Pieces Of You: Pieces Duet Book 1, page 20
She spins around, the same smile I’ve grown up with lighting her eyes. “Are you taking Jamie to work now?”
I don’t answer.
I just hold her.
Tight.
She’s slow to respond—understandable—but then she’s hugging me back, and I’m suddenly inundated with memories of all the other times she’s held me like this. All the scraped knees and broken bones from being far too daring, far too young. Or every time she had to comfort me when I found an injured animal and couldn’t save it, or the times Mia and I fought over nonsense. Or just the times when I needed to be held by my mother.
“What’s this for?” Mom asks, and I’m too choked up to respond verbally. All the emotion I’d harbored while Jamie was speaking is coming out now, and I’m grateful that my mom’s here to pick up the pieces.
“Thank you, Ma,” I say over the lump in my throat.
“For what?”
It takes a moment for me to find the words. “For always being there for me. For giving up your life for me and always putting me first. For... for being my mom and always protecting me.”
36
Jamie
“We’re almost there,” Holden says, squeezing my leg as we go over a particularly uneven patch of road.
I have no idea where “there” is.
He’d walked into my fifth-period economics class, and without even looking in my direction, made his way over to the teacher, handed him a note, and then he disappeared just as quickly as he arrived. Whatever was on the note excused me from the class, and I packed up my things and left. Holden was waiting just outside the room for me, and before I could ask what the hell he was doing, he took my hand and said, “Ready?” It wasn’t a question.
But I answered anyway. “Yes.”
I had zero clues where he was taking me, and I realized then—as he squeezed my hand and made a game of covertly sneaking out to his truck—that I’d pretty much do anything Holden Eastwood asks of me.
It’s a dangerous feeling. Terrifying, really. And it’s safe to say that I’m officially a goner for the green-eyed boy sitting beside me, leading me blindly into what he calls “an adventure.”
It’s strange how things can change in a blink of an eye.
Or a single kiss.
Or a single line drawn in black marker that has the power to change everything.
Now, Holden turns onto an unmarked gravel road led to him by his phone’s navigator. We’ve been driving for an hour already. Asking where we’re going would be pointless—something I figured out after the first five minutes.
A few more dips in the gravel, and me holding onto the dash for dear life, and we come to a closed gate at the end of the road. “This isn’t sketchy at all,” I murmur, looking behind me.
Ignoring me, he hops out of the truck, ordering over his shoulder, “Stay there.”
I do as he asks, watching as he pushes open the gate and gets back in the truck. He drives, and I… I keep my eyes on his profile—at his full lips and sharp jawline covered in overnight stubble, high cheekbones slightly redder than normal, and is he… “Are you blushing?”
He glances at me quickly before refocusing ahead. “You keep staring at me like that, and I’ll have to pull over and do dirty, filthy things to that smart little mouth of yours.”
“Yeah, but where’s the punishment in that?” I tease, and he groans, adjusts himself in his seat.
“You’re bad.” He hits the brakes. “And we’re here.”
I finally tear my eyes away from him and look around us. It’s nothing but open space and green, green grass dotted in white and yellow. “What is…” I trail off when he gets out, makes his way over to my side.
He helps me out of my seat and onto my feet, and I take a few steps away, slowly spinning around to take in our surroundings. My breath catches the moment realization hits, and it hits hard. Heat burns behind my eyes as I crouch down, pick a flower by my feet and bring it to my nose. They’re everywhere around me, these tiny little rays of sunlight. “A field full of daisies…” I breathe out. I’d mentioned it in passing only yesterday, and he’s already delivering it to me.
Holden smiles as he steps up beside me, then drops a kiss on my forehead. “It hardly seemed fair that you have to draw what you want to see, Jamie.” He takes my hand in his. “You deserve to experience it.” Without another word, he leads me to the bed of his truck, where he pulls out a picnic basket and blanket.
He lays them out on the grass just by his truck, and we sit together, looking at nothing in particular. And we talk—something Holden and I rarely do. He tells me about his football season—all losses so far—which isn’t a surprise, according to him. And I tell him about my plans for the upcoming weekend. “I found a thrift store online that I want to check out.”
“That sounds fun,” he says, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.
“Shut up,” I laugh out, throwing a grape at his head. The picnic basket’s filled with fruits and cheese and crackers, along with some bottles of apple cider and a couple of wine glasses. I’m sure if he’d brought any other girl here—one who doesn’t have a shitty history with alcohol—there’d be actual wine.
He hasn’t told me who packed the basket, and I don’t ask, but I have a feeling his mother was involved.
“Is that where you get your grandma clothes from?” he asks.
“Some,” I answer. “Mostly, they’re hand-me-downs from Gina.”
“Ah. The infamous Gina,” he almost sings, kicking his legs out in front of him. “Tell me more about this Gina of yours.”
