Dear Life(55)

“Okay,” she says weakly.

“I promise you, June. Hope is your daughter.”

A heaviness weighs between us, both our hearts cracking at the seams as we exchange goodbyes, me promising to call them in the next few days when I have an update.

Deflated and completely spent, I toss my phone on the couch, lean against the wall of my living room, and slide down until my ass hits the floor. I grip my head, and a myriad of thoughts rush to the forefront of my mind.

I gave June and Alex hope, hope for the future of being a family of three. How could Rebecca believe it’s okay to rip that away from them? So damn selfish. First she capitulated her role as a mother to that beautiful baby, and now she wants to tear her from her home? What the hell?

Support. I need Hollyn. I lift my head to look for her but I don’t have to search long, because in seconds, she’s by my side, her arms encasing me, her head pressed against mine, and her mouth right next to my ear, telling me it’s going to be okay.

But what if it’s not going to be okay? That’s a reality I can’t even begin to fathom because that would mean my faith in humanity is shot, my faith in God is destroyed, and my faith in all things good nonexistent.

Because what kind of fucked-up world would it be if June and Alex lose their baby?

One world I don’t want to stick around to be in, that’s for damn sure.





HOLLYN


Helpless.

That’s how I feel.

Completely and utterly helpless. There is nothing I can do or say to take away that tortured look on Jace’s face.

She wants the baby back? What kind of woman would do that to another human being? I don’t know much about the situation, or much about June and Alex, but what I do know is that they’ve had that little girl for about a month now and they’ve bonded, they’ve created a family, a loving home for three. Surely Rebecca can’t just come in and rip that all apart.

Just the thought of it makes me want to find the woman and kick her right in the lady taint.

“Fuck. FUCK!” Jace screams, rising from his seat on the floor.

I want to calm him down, I want to put ease in his heart, but I don’t know how. I want to make everything better, but that seems impossible. I want to wash away his pain . . .

Alcohol.

Spying the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table, I stand to my slightly unsteady feet and hurry to the bottle. I turn to Jace and I hold it out to him. “Drink,” I say. “Drink to forget.” Drinking isn’t how you solve problems, but it’s the only thing I can come up with right now.

“Hollyn.” His voice is pained, so I shove the bottle into his hand.

“Drink, Jace.”

His eyes move from the amber liquid to me, as he slowly stands, contemplating his next move. His grip tightens around the neck of the bottle, his jaw strongly set with his decision as he brings the drink to his lips. I watch in fascination, his throat moving with each long, drawn-out swallow.

Pulling away, wincing from the burn, he holds the bottle to me and nods at it. “Drink.”

There is no hesitation where I’m concerned. I bring the bottle to my lips and sip as best as I can. I don’t gulp it down like Jace did, but I drink enough to leave a chasing burn down my throat.

When I’m done with the bottle, I still hold on to it but keep it at my side. Awkwardly, Jace and I stare at each other, the air in the room starting to grow thick with anger, with hurt, with something palpable I can’t place my finger on.

Each passing second adds to the coiling tension between us. The alcohol doesn’t take long to heat my body. Adding to the preexisting shots already consumed, and the devastated expression in his eyes, I begin closing the distance between us.

Step by step, I wonder what I’m doing. I’m chastising my body for even considering comforting him in my arms, but that doesn’t stop me. With the bottle of Jack Daniels at my side, I press the palm of my hand against his chest, stepping up in front of him. His heart is hammering against my palm, his eyes a window to his broken soul, breaking me as well.

“Hollyn,” he says with a strangled sigh.

Bringing the bottle back to my lips, I take one more swig and then offer it to him. He mimics my consumption and then drops the bottle to the floor, the clatter of the glass against the hardwood the only sound in the apartment.

My hands betray me as they lift to cup his strong, chiseled jaw. The light blond scruff decorating his face feels rough under my touch, but familiar. His blue eyes, although tortured, are quite beautiful with waves of cerulean running through them. He’s tall, built, but not intimidating, more inviting with the way his hands grip my hips, his fingers pressing into my clothed skin, holding on for dear life.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say, not even sure that it’s true.

“This is so fucked up.” A lonesome tear cascades down his cheek. “I can’t fucking do this. It’s too much, Hollyn. It’s all too much.”

“You can do this,” I say, leaning in some more, gripping his cheeks tightly so he’s forced to look me in the eyes. “You’re strong, Jace.”

He shakes his head. “Not as strong as I need to be.”

“You’re strong to me.” My thumbs caress his skin, my toes lifting me up closer to him, the walls closing in around us, lifting the tension to an all-time high.