Chapter 10

A/n: Just fyi to anyone reading of a remotely sciency mind - I apologise profusely for any horrifically awkward and incorrect things I may write or have written. I am not nor have ever been very good at science, so all smart Holly things I pretty much steal from google and hope don't sound ridiculous.

...

It is weird to admit. I like Holly. I have romantic feelings for Holly. The thought randomly pops into my mind from time to time like a reminder I keep hitting snooze on, jolting me with the sudden memory all over again, sending my heart pattering, my thoughts wandering. And then I try to push it back down again, squish the thoughts and feelings into a box in the back of my mind.

I couldn't say it isn't hard. Because she comes into my room spontaneously and reads her textbooks for hours on my bed in her pyjamas. Her pyjamas which tend to consist of a size too big tshirt and small shorts in an assortment of semi adorable and completely nerdy patterns. And she leaves a mug of coffee on my bedside table some mornings before she leaves for class with sticky notes attached that read things like "Your daily dose of C8-H10-N4-O2" which make me smile far more than I like to admit. And I accidentally used her shampoo this morning and smelt like her all day, and I kept inhaling the soft lavender scent every time I brushed my hair out of my face, and would think of her again. And I like it, all of it. I love her presence in my room, the way she throws cool mints at my head if I doze off while reading and puts my playlist on repeat in the corner, singing along under her breath when she thinks that I am too engrossed in study to notice. I love waking up and knowing she has thought of me. I love the smell of her lingering on my skin.

And now I know why I love all these things so much, it makes it harder. Harder not to give in to the thoughts that hit me suddenly, the instinctual pull to push the hair out of her eyes, to touch her hand for no reason when it sits next to me on the bed, her arms outstretched.

It is Friday afternoon and I am hanging around in her room aimlessly while she throws clothes into a bag.

"I can't believe you're abandoning me with Dov," I grumble, pushing some books aside to sit in the small arm chair adjacent to her bed, "for a whole weekend!" I see Holly's body shake slightly with her giggle as she leans over the bag.

"I leave early Saturday and get back late Sunday. If you sleep in twice, which you always do on weekends, you'll barely notice I'm gone!" She makes a solid point, but I continue to pout anyway. When she turns around she finds me curled up on her chair, arms crossed sullenly, and she gives me a soft, slightly smug smile.

"Gail," she says in that inexplicable way that cracks my resolve in a second, my tempestuous, stubborn temperament crumbling away, "will you really miss me that much?" Her brown eyes are goading me, and I roll my eyes with dramatic flair and drop my arms to my sides, playing with the hem of my sock.

"Please, as if," I protest, "but who's going to cook for me so I don't live off leftovers and takeout and coffee?" She laughs, throwing dark waves of hair over her shoulder absentmindedly, and walks over to the chair, placing her hands on the arm rests either side of me and leaning down so that our faces are close.

"You survived like that for 19 years before you met me, you can survive two more days," she teases, bumping my forehead with her own. Her breath blows warm over my mouth as she exhales, and I bite down on my lip fighting instinct with the little self restraint I have. Maybe a few days apart will be good for me. When did we get so inseparable anyway.

"You smell nice," she adds as she pulls back, grinning nerdily in that adorable way that she does, that sets my heart fluttering, and she bounces back over to her bag to zip it closed. My cheeks flush, I can feel the warmth spread across them, and I push my hair back away from my face.

"I need more shampoo!" I announce dramatically, and she raises her eyebrows at me, amused.

...

I hear Holly leave at six am on Saturday morning. I feel like my brain has been tentatively listening out in my sleep, and wakes me the moment her footsteps start on the stairs. I listen to her tiptoe down, and then I hear my bedroom door creak open. I am still half asleep, and yet deeply aware that me being even semi awake this early on a Saturday would set alarm bells off to Holly, like how obvious could I be, so I lie still and silent as she creeps in, and then leaves again just as quietly.

I wait until the front door closes, and I hear the soft grunt of her car starting up. Then I tentatively open my eyes, scanning the room. I don't see anything amiss, until I notice the grey jumper lying at the foot of my bed. It is Holly's extremely cosy looking Univeristy of Toronto Medicine jumper. I have seen her wear it a million times, and noticed the way the warm material creases and folds around her form, and how cosy she looks wearing it lazing on the couch or walking home from class, the tips of her fingers just peeking out from the ends of her sleeves, pink from the cold. I can't fight the grin that takes over my face as I look at it, draped over the corner of my bed. I pull the covers up around my chin and sigh heavily.

