Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(57)

Something wild and untamed unleashed itself inside her, and horrible words rolled up from the part of her gut that wanted to kick him in the balls. But instead of screaming like she should, like she wanted to, the words slipped out in a barely there whisper: “I hate you.” Holly started to cry, unable to breathe. She shook her head no as if disagreeing with the very words she was saying as they came out. The tears. Wouldn’t stop. And her chest. Her chest ached. She said it again: “I hate you.”

She’d never said anything like that to Jack. Ever. She felt

sad

about

those

words.

She felt like a series of lowercase letters on a piece of loose-leaf paper, all lined up to spell woebegone, but in one brief second, one fleeting moment, a pencil eraser dragged a line through her, and her lowercase letters became less than, and they fell, toppling one by one, off the thin blue line to dangle a bit, and then finally, the little bits of letters—the w, the o, the e—teetered. Got brushed off the page, leaving the space behind white, but with sad blue lines, empty lines. Lines running forward and backward with no place to go. No start. No finish. Woe, be gone.

Holly didn’t curse. At least, she tried not to. There were things she wouldn’t say, things she said instead. Silly replacement words like fluck and mutha frucka and bullspit. Those words didn’t hurt. They didn’t insult or inflict pain. At worst, they made her look strange for using them. But the words she just said to Jack—those were words she had never said. Never spoken, even in anger. Until now.

Hate was the most deplorable word in the English language. It was worse than a tiny four-letter word. It was worse than all the curse words combined. Something burned Holly’s face—a heat she felt on her skin. A sad-from-the-eyes-and-shoulders-and-back feeling she felt as her chin quivered and the tears rolled, and Holly grew small inside and shriveled up. Like a crumpled piece of paper, or a baby bird that fell from the nest and landed twisted below, or a knot that was knotted up and tucked inside. Her stomach hurt. She was a little girl again. Only, she was Ella. And it was Ella’s first day of kindergarten, but it was Holly’s first day, too—because Holly’s parents had done this. Holly’s parents had fought in the kitchen, and the words they said were never erased. They stayed on the page. Holly was probably in her family room at the time. Coloring or playing house with her dolls like Ella was now. Something. But Holly was there. Listening. She was sure she was listening. Her parents’ words were inside her. She swallowed them. They became her bones.

Holly felt more words roll up from deep inside. Still a whisper, but different this time. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said to Jack, but really, Holly was talking to herself. I’m sorry you feel that way, she said to the little girl inside her—the little girl stuck in kindergarten. Stuck in that place. In that time. I’m sorry you feel that way. Because you were five. You should have been playing. Carefree. Not pensive because someone smashed your “woe be gone” like a marshmallow or a bug. You should have danced. Been silly. Your portal should have been vibrant and happy, like a fistful of crayons labeled parakeet blue, pink rocket pop, marmalade, and limoncello yellow. Not gray. Not rocky slope. The walls of your portal shouldn’t have been seaweed or shadow flint. You deserved happy. You deserved cloud-like, puffy and cotton. I’m sorry it was arcus clouds and ominous chaos, the fear you might suffocate beneath dark skies looming above, pressing down. You never had a chance. You were small and fragile. Soft cheeks. Hopeful eyes that looked up. Inside, it was always small child and fragile. That feeling Holly had? That burden she carried? Its name was Angst: an arcus cloud from a long-ago sky.

Holly shook those thoughts away. This wasn’t about her childhood—was it? This was about her marriage. Real problems in real life. Today, now.

Holly left the kitchen, left the hurt look on Jack’s face. She rushed past the family room and toward the front door. Ella looked up from the combing of Pinkie Pie’s mane. “Mom?” Ella called out to Holly. “Why are you running?” Like living in an echo chamber. Mom? Why are you running? Ella’s words, they hung in the air.

“Going out for school supplies, Ella Bella!” Holly tried to sound chipper. Tried speaking above a flood of memories. “I’ll be home soon!”

Beyond her front door, Holly heard the sound of a distant lawn mower—but it wasn’t her dad’s mower. Because Holly’s dad had moved away, become two weeks in the summer and every other Christmas. What would Jack become? Wednesday nights? Every other weekend? I’m sorry, Ella. Echo chamber. Portal. I’m sorry. The sound of the lawn mower—everything. Everything reverberated in her ears. Tzzzzzzt!

She was just about to leave their porch when she heard, “Hollywait.” It came out like that. One word: Hollywait. With it, Holly felt Jack step onto their front porch, joining her in the place Holly once found so welcoming. That porch. That place. Now? Space. Once destination. Once arrival. Now? Departure. A porch of inhospitable. A porch of “not now” and “go away.” A porch of “confront the problems in your marriage.” Don’t hide behind the little girl you once were. Become the woman you are.

“I’m done,” she told him, stopping at the top of the porch steps. “I have to get Ella’s school supplies.” She didn’t want to cry. Maybe she hadn’t seen anything—it was lunch. A number one single, no cheese. Nothing more. She didn’t see anything. She didn’t. There were no onions. Jack never ate onions.