Author's note:
Soo.. it seems like writing from Holly's perspective makes it easy for me to produce a lot of words. Not very surprising, I guess. So yeah, this got a bit long maybe..
Anyway, off we go.
Chapter 8
[Gail: There's an elephant in the room, and McNally and Nick are being nasty.]
Despite the many odd topics you and Gail have texted back and forth about over the last few weeks, this is by far the strangest text she's sent you, and not only because it's completely unrelated to the preceding topic of how stupid it is to bring people flowers that will wilt in a few days. (An opinion you both shared, which, for the record, didn't make the topic uninteresting. Gail has a lot to say about things she doesn't like or understand.)
[Lunchbox: What does an elephant have to do with Nick and McNally? And is the elephant a physical presence or is it a metaphor? Should I worry?]
You stare at the three moving dots, waiting for her reply.
[Gail: Yes.]
Great, she's being cryptical. You have a feeling that you will end up creating a short novel if you reply to her short message by text, so you hit the phone-button next to her number instead. For replying to your text so quickly, it sure takes her a long time to pick up the phone. Long enough for you to start fretting about whether you're calling at a bad time.
"Holly, we're friends, right?" she asks instead of a more traditional greeting.
"Yeah, I'd say so," you say, more than a little confused.
"Did you know that I'm not left handed?"
You actually have to think about that for a few seconds, rewinding to the time spent at the diner after your trip to the batting cages, and the thai place you went to for lunch a few days back. Her glass had been placed on her right side both times, and you're pretty sure you've seen her handle both phones and pens with her right hand.
"Now that you say it, I think I've gotten the impression that you're not."
"Exactly! And let me tell you, this stupid phone does not work well with my left hand," she says, sounding unsurprisingly annoyed at the fact.
"Right.. but why are you using your left hand then?"
She doesn't have a chance to answer before your brain kicks into another gear, the worrying one.
"Are you injured?! What happened? Are you alright?"
"Yeah, no, well there was this grow-op, and I got chemicals on my wrist and McNally took me to the hospital and I'm fine. But now there's an elephant in the room and they won't let me leave 'cause the painkillers makes everything a bit fuzzy. Can you please come and get me?"
As soon as she mentions the painkillers the dazed tone of her voice makes perfect sense. The elephant, however, does not, but you decide that part of the conversation can wait until later. And since she asked (uncharacteristically nice) if you could come and get her, you decide right away that you will.
"Alright, I'll come pick you up. What hospital are you at?"
You don't ask her about the conversation with the officer you assume was McNally right away. Not when she's paler than usual, disoriented from the oxy and looks terribly exhausted. You simply walk out to your car and open the passenger door for her. A sting of expletives follow as she struggles with the seatbelt, but just as you're about to ask if she needs help it clicks into place.
"Is your flatmate home?" you ask as you drive out from the parking lot.
"No, night shift," Gail mumbles, her head resting against the car door.
"Okay, well.. the nurses said you should preferably not be alone until the oxy has worn off.."
You hesitate a little before you ask her, you've only known each other for a short while and you know she's a very private person which in a weird way makes your upcoming question feel kind of intrusive. In a backwards way.
"..are you okay with staying at my place tonight? Or I could drive you someplace else, if you want. Parents? Friends?"
She doesn't answer right away, just groans loudly at the mention of parents. You're not too surprised, the surname Peck has popped up in various work-related conversations for as long as you've been in Toronto and from what you've heard, Superintendent Peck is not the person you go to for comfort when your wrist is burning and your mind is addled with drugs.
"Was that a no? Yes?"
In the corner of your eye you see that she turns to look at you, but you keep your eyes on the traffic.
"A no. To the parents. I'd rather hang out at your place, Lunchbox," she mutters before resting her head against the car door again. The dark tone of her voice does nothing to ease the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach, even though you're fairly sure that it was brought on by the mention of her parents rather than the thought of hanging out with you for an extended amount of time.
Two hours later and you still haven't figured out what the elephant had to do with anything. What you do know is that it took a great deal of self control not to wrap Gail up in a big hug when she, after a cup of tea and a sandwich, told you about her talk with McNally. Her determination to not let the tears in her eyes start falling was nearly tangible, as was the hurt in her voice. All you wanted to to was to curl up against her and whisper soothing words, but you stayed put on the other end of your couch, fearing that holding her might be a fatal overstep of invisible boundaries, especially considering how fragile she is right now.
When she starts dozing off you head upstairs to grab some clothes for her to sleep in. Luckily, you bought a new pack of toothbrushes last time you went grocery shopping, and you can't help but picking the bright pink one, only because you're quite sure that Gail will have a lot of angry opinions about that specific color.
"Hey, Gail? Here's pyjamas and a toothbrush. The bathroom is upstairs to the left and the blue towel on the rack is clean."
She mumbles something inaudible and rubs her eyes before stumbling up the stairs. She must've nodded off while you were upstairs, the way she moves resembles a newly awakened zombie, but way prettier. As soon as you've finished that thought you curse inwardly and head over to the kitchen to put away the dishes just to take your mind off certain things.
Gail exits the bathroom right as you walk up the stairs. Your sweatpants are a little long on her, but seeing her in your clothes has your heart beating a mile a minute. Whatever you was going to tell her gets abruptly erased from your brain.
"Star Wars is so cool," she says thoughtfully, giving the t-shirt she's borrowed an affectionate look.
"But we have to talk about the color of the toothbrush, Lunchbox. Pink. Atrocious," she huffs with an offended frown.