It takes me another ten minutes to pull my heavy limbs out from under the doona and into the cold air, the carpet tickling the arches of my bare feet as my legs hang over the edge of the mattress. I think this is a record time for me to be awake on a weekend of my own accord. I make my way into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower, letting the scalding water roll down my back. My mind wanders to Holly on the road, and I picture her, squeezing my eyes closed to imagine her car breezing down the quiet Saturday morning streets out of Toronto, her stereo on loud, some old school jazz song a mellow backdrop to her trip, hair tied back neatly, the heater turned up so that the windows are just on the verge of fogging. My teeth pull over my bottom lip and I turn the water off, the warmth quickly evaporating around me till I am quivering slightly and forced to make a dash for my towel.

I am sitting at the breakfast bar, dressed in my weekend sweats, with a coffee in front of me and my phone clasped in my hands, when Dov wanders in. His hair has formed an awkward cowlick in his sleep that would be comical if this wasn't the first time we've really be alone without Holly in possible earshot since I told him how I felt. He pauses in the archway between kitchen and living room, and watches the way I am fidgeting with my mobile, twisting and twirling it in my fingers, fighting the urge to text her, it's still far too early.

"I have an idea," I announce before he can say anything, and he looks relieved not to have to be the first to speak, "what are your plans for today?"

It really doesn't take all that much convincing, he is surprisingly pliable for once. Or maybe he just realises that this is the best way to not have to talk too much today without it being awkward.

I push open the door to the spare room and squint inside, reaching for the light switch. The light flickers on, stuttering slightly in the process as though it doesn't remember how to, it seems like it's been a while. The room is large but the space feels smaller due to the amount of crap packed inside. There are boxes upon boxes upon boxes, old items with sheets thrown over the top that look like jagged mountain ranges, all lightly covered in a layer of dust. Dov scratches the side of his head, making a face.

"Do you think we can do this in one day?" He asks uncertainly. I push a pile of dusty books to the side with my foot, the items shifting in their tower till they are precariously balanced, and frown uncertainly.

"Maybe make that two."

By lunch time I realise it will take all today just to clear out the room. I have Dov under clear instructions not to throw anything away without checking with me first, ignoring Holly's fleeting comment when we first moved in about being happy for us to chuck it all. So far I have a collection in one corner of her father's old research that I am organising and dusting as I go, ordering the notebooks by date and subject in old boxes. Out of date textbooks, unimportant paraphernalia and broken items go straight to the bin. Soon we have half the room cleared, and a small corner near the door stacked with the things I deem needing to keep.

I pull my hair back in a loose hair tie, the heat of all the movement finally overcoming the cold air and flushing my skin, red crawling up the base of my neck. Dov has gone from crouching down to sort some smaller items from a box, to sitting lazily on the floor looking semi defeated, leaning back on the heels of his hands.

"Lunch!" He announces, grinning at me from across the room. I raise my eyebrows at him, swiping a stray hair out of my eyes.

"Please don't make something," I plead, and he rolls his eyes as he finally pulls himself to his feet, dusting off his pants.

"As if. Take away, from Jimmy's. My shout." However very un-Dov like, I think as he slinks out of the room. I take the opportunity to reach for my phone where I have had it wedged in my pants pocket. One new messages flashes on the screen, and I scramble to open it, grinning as I see it is from Holly.

8:23am 'I bet you're still in bed. Sleep well tool.'

I have been avoiding looking at my phone for this very reason, that the moment I know she has messaged I can't restrain myself from texting back. Replying at 8:30 on a Saturday morning within minutes of her message is like sending out smoke signals that say I have a giant crush on you. Thankfully it has gone unseen until midday. My fingers move swiftly across my phone screen, leaving mild inaccuracies in their wake like "i hope you fot there dafe". I scan it over to ensure I am not sounding in any way clingy or overly caring, and sign off with 'have fun nerd' before hitting send. I slide the phone back into my pocket and try to switch my attention away from the mildly anxious feeling of awaiting a reply.

