Page 39 of Holden

My reflection tells me everything I need to know about how I’m dealing with losing Holden. Dark circles around my eyes, raw from crying myself to sleep, give the impression I’m wearing a mask, which is ironic since my identity has finally been revealed.

I splash cool water against my skin and lift my chin to stare at myself, searching for something behind the emptiness written all over my face. What the hell am I going to do?

A knock on the bathroom door startles me.

“Hey, you’re not the only one that has some place to be,” Lindsay calls out, knocking again, this time with enough force to rattle the vanity. My reflection shimmers, shaking loose another tear. Damn it. “Come on, Chelsea, I’ve gotta pee.”

Taking a deep breath, I swing open the door.

Lindsay takes one look at me and freezes. “Whoa.” I try to push past her, but she grabs my wrist and holds on. “Girl, you look rough. Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got class.”

Her eyebrow lifts with skepticism. “Exams are over.”

Everything is over, but I resist the urge to be melodramatic. I’m not sure someone who has fucked a football roster worth of men since the start of this semester can appreciate how broken I am over losing Holden. Except it’s not just that he’s gone, it’s that I didn’t do anything to prevent it. I could have. If I hadn’t been such a coward.

“I’m meeting with my professor,” I explain.

It’s not a lie. I plan on seeing everyone at the school to tell them who I am, why I lied about my identity, and hopefully, beg for forgiveness for my betrayal. An apology might not be what Holden wants, but I need to do something to make this right.

It occurs to me now that Lindsay is part of that plan.

I swallow the lump of emotion pooled at the base of my throat. “Go pee, and then I’ll talk.” Meeting with college administration can wait.

Lindsay nods, though I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t trust I’ll stick around. My guilt intensifies. She doesn’t even realize yet that she has no reason to trust me, and her suspicions are already piqued. Fucking hell. I’m so not looking forward to this day.

While she’s in the bathroom, I glance at my cell for what seems like the millionth time. Holden hasn’t texted or called. I’m not surprised, but a part of me—what’s left of my heart—wishes he’d give me a chance to explain. To help him understand why I had to lie.

Who am I kidding?

Lying isn’t justification for what I’ve done. And thinking Holden will forgive me is just extending the fantasy that got me into this mess in the first place. How could I ever believe a man like Holden Quinn could find anything worthwhile about me? The real me.

Lindsay flops down on the sofa next to me, and covers my hand with hers. “Is it Holden?”

The tears begin to flow. As I nod, she pulls me close, and nuzzles her head in my hair. It’s the most comforting Lindsay has ever been with me, which makes me feel worse for what I’m about to confess. I allow myself a few minutes of crying before writhing out of her embrace. I shift on the sofa so that we’re facing.

Her expression turns to immediate sympathy, intensifying the guilt.

“I knew he was an asshole,” she says, her voice hardening. “I thought, maybe, he might be different but…”

“He is different.” I can’t handle the thought of her bashing him, not when this whole mess is my doing. “It’s not his fault. I wasn’t honest with him…” I lick my lips, gathering courage. “And I haven’t been honest with you.”

Her muscles tense. She pulls her lips together into a firm line. “What do you mean.”

“I’m not who you think I am.” At her blank stare, I continue. “My name isn’t Chelsea Faber, it’s Chelsea Moorehouse.” Calmly, I describe the school shooting, my father’s role, the reason I have been on the run for more than a decade, and why I lied to everyone—including her.

Lindsay is quiet for so long I worry she’s secretly plotting my murder. Finally, she reaches out to touch me, cupping her palm over my hand with a tenderness that is my undoing. Fresh tears form and I blink to try and stop them from falling. There’s no point. I’m a fucking wreck.

“Oh sweetie,” she says, and then blows out a breath. “You poor thing.”

I don’t want her sympathy, but it feels so nice not to be on the immediate defense that I don’t stop her soothing words.

“You’ve been through so much, and now this…” Her voice trails off. “I don’t blame you for lying.” I open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “Not even to me. I know what it’s like not to be proud of your roots. Have I told you about my mother?”

I shake my head. It dawns on me that despite how close we may appear on the surface, Lindsay and I haven’t shared much of our childhood. We haven’t dug into each other’s lives. That’s my default, always. I can’t stomach the thought of someone judging me based on my father’s actions.

But as Lindsay outlines her dysfunctional relationship with her mother—harkening back to a life of petty crime—I realize I’m not the only one in this room running from the past. But no more.