Megan Hart - Hold Me Close

Mitchell’s dating profile had been witty, charming, detailed. He was seven years older than Effie. Divorced with no children, though he spoke warmly of nieces and nephews. He didn’t smoke or do drugs or even drink to excess, or if he did, he was both lying about it and very good at hiding any evidence of it.

“He’s probably not a serial killer,” Effie said. Her mother didn’t laugh. “I get it, Mom. Okay? I get it. You worry.”

When her mother didn’t reply, Effie took a step forward to hug her. Her mom didn’t yield at first but softened after a few seconds and rubbed Effie’s back. Her mother sighed.

“I worry about you, Effie. I’m your mother. It’s what I do.”

And had always done. Effie understood it, perhaps more so now that she had a daughter of her own. She squeezed harder, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry detergent and, fainter beneath, a hint of Wind Song. Her mom had grown thin herself, the ridges of her shoulder blades hard under Effie’s palms.

For a moment, Effie thought about canceling her date with Mitchell. She could stay here, hang out with Mom and Polly. They could watch a movie together, something funny. Her mother had kept Effie’s old room pristine, exactly as it had been the day Effie left this house for good. A shrine to her mother’s inability to let things go.

Effie could let go, though, and she did, putting some distance between them. “I’ll pick her up after school tomorrow. I already sent a note to the school that she’ll take the bus here.”

Mom nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

There was more to be said, but Effie didn’t say it. It wouldn’t change anything that had happened, and it wouldn’t make a difference in anything going forward. Nothing would.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said and left her mom behind.

chapter five

“When do you think she’ll get up?” Heath paces beside Effie’s bed.

With a sigh, she tosses back the covers so he can get in beside her. It’s cold in their apartment and too early to turn up the heat. “She’s three. She’ll be up when it’s light out, and then it’ll be nonstop for the rest of the day, so I’d get another hour of sleep, if I were you.”

Christmas. As a kid, Effie had woken before dawn to creep downstairs and peek at what Santa had left beneath the tree, but although Polly’s excited about presents, she hasn’t quite grasped the concept of getting up before the sun rises to open them. There isn’t much under the tree for her anyway—going to school means only part-time work for Effie, and there are a lot of bills to pay before she can afford to spend too much on junky toys that will be broken within a day or two. There will be more gifts at Effie’s mother’s house later in the day, probably too many, and Polly will be overwhelmed with it all, but there’s no telling Mom not to spoil her only grandchild.

“I can’t sleep.” Heath sighs and flops onto his back, taking up too much room in Effie’s double bed.

She shoves him onto his side with another sigh and curls against his back to make it easier for them to share the space. It’s warmer, too. Her feet are icy, so she tucks them between his calves. His yelp of protest makes her giggle. In seconds, he’s turning to face her, tickling until they’re both breathing too hard.

That isn’t all that’s too hard. The press of his erection on her thigh is too familiar to deny. And it’s Christmas, Effie thinks when they move together, when he kisses her, when he slides inside her. How could she say no to him at Christmas?

Because the “no” is on its way, and she feels it every time he tries to hold her hand. A few days ago, Effie got some mail addressed to “Mrs. Heath Shaw” despite never having signed up for anything, ever, using anything close to his last name. They’ve been living together in this apartment for nearly four years, and what had been meant as a temporary solution has started to feel far too permanent. Still, it’s Christmas Day, and she lets the pleasure overtake her because it’s too hard to resist him even without the shiny lights and promise of something special under the tree.

Heath slides a hand between them to stroke her in time to his thrusts. He’s close, she can tell, but he’s holding back to make sure she gets off first. It’s perfect. She can’t stop it. Heath’s touch is magic, it’s fire, it’s fireworks and jingle bells. She comes with a low cry into his kiss, and Heath laughs, so pleased to have done that for her that he joins her in the moment after.

They sprawl in silence for a few minutes. She times the spacing of her breathing to his. Their hands are linked. He’s falling asleep, but Effie is wide-awake.

It would be so easy to stay here with him and Polly in this tiny, bordering-on-decrepit apartment. Easy to keep struggling through school and work and raise this child with him. But what would not be easy is this, the linking of their fingers and the sound of his breathing next to her in bed. Love is not easy, Effie thinks as she pushes up on her elbow to look at Heath’s face in the faintly brightening light coming in through the window. She keeps herself from tracing the lines of his face with her fingertip, because she doesn’t want him to wake.

She loves him. She will probably never love anyone else, not like this. But how would she ever know if she could, if she doesn’t try? If this is all they have because it’s all they believe they can ever have, how is that good for either one of them? To never have even the illusion of a choice?

Down the hall comes the pitter-patter of little feet. Polly is awake. Effie shakes Heath and slips out of bed to pull on her robe as the faint squeals of joy come from the living room. Together, Effie and Heath follow the delighted laughter. Polly dances in the multicolored glow from the tree they left lit all night for just this reason.

“Santa!” Polly cries, clapping tiny hands. “Santa was here!”

“I’ll make coffee.” Heath kisses Effie on the cheek and squeezes her for a second.

“Wait. Hold me close,” she murmurs when he moves away. She pulls him back for a longer embrace as they watch Polly shaking each package. She hasn’t yet figured out she’s allowed to tear into them. Effie squeezes Heath, her cheek pressed to his chest.

This could all be so easy, if only it weren’t always so hard.

The phone rings. Her mother, frantic and desperate, incoherent. Heath holds out the phone and Effie takes it, alarmed, until she can get her mother to slow down long enough to speak.

“Your father is dead,” her mother says. “I need you to come to the hospital.”

Dead? That cannot be. Her father is always there, has always been. Her father can’t be gone. What will Effie do, if this is true?

What she does is go to the hospital, leaving Heath to stay with Polly so Effie can help her mother take care of everything that needs to be taken care of. Phone calls. Arrangements. She stays for two days at her mother’s house in the bed that had been hers for as long as she can remember, listening to the low, keening sounds of grief filtering to her from down the hall and finding herself incapable of going into her mother’s room to offer her any comfort.

On the third day, Effie finds her mother sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of cold coffee in front of her and a grim look. She has a sheaf of papers. She pushes them toward Effie.

“There’s money. Your dad’s insurance policy. There’s enough here for you to move out of that apartment. Get yourself a place. Unless you want to move back with me...” At the look on Effie’s face, her mother laughs harshly. “Of course not. Of course you don’t.”

Effie looks at the numbers on the papers. It’s like swallowing an icicle, this sudden realization that she does have a choice. With this amount of money, she’ll be able to buy a house. Support herself and Polly while she tries to make a go of her artwork. This money is freedom, and Effie knows she’s going to take it. She has to.