When you don't answer right away she stares at you, curiously, until your brain catches up with reality. You push your glasses up your nose and blink at her, not quite capable of putting together a sentence.
"Huh? Right. Yeah. Umm, the bedroom is in here.." you gesture to the half-open door to the right "..and, eh, I'm just gonna grab a few things and then I'll.. go sleep on the couch," you finish lamely.
"Holls, don't be silly, I'm not gonna kick you out of your own bed. But I might steal your covers. What side do you sleep on?" Gail asks.
"Umm, the middle.." you say timidly, and she just chuckles in response before stretching out on the right side of the bed.
"Oh, right. I'm just gonna.." your voice trails of and you gesture vaguely towards the t-shirt and sweatpants hanging off a chair and then at the bathroom door.
"Mmmh," Gail mumbles while wiggling around and making herself comfortable.
The cold water splashing onto your face really only highlights the fact that your cheeks are burning.
This is so not good, in fact it's a disaster. A random workplace accident later and now Gail is in your home, in your bed, looking devastatingly good in your ratty old Return of The Jedi t-shirt. Plus, she called you Holls.
How did this happen? And what have you done to upset the universe?
You glare at your reflection in the mirror, replaying the last couple of weeks in your head. If you're being honest with yourself you knew you were fucked the second she stared you down in the woods and called you Lunchbox, followed by a string of insults and, later on, a surprisingly heartfelt conversation. But it should have stopped there. Except it didn't.
She demanded you exchange numbers, and a week and a half later you tagged along with her to a wedding, ending the night with a "things straight girls say"-tirade followed by a frustratingly brief kiss in a coat closet and a shitty lie about going dancing. And since then it's only gotten worse.
You'd think that your sometimes lack of social skills and tendency to break out into the most random rants about whatever happens to be on your mind would have scared her off by now, but no. It's the opposite. And you have no idea how to handle it.
On one hand you feel like you're on the road towards a potentially great friendship – despite your differences you and Gail get along ridiculously well.
On the other hand, you've replayed that brief kiss over and over and over again, and the only conclusion you've come to is that you want more of the same thing. So, in short – you're fucked.
The lamp on the left hand bedside table is still on when you return, and there's a Gail-shaped lump under the duvet to the right. You try to be as quiet as possible, you're not sure if she's sleeping, at least not until she mumbles "Lunchbox, 'm still awake". Then she starts telling you about when she was eleven and her brother introduced her to the Star Wars universe, a conversation that lasts until both of you drift off to sleep.
It's still dark outside when you wake up, a narrow ray of light from the streetlamp outside sneaking through a gap in the curtains. First you think you've woken up because Gail, true to her promise might have hogged the covers, but then you realize that you're far from freezing, quite the opposite in fact. You also realize that you've left your spot on the left side of the bed and shifted more towards the middle. The neon green numbers on your alarm clock cuts through the darkness. 04:52. Almost two hours of sleep left before the thing will start beeping.
As your brain slowly retracts from sleep you become more and more aware of the exact source of warmth, and it makes your breath hitch and you skin buzz pleasantly. Gail is curled up on her side next to you, her non-injured arm wrapped around your waist and one of her legs touching yours. Her injured hand is tucked safely under her chin, close to, but not under her body, and she mumbles quietly in her sleep.
Shit.
If you weren't awake before, you sure as hell are awake now. It's like every nerve ending in your body has been alerted, your heart is pounding at least 180 times per minute and you feel like you're gonna implode at any second.
Your first thought is to try and move away a little, but the risk of waking her seems to big. Instead you stay put, trying to calm your heartbeat and desperately ignore the warmth radiating from her. It's easier thought than done though, and despite your efforts, the warmth slowly seeps through your blood stream, waking every single butterfly inside of you.
After a few, painfully long minutes your nervous system finally begins to settle down again, and you close your eyes, desperate for more sleep. But, it turns out the universe isn done torturing you yet. Gail stirs in her sleep, muttering something incoherent, and scoots even closer. She's wrapping her arm tighter around you, and no matter how hard you try not to think about it, you cannot ignore the soft breast now touching the side of your ribcage or her left leg flung over yours. The thin layers of cotton separating her skin from yours does absolutely nothing to ease the frustration. It's painful how much you want to touch her, scoot down a little so that you can kiss her. But you don't, 'cause that would be creepy and intrusive and wrong in so many ways.
You must have fallen asleep again at some point, because the next time you open your eyes everything is much brighter. You yawn and shuffle around a little, enjoying the fresh scent of shampoo invading your nostrils and wait?! What? Why are your vision clouded by soft, blonde (deliciously smelling) tousled hair?
Once again your brain does a re-start and you scramble to sit upright, snatching away the arm that was wrapped around Gail's waist a second ago.
You have no idea what to say as she sits up too, albeit in a much less hurried way. She observes you, doesn't say anything and your nervous system goes into overdrive again.
"I'm sorry I.. didn't mean to wake you, I mean, or.. I just, slept.. I wasn't aware.. I'm.. sorry?" you stutter while your gaze shifts between the clocks, the duvet, the window and the doorway. You're looking anywhere but at her.
"Relax, Lunchbox. It's not like you were drooling in my hair or something. I would have pushed you away if that was the case," Gail snickers.
"Oh, right," you say, silently cursing the blush you feel is creeping onto your cheeks, before you scurry out of bead and head for the bathroom.
A long, cold shower is in order.
Sooo.. I sorta like the idea that Holly, while confident in professional settings can get kind of insecure sometimes when she's not at work (which I think has showed a bit on screen too) so I'm trying to write her that way.
Thoughts?
