Chapter 11: But Never Doubt I Love | December, 2015
Holly
An airport two days before Christmas has never been a more warm and comfortable place: I've never been in one at this time of year before, of course—but there's not even a hint of usual holiday-time anxiety in my chest as I sit waiting for my flight to a little town in Northumberland, England, to begin boarding. If there's anything causing me nerves, it's Alex's chatter from the other end of my phone, which, thankfully, will be cut off withing ten or so minutes by the announcement that it's time to board. So, for now, I sit in my chair and listen to her ramble, and I can't deny that some of her words—and their main topic—do send a pleasant little chill down my neck at times.
"How can you be playing this so cool!" she says, for the umpteenth time, so loudly that I, again, have to turn the volume on my speaker down. "Like, he's taking you to his PARENTS' HOUSE. For Christmas, Holly! That's a huge, huge deal! What if... what if you guys get married! What if you guys have kids!"
I sigh heavily. "You're getting way ahead of yourself, Alex. Sure, we've defined ourselves beyond 'just friends' but that doesn't mean it's that kind of serious. Don't jinx anything, okay?"
This makes her pause for a moment: though never known to pass up an excuse to get excited, Alex does have a slight inclination to be superstitious. I know after a few moments of silence and a sigh from her end of the line that I've struck gold with this tactic, and that she won't be bothering me too much more about myself and Benedict—at least not immediately.
"So... have you talked to his parents before? Like, over the phone, or something like that?" she says, still not ready to part with the topic of my destination, but, clearly, willing to back off a little.
"I've said hello, you know," I tell her, getting a little nervous at her point. "Ben just arrived there a few days ago, so they've been there on the other end of our phone calls. But I haven't, you know, REALLY talked to them."
"Are you nervous?" she probes, a little giggle in her voice.
"Of course I'm nervous!" I say to her with a hissing whisper, but incapable of helping myself from smiling. Ben's parents and I have exchanged very minimal words, but they seem open and easygoing enough, and