I move over to the next section of the room and throw back a dusty cotton sheet to begin work. When the small cloud of particles settles again I find three plastic crates filled with old school vinyl records, covers dog eared and fading. My stomach lurches at just the sight of them. For a second I wonder if Holly ever knew that her fathers music collection was stashed down here all along, but then I know that she doesn't, as she has confessed to me before that she hasn't even had the courage to come into this room since she moved in.

I crouch down and run my hand over the top of them, fingers tracing the tattered edges tenderly. I carefully pull one out, brushing over the cover and smiling at the title, a Billie Holiday album, the image a painting of her with the white flower in her hair. I picture Holly in my room, dark hair tumbling around her slight face as she leans over her book, glasses slipping gradually down the bridge of her nose towards the tip, whispering the lyrics beneath her breath, her finger tapping against her knee to the music of Stormy Weather. I feel my chest constrict, that indescribable feeling I get when I am looking at her filling the space between my ribs, and it is some mix of want and admiration and adoration that is all jumbled together, my lips dry, pulling into a grin.

I exhaled heavily and try to dispel the feelings with the air leaving my body. I pull one of the crates out of the corner, dragging it over the floor, and something behind them catches my eye, something wooden. I climb around and push back the cloth that has flopped over the top of it, and down the bottom, now tilted on an awkward angle, is a record player. The wood is a little chipped and worn, and the needle looks slightly bent out of shape, and someone has accidentally marked it with pen. Although on closer inspection, maybe that is very familiar, scribbly writing of the initials H.S. I smirk, lifting the item up in my hands and holding it gently, cautiously. It is definitely broken. I glance back towards the doorway. Dov is gone up to the shops and the house is quiet in the way that it always is when empty, void of human noise but still not silent, filled with creaks and sighs and wind whistling through cracks. I run a finger over the crooked needle, and frown, thinking of Holly's face seeing it in this condition. The idea makes my stomach squirm in an unpleasant way.

God, I care about this woman, in so many more ways than a roommate or even just a crush. At what point did Holly become one of the most important people in my life? And how did I never see it coming?

...

By the time Dov returns I have almost finished clearing out everything that needs to be chucked, and everything that needs to stay is neatly tucked into one corner ready to be organised and rearranged, bar the records and player which are safely hidden in my wardrobe.

We break for lunch, hamburgers and chips from a shop two streets away that I love. I eat so much I think I might be sick, and so I have to lie down on the couch until the bloating subsides. Dov puts Doctor Who on, and I am too bloated to move so I am forced to watch three episodes, groaning halfheartedly at cliched moments to annoy him. I check my phone frequently, but nothing new.

In the afternoon I sweep out the whole room, and push open the glass french doors so that it opens out into the courtyard. The afternoon sunlight floods in as I clean, and the breeze bristles the papers of her dad's work, and I sweep the dirt and the dust out onto the pavers. When I finish I sit on the small step formed where the room ends and the courtyard begins, cool evening air settling in, the sun dropping down behind the naked tree line. I lean back on my hands and kick out my legs, taking a long, steady breath. A part of me itches to look through the photo albums I found amongst the saved items, but I feel guilty enough about the record collection to go snooping through old photos without Holly's invitation.

I am deciding what to do with the new room when I hear footsteps tramping down the stairs. Moments later the door creaks open and Dov's dweeby head peers around the frame, grinning.

"Leftover takeaway for dinner?" He asks. I laugh and nod my head, indicating for him to come in. He doesn't hesitate at the invitation, scrambling over to take a seat beside me. He sweeps a hand through the flop of brown hair like a crest at the front of his head, skewing it to one side but in no way lessening the thick, untameable wave.

"So. How are things with uh, you and Holly?" He asks, foot kicking at a loose paver with the toe of his old sneaker. The stone leaves a mark to match the many other scuffs on the once white plastic toe. My jaw clenches, and I roll my eyes at him, expression hardening as I look across at this sheepish face.

"How are things with you and Chloe?" I retort. His faces flushes five shades of red, even tipping his ears, and he tries to give off a sort of blank, naive expression, but he's already given himself away well and truly. As if his actions in class haven't already been clear enough.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Hmmm, whatever you say loser. You were practically drooling when she leant over to help you in class the other day, you little perv," I tell him, slightly creeped out just remembering, and give him my best disapproving look. He glowers back like a puppy trying to bare it's teeth, not remotely intimidating, and I reach over to ruffle his hair.