Chapter Seven - Hollis
853 Words
Thanksgiving at my family’s house has never been subtle.
There’s too much food, too many voices, and a long-standing belief that privacy is a myth invented by people who don’t love each other enough. The house smells like roasted turkey and nutmeg and something sweet bubbling on the stove that no one can quite identify.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, coat still on, bracing.
“Hollis!” my mother calls from the kitchen. “You’re late.”
“I’m exactly on time,” I call back, slipping my shoes off. “The clock is wrong.”
She hums, unconvinced, and keeps stirring.
Griffin’s voice floats in from the living room, already deep in conversation with our uncle about defensive pairings and power-play percentages. Hockey talk. Always hockey talk.
I follow the noise, spotting my brother sprawled on the couch like he owns the place—which, given the way he’s always been treated here, he kind of does.
He looks up when he sees me, expression softening. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He pulls me into a quick hug, squeezing just enough to remind me he still thinks of me as someone to protect.
“Good event today,” he says quietly. “Mom saw the photos online.”
I smile. “She would.”
“She said you looked happy.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“Did she,” I say lightly.
Griffin studies me for a beat, then lets it go. “Dinner’s in twenty.”
I nod and head toward the kitchen to help—because helping means I have something to do with my hands.
I’m setting rolls on a tray when my aunt leans in conspiratorially. “So,” she says, “anyone special I should know about?”
I laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“That’s what you said last year,” she replies. “And the year before that.”
“And yet,” I say, “still true.”
She clicks her tongue. “Such a shame. You always liked hockey players.”
I stiffen. “I liked hockey.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I carry the tray out before she can say anything else.
Rowan Beckett is not here.
Rowan Beckett will never be here.
Rowan Beckett is a terrible idea.
I repeat it like a mantra.
Dinner is loud and crowded, everyone talking over one another as plates are passed and glasses filled. I sit between my mother and Griffin, answering questions about work, nodding along to stories I’ve heard a dozen times before.
Halfway through the meal, Griffin says, casually, “Beckett volunteered for the hospital visit.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.
“Oh?” I say.
“Yeah,” he continues, watching me too closely. “Apparently he’s feeling charitable.”
“Must be the season,” my uncle says.
Griffin hums. “Maybe.”
I take a sip of wine, keeping my expression neutral. “He’s good with kids.”
Griffin’s brow lifts. “You’d know?”
I meet his gaze steadily. “He was today.”
Something unreadable passes over his face.
My mother changes the subject by asking if anyone wants more potatoes. I let the tension ease, forcing myself to relax.
This is fine.
This is normal.
This is what boundaries look like.
Later, when dessert is served and everyone’s settled into that warm, drowsy lull that comes from too much food and too little restraint, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I glance down before I can stop myself.
Rowan:
Surviving?
My breath catches.
I don’t reply immediately. I shouldn’t reply at all.
Instead, I stand and slip out onto the back porch, the cold night air a sharp contrast against the warmth clinging to my skin.
I type before I can think better of it.
Hollis:
Barely. You?
A pause.
Then:
Rowan:
Same. Family chaos hits different.
I smile despite myself.
Hollis:
You don’t even celebrate Thanksgiving.
Rowan:
Doesn’t stop my mom from interrogating me like it’s a competitive sport.
I lean against the railing, breath fogging the air.
Hollis:
About what?
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Rowan:
Why I’m smiling more lately.
My heart stutters.
I type. Delete. Type again.
Hollis:
And what did you tell her?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Rowan:
That it’s nothing.
The word settles heavy between us.
I stare at my phone, chest tight, knowing exactly what he means.
Nothing.
Friends.
Safe.
Hollis:
Good answer.
It’s a lie.
I pocket my phone and head back inside, laughter and warmth closing in around me again. Griffin glances up as I sit back down, eyes sharp.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Just cold.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods.
But as the evening winds down and I say my goodbyes, one truth hums beneath everything else:
Rowan Beckett is not part of my family table.
But he’s already threaded into the quiet spaces between my thoughts.
And if this is what nothing feels like—
I’m in more trouble than I thought.
- Writer
