Holland

For the first time since I was reunited with Juliette, we are sleeping with the door unlocked. King is gone. We’ve been living under the same roof for a while now, and it feels weird to know he’s not here somewhere. If I weren’t so sure I hated him, I would think I missed him, but I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do . . . he’s making this more difficult than I thought was possible.

I hate the gifts he leaves for me. I honestly despise them. They feel like bribes or little pieces of manipulation. But I’m having more and more trouble ignoring the growing tenderness in my heart for him. He’s been very kind and loving and generous, and he’s respected every single demand I’ve made and every wish I’ve had. I even threw in some ridiculous things to see what he’d do like requesting lobster for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a week, or the time I told him Juliette and I were going to watch the midnight showing of the latest Disney movie.

He would raise his eyebrows and cock his neck back, but he never questioned me. It was always, “Alright, Holland.” “Whatever you think is best, Holland.” “If that’s what you want, Holland.” A couple of times I wanted him to put up a fight just to make it interesting, but I knew he wouldn’t do it. I could ask for the moon, and he would hire someone to figure out how to get it for me. He’s desperate, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

The longer I’m in Puerto Rico, the more evidence I find that he was telling the truth. He truly believed he was doing the right thing for me. He thought I was destined for greatness and that if he stood in my way, I would be devastated and resent him for it forever.

And as far as I can tell, he’s completely out of the drug business. I haven’t seen a contact or heard a business phone call for weeks, and Sebastián, his father—God, I still can’t believe that—swears he handed it all over to the Russians.

But still . . . three years . . . I can’t set aside the misery and heartache he put me through unnecessarily, even if he did think it was right. It’s like shoving a butcher knife through someone’s chest just to cut a tiny mole off of their back when they could have removed it with a scalpel by simply turning the person over—if it needed removing at all. A mole is an irregularity. It’s not necessary to remove it.

I never considered Juliette an irregularity or an obstacle to overcome. She was a part of me. He didn’t have to remove her from my life so that I could live. She was one of the things keeping me alive and he was the other. Without them, I was lost.

* * *

Someone is pounding on my door. I open my eyes and look at the clock on the bedside table. It’s six a.m. and our flight isn't until noon. We aren’t late. What the hell is going on?

I sit up and pad quietly so I don’t disturb Juliette, until it dawns on me that it’s not necessary—she can’t hear us.

“Holland,” Sebastián yells and bangs on the door some more. I open it and look down at where my hand is on the knob; he’s surprised it’s not locked. His eyes are wild and red-rimmed. He’s been crying. Alarms and whistles start going off in my head, and my heart plummets.

“There’s been an accident . . . a plane down . . . King could be . . .”

Oh my God. My hand flies to cover my mouth, and tears spring to my eyes . . . tears. I swore to never shed another tear over that man, but he might be . . . no, no, no, this isn’t happening. I lost him once. I can’t lose him again. I didn’t say goodbye last night. I told him I hated him . . .

Sebastián looks over my shoulder at Juliette. She’s still asleep.

“Come, we have to make some calls and find out what’s happening.”

I nod and reach for my robe from the chair next to the door and glance one more time at Juliette.

She may have lost her daddy. The thought rips me apart. She loves him so much—he’s her world—this would shatter her.

When the door is closed, Sebastián leads me to the main living room at the end of the hall, where the TV is on and a reporter is talking to a coastguard official about a plane that went down around midnight last night—the same time King’s jet was supposed to be flying to Houston.

I stop halfway into the room and stare at the screen, listening to them describe King’s plane.

There were no survivors. They don’t know what caused the crash—the weather was perfect, the sky was clear, and it just took a nosedive straight into the ocean.

Sebastián turns just in time to see me drop to my knees and lean back on my heels. I can’t feel. I’m numb. This isn’t like when I came home and couldn’t find Juliette and King. It’s worse. There’s no panic, no urgency, no question, because there isn’t anything anyone can do. He’s gone, he’s at the bottom of the ocean, and he’s never coming back. His plane crashed, and he died alone in the ocean without knowing that I love him. I’ve always loved him.

“Now Holland, we don’t know for sure, it might not have been his plane. He could be in Houston right now. We need to contact the authorities.”

Our eyes meet, and I can tell he’s grasping at straws, trying not to accept that his son is gone. It strikes me as ironic that he was only able to fully and openly love his son for the same amount of time that I was kept from loving my daughter.

He shakes his head back and forth.

“Don’t you give up on him, Holland. He’s not dead, he will not be dead. He’s my son, dammit! You may have stopped loving him, but I haven’t.”

“I never stopped.” I blink once, freeing two large, hot tears. Sebastián helps me up and over to the couch, where we sit together. I watch the news coverage that’s repeating over and over that the one man I ever loved might be dead. Sebastián is on his phone for what seems like forever. I haven’t heard a word he’s said. I started tuning out sound a while ago when I couldn’t stand to hear the story repeated one more time. When he hangs up, he takes my hand in both of his. I’m still numb. I can hardly feel his fingers on mine. When I look over and see his ashen face, I know.

“It was his plane,” he says.

Those four words strung together in that specific order at this specific moment destroy me.

Part of me knew he was gone already, but the confirmation of his death brings the shock rushing back a thousand fold.

“I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know . . .” I whisper as Sebastián’s arms circle my shoulders.

“I know, but he believed you did, he never gave up, he swore he would spend the rest of his life trying to make it right between you two, and he did, he’s gone, he died trying.” His sobs break free, he cries against my neck, and I sit there with my arms at my sides, staring through the French doors at the ocean lapping against the shore, the same ocean that claimed King and his plane.