It’s getting colder out, the autumn chill just enough to float across my arms, to prickle along my flesh. I move closer to him, and he must notice the goose bumps, because he removes his Townsend HS Athletics hoody. “You don’t have to—” I break off when he gets to his knees, holding the garment just above my head. He slides it over me, making sure not to ruin my hair, and it’s such a sweet, affectionate move that when I finally push my arms through the sleeves, I’m… speechless. I don’t know what to say or how to act. I’ve become so accustomed to taking care of myself, or others, that the mere act of someone else doing it for me has my chest aching. There’s a burn behind my eyes that has me taking a breath, trying to hide my reaction.
“So Gina?” he asks, watching me, one eyebrow raised.
I clear my throat, speak through the knot in my throat. “Gina…” And then I exhale, releasing all my emotions out with it. “Gina found me at the bus stop when I was in second grade. I was filthy and unkempt and she… she took me into her home. The first time, it was to bathe me, but the next morning, she was there again, and I was in clothes that hadn’t been washed in forever, and so…” I shrug. “She brought me back to her house and found some clothes for me to wear. I was still so little, so they were all too big, but she’d hem the skirts in a way that I could undo and alter the older I got.” I run a hand along my skirt. “This is one of hers,” I tell him.
We’re both looking out at the field and not each other when he says, “So you just started dressing in her clothes every day?”
I nod. “I used to get teased a lot, but when I came to school in clean clothes, the teasing stopped being about the state of my wardrobe and switched to the style of it. And that? That I could handle because I felt like… I don’t know… like I had something to be proud of.”
“And now?”
“Now what?” I ask, turning to look up at him. He’s already watching me.
“Why do you still wear them now?”
Another shrug. “Just because I grew up, it doesn’t mean those insecurities go away. Especially as a senior starting at a new school. I’d rather have people talk about my shitty fashion choices than to be the poor, little orphan girl who scrubs dishes and lives in a trailer park.”
After a beat of silence, he asks, “Where’s your dad?”
I laugh once. “The only thing my mom knew about him was his name. And I’m not even sure if she got that right, which could be a disaster since she named me after him.”
Holden says nothing.
“James,” I tell him. “If you were curious.”
He nods once. “Do you ever think that you’re the only one who might see you that way? As the poor, little orphan girl who scrubs dishes and lives in a trailer park…”
“Maybe,” I answer truthfully. “But it doesn’t take the insecurities away.”
He picks up a strawberry and inspects it a few moments before asking, “When was the last time you saw or spoke to Gina?”
“When we left. I was thirteen.”
“And you haven’t gone back to see her?”
“I can’t,” I reply, my heart suddenly heavy. “It’s too dangerous.”
His entire body stiffens against mine. “Why?”
“She only lives two doors down from Beaker, my mom’s ex—and we didn’t exactly leave on good terms, so…”
“Sucks,” is all he says. And then he’s quiet. Too quiet. And for far too long.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, even though I'm afraid of the answer.
“Nothing really.” He throws a slight smile my way. “Just that… this suits you, being out here.”
“Yeah?” I can’t help but grin. “It feels good, being out here.” I point to my head. “I just need a straw hat.”
“Nah,” he says, lifting his chin. “I’ll do you one better. Come here.” He pats his lap, and I don’t hesitate to lay my head on there. Facing the overcast sky, I settle my arms at my side and stay quiet as I watch him reach across and pull out a bunch of daisies. He drops them on my stomach and, one after the other, starts joining them together. For minutes, we sit in silence while his large hands work delicately at making the chain longer and longer. Occasionally, he asks me to lift my head to measure the length, and when he’s not satisfied, he taps his lap again. Over and over, he does this, his brow drawn, eyes focused on his task.
“How did you even know how to make these?” I ask.
“Are you kidding?” He scoffs. “Mia used to literally stand over me with a huge stick, threatening to beat me with it unless I made, like, fifty a day for her.”
I giggle into his tight stomach. “I like Mia.”
“She’d like you, too,” he murmurs, picking more flowers from the grass beside us. “I’m trying to convince her to fly over for Thanksgiving, so maybe you’ll meet her then. My mom invited Esme, and my dad and his girlfriend will be here, too. And my grandparents.”
I can’t ignore the sudden racing of my pulse or the warmth that floats across my chest and into my heart. It comes out a whisper when I ask, “You want me to meet them?”
Holden shrugs. “Sure, why not?” He taps at my forehead, my cue to lift my head, and so I do. Carefully, he places the daisy chain around my head, and smiles when he’s satisfied. Then he places his hand on my nape, holding my head up while he snaps a quick photo, a soft smile gracing his hardened features. When he’s done, he lays me gently back on his lap. “You don’t want to meet them?”
“No, I do,” I’m quick to answer, sitting up and turning to him. “I just… I don’t know.” I sigh. “Sometimes I feel like you just say these things… throw them out as if they don’t hold any meaning—”
“And sometimes I think you underestimate me,” he cuts in. “Look, Jamie.” He heaves out a breath, leaning back on his outstretched arms. “I’m not someone who needs to deep-dive into every emotion or scrutinize everything we do.” His eyes meet mine, penetrating. “I say what I mean, and I mean what I say, and as long as you understand that, then nothing matters.”
