***"If a leopard never changes its spots***
***How can I change what I've got?***
***Transform, transform, transform." -*** *Daniel Caesar*
***Alissa Blake***
The next day, I looked outside; the street was finally empty. I liked being alone, but most of the time, that feeling didn’t last long.
My mind had the terrible habit of filling those calm moments with memories I’d rather avoid. I glanced at the table and saw the empty plate of pasta that Holden had cooked.
The smell still lingered in the air, and I chuckled as I remembered him cooking. Clumsy with his 6'0" height in my small kitchen, but surprisingly talented. He was good at everything, and that was annoying.
I had been able to observe him up close, calmly, without the hostile hospital environment clouding my judgment. *Holden was hot—really hot.*
He had always been handsome, but now… God, he gave me thoughts I’d rather ignore.
His right arm was covered in tattoos, baggy black pants, and a gray fitted shirt made from a fabric that should be illegal just for the way it hugged his chest. How had that scrawny kid built this body? It was insane.
Holden could probably carry me with just one arm if he wanted to. Maybe that was a sign I should hit the gym and get some muscles.
*Not that I didn’t like the idea of thinking about him holding me in his arms… Okay, that’s my cue to think of something else.*
I sighed, letting my body fall onto the couch. Relief and anxiety were fighting inside me. Part of me felt lighter for finally telling Holden something, but the other part wanted to disappear.
Every time he looked at me with that gleam in his eyes, as if I were someone he needed to save, I felt Denver’s gaze haunting me, like a ghost that refused to leave. I shouldn’t be near Holden, and I felt stupid for not being able to make that clear to him.
He didn’t know the exact psychological game his father had played with me, the harsh words, and the disgusting looks. I remembered him in the car, that cold, calculated smile, every word like a needle that still seemed stuck in me. How had he managed to destroy me so quickly? Years later, I still carried that scene like an invisible scar, deeper than the marks on my body.
It was foolishness, and I knew Holden wouldn’t give up.
I stood up and started organizing the few things that were out of place in the apartment, trying to keep my hands busy. My eyes fell on the phone on the counter. Curiosity won over exhaustion, and I opened the accumulated messages in my inbox.
Reporters. Every question about Holden, every insinuation about the accident, only reinforced how much I wanted to disappear.
I deleted a few messages without opening them but hesitated when one caught my attention. It was from Greg, my mediocre ex-boyfriend. A simple “Can we talk?” followed by a sad emoji. I rolled my eyes, laughing without humor. Greg had made a mistake, one of those you make when you think you don’t deserve something better. I replied with a dry “No,” blocked the number and deleted the message.
I needed a job. I needed something that would give me a sense of control over my life, something that didn’t depend on Holden or anyone else. I grabbed my laptop and started looking for job openings. Every click felt like an impossible mission. The options were either mediocre jobs or awkward questions they shouldn’t be asking.
Hours later, exhausted and frustrated, I decided I wouldn’t find anything there. I decided to go old-school and hit the streets, looking for signs or notices that would give me something quick. I needed money yesterday, or I’d end up living on the street.
Finally, after walking a few blocks, I found an opening at a bar near downtown. The manager seemed more interested in filling the night shift than in knowing who I was. The place was even nice. All are decorated with a rustic wood vibe. I could already smell the craft beer and see the bearded men.
“Can you handle drunk people?” he asked, leaning on the counter. I held back a laugh when I saw he was exactly the stereotype I had imagined.
“I can handle annoying people. Does that count?” I replied, crossing my arms.
He laughed. “That works. Show up tomorrow at eight.”
Dealing with drunk guys would have to do for now. Better than putting up with a creepy manager with that ridiculous pompadour.
I left the bar with a strange feeling of victory. It wasn’t the dream job, but it was a start. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was taking control of myself, even if it was a small battle.
When I got back to the apartment, I looked once again at the table with the plate of pasta. “Maybe you’re right, Holden,” I muttered to myself, feeling an unexpected warmth.
And as if he had been watching me from afar, I received a message from him. I hadn’t saved his number, didn’t want to get attached to that idea. But I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw him in front of a table full of sweets in a dressing room.
“I’m going to steal some donuts, those brownies over there, and a bottle of that wine that’s abandoned at the end of the table. We’ll have a fun night, but I can’t take responsibility for the stomach ache that might come.” He sent. So confident that he didn’t even ask if I was available or interested.
He left me with a strange feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time, making me laugh when I remembered some stupid joke or his clumsy stumbles. What was happening to me?
I guess I spoiled him when we were younger, and I always gave in when he insisted on spending time with me like it was the best thing in the world.
I didn’t want to pretend this wouldn’t break me again. Who was I kidding? This wouldn’t end well, I could feel it.
But for the first time, I was conflicted. A part of me said to give up, make him go away, hurt him so he would give up. But another part thought, maybe I could feel something more. More than just the scars I carried.
And deep down, I wanted that more than anything. But my life had never been simple, and I knew it wouldn’t be now that things were starting to go right.