I didn’t think I loved him. I thought I despised him, but now that we will never have a chance to make amends, I realize how blind I’ve been.

* * *

I haven’t seen Juliette all day. I’ve been curled up on my side in King’s bed doing the same thing I did when he and Juliette disappeared. I’m breathing the scent of him into my lungs, where I wish I could keep it locked up forever.

How do you tell a three-year-old her daddy is dead? I haven’t even learned how to sign the word ‘dead’ yet. I should be comforting Sebastián. He just lost his son, but he had to go pick up his wife somewhere. I didn’t even know he was married. He never mentioned her.

Sebastián sent Juliette to play at the neighbor’s house with their little girl. They have been friends with King for years, and the girls have grown up together. It’s strange not being with her. I have literally not let her out of my sight for a month, but there’s nothing to worry about now. There’s no one to take her from me, because King is gone.

I’m glad she enjoying one last afternoon of carefree fun, believing that her daddy is in Houston preparing a surprise for her. I wish the afternoon could last forever so she never has to know this pain.

I open my eyes when I hear a rustling on the balcony outside of King’s room. When I look, it’s a big ol’ seagull flapping its wings before settling on a post that supports the balcony. Stupid bird. King hates it when they hang around pooping on the patios. I jump out of bed and shoo the stupid fucking bird off the patio.

When I turn to go back into the house, I notice a series of leather-bound books stacked on his desk. They don’t look like books that you read for pleasure, but they aren’t business binders either. Something about them draws me to the desk. I sit in his huge leather office chair and slide one of them off the top of the stack and flip it open.

May 23^rd Today Juliette smiled and I swear it wasn’t gas. Her smile is the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen with the exception of yours, Holland. She misses you, though I know she’s only two months old, but I swear she looks for you. Her first word will be mama. I swear it. Even though you’re not here, she will know you, my love. When you’ve fulfilled your dreams of becoming a famous musician, we will come home and she will call you Mama. I promise, she will be able to pick you out of a crowd of thousands. She will know you. She will know who her mama is.

We have the diaper-changing thing down pat now. I can finally get her changed without making a colossal mess. You would be proud. I showed her your picture three times today, and I played her a track of you practicing. She doesn’t respond to the music yet, but she’s young. She’ll learn. No one can resist your talent, Holland. You’re going to be a star.

I can’t see to read anymore. My eyes are so full of tears, but I flip through the pages of the book and see that he wrote something every single day. I grab the next book on the stack and wipe my nose with the back of my hand before I flip it open and find more entries, hundreds of them, and at the end of each day's narration, there is a letter that begins,

My dearest Holland, “I do love nothing in the world so much as you.” –William Shakespeare

Shakespeare, he quoted Shakespeare. I turn the page, and there is another letter after the daily rundown that begins similarly.

My dearest Holland, “Pride can stand a thousand trials, the strong will never fall, but watching the stars without you my soul cries.” –William Shakespeare

I slam the book closed and push away from the desk until the chair hits the wall and I scream. I grip the arms of the chair and scream for the loss of a man who I spent years wishing were dead, only to mourn gravely when he is.

The door to King’s room swings open. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around my legs, and bury my face.

“Go away. Leave,” I yell. No one can console me now. I just need to be alone. Whoever it is ignores my pleas and approaches. I pull my legs closer and squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see sparkles.

“Holland? Baby, open your eyes.”

Oh God, I’m really losing my shit now. That sounded exactly like King. Can a person hallucinate voices?

I keep my head down until I feel a hand gather my hair and move it to the side and a kiss on the back of my neck.

All the air is sucked out of the room, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m dizzy, and I don’t even have my eyes open. It can’t be, he’s gone. It was his plane, that’s what Sebastián said, I’m sure of it. It was his plane. I’ll never forget those four words.

“Sweetheart, look at me, it’s okay, I wasn’t on the plane.”

I tell my muscles to let go, I order them to relax, but they won’t listen.

When his big, warm hands are on both sides of my head, lifting my face to his, I know it’s all a mistake, a terrible, awful, horrible mistake. He’s alive, and he’s here right in front of me, breathing and . . . living.

I launch myself out of the chair and into his arms, wrapping my arms and legs around his body, clinging to him, because this time, God answered my prayer. This time he listened, this time he brought my King back to me. He sewed the last few stitches of the mortal gaping wound in my heart shut with this miracle.

“I love you, King. God, I love you,” I say, kissing his neck.

“I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say those words again.” His voice cracks, and I pull away just enough to cover his mouth with mine. Our kiss is desperate and so very long overdue. I can’t put my hands every place I want them to be fast enough.

“I never stopped loving you, Holland,” he says between kisses, but I don’t want to hear him talk right now. I want to show him how I’m feeling instead.

“Shush, take me to bed.”

“Something else I never thought I’d hear again.”

“Prepare to hear that often.”

“Pinky swear?” he says, walking me to the bed, where he lays me down and holds out his pinky finger.

“Pinky swear.” We link our fingers together and shake on it.

“You love me again.” He smiles like a kid in a candy store with an American Express card.

“I do.”

Standing at the end of the bed, King reaches behind his head and pulls his t-shirt off with one hand and drops it to the floor. I tremble at the sight of the body that I know so well, the one I’ve been missing for years, the one I thought I had just lost forever.

“Wait,” I say, sitting up and placing a kiss on his chiseled abs.

“Wait? What do you have in mind here, baby?”

“Nothing, just wanted to see if you could do it.” I smile up at him, and he tackles me, dragging me up the bed to punish me for teasing him.

“That’s the last time that trick’s going to work, you know? You’re gonna get it now, baby,” he says, stripping my clothes off.

“That’s what I’m counting on.”