37
Jamie
I check the time on my phone. And then the day, Wednesday. Holden isn’t at the lockers where we always meet to go to Esme’s, and the more students that clear the corridor, the more confused I become. Just as I bring up Holden’s number, someone calls out to me. I look up to see Dean walking toward me, his strides long and rushed. “There you are,” he huffs. He’s out of breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I thought you met Holden out at his truck.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Why?” Then I look over his shoulder, stupidly expecting to see Holden. “Where is he?”
My first thought is that something horrible has happened, but before I let that fear fully set in, Dean answers, stopping just in front of me. “He didn’t tell you?”
My patience for anything Dean-related ran out a long time ago. “Tell me what?”
“He had to fly home to North Carolina for some emergency.”
“Is it his dad?” I ask, frantically dialing his number. “Mia?”
“I don’t know.”
Phone held to my ear; I listen to it ring out.
Dean watches, his eyebrows drawn.
I try again—the same result.
“Look,” he says, stepping even closer, “the only reason I know is because his mom called the school and said he might be out for a few days. They told my dad, and my dad told me so we could work out some new plays for Friday’s game.”
“Right.” I send Holden a text asking if everything’s okay and then pocket the phone. “I should go,” I tell Dean. “I have to catch a bus to Esme’s.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Eyes wide, I ask, “To take me to Esme’s?”
“Well, yeah. And the program—it has to be done in pairs, so…” he trails off, and I hate where he’s going with this.
I rear back, my shoulders slumping. “So you’re going with me?”
He nods. “Unless you want to call her and cancel.”
“Yeah, that’s probably best.”
“Probably.” He shrugs, and he doesn’t look at me when he adds, “It’s just that… with Esme, I don’t think it’s so much the work she looks forward to. It’s more the company, so…”
I heave out a loud and somewhat frustrated breath. Dean’s right, and he damn well knows it. “Fine.”
We drive to Esme’s in silence, and after a short greeting, we get bombarded with questions about Holden’s sudden disappearance, which we answer as well as we can, which isn’t well at all. I tried calling him twice more on the drive. He didn’t answer either call. Once we get to the yard, I realize how useless it is to even attempt the work without Holden here. “Holden normally tells me what to do,” I murmur, stepping into the pool house.
Dean scoffs as he examines all the tools on the wall. “Sounds like a great relationship.”
“Hey, guess what?”
He turns to me. “What?”
“Fuck off. Like, all the way off.”
He rolls his eyes.
But I’m not done. “And when you get all the way fucked, you should keep going.”
After a defeated sigh, he says, “We’re not getting anywhere with this.”
“No shit.”
“Maybe we should ask Esme if there’s any other work we can do for her?”
I agree, and regret it ten minutes later when Dean and I are crammed in Esme’s spare bedroom, going through Wesley’s old clothes and bagging them up. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask Esme, who’s standing at the doorway, her smile forced.
“It’s time,” she says, and then she’s gone.
Dean and I work in silence while I check my phone every few minutes, sometimes seconds. Holden doesn’t call back, doesn’t respond to my texts.
By the following day, I’ve stopped calling him. Stopped waiting for a response. And by Friday, the only thing that consumes my mind is fear. I do web searches for Eastwood Nursery, but nothing shows up besides an outdated website and a few articles about the company. I try to search for news on Mia, but I don’t even know her last name.
At the weekend, I skip going to the thrift store and go to Holden’s house instead. His truck is there, but apart from that, there are no signs of life.
I spend what free time I have during the weekend at Esme’s, helping her go through more of Wesley’s things to donate. I hold her hand and console her and tell her she’s taking a huge step and she should be proud. She cries on my shoulder, and I… I hold back my own.
Dean and I spend another Wednesday afternoon with Esme. We don’t do the yard work. We simply sit with her at her kitchen table and talk. Well, they do. I have nothing to say.
On the drive back to my place, Dean says, “Can I ask you a serious question without you telling me to get fucked or fuck off or threaten my life in any way?”
“Unlikely,” I respond, staring out the window.
He asks anyway, “How are things going with you and Holden?”
It’s the only question I’d feared he’d ask because the truth is what I tell him: “I don’t know.” I guess I thought we were something, but since I haven’t heard from him since he hopped on a plane to another state says otherwise. Holden means what he says, and he says what he means, and the fact that he hasn’t said anything means… everything.
“Is he good to you?” Dean asks.
I don’t know why he’s talking to me about this. Now. When all I want is to sit in silence.
“Does he treat you right?”
“Jesus, Dean.” I rest my head on the window, let the vibrations scatter my brain even more.
Dean won’t shut up. “Regardless of what you think of me, I care about you.”
“Good for you,” I mumble.
“And I want you to be happy.”
“Will you shut up.”
“Because you deserve it, Jamie. More than anyone.”
My eyes drift shut; my mind numb. “I know,” I tell him. Maybe not more than anyone, but I at least deserve a semblance of it. And I don’t know why I suddenly feel like it’s slipping through my fingers.
I spend every night working and drawing and pacing and wondering. And by Thursday, over a full week since Holden disappeared, my middle finger has a blister on the side of the first knuckle from constantly gripping a marker.
