll involve less cleanup. So I’m going to turn away and cry. Go ahead, eyeballs, release the floodgates. Stomach, please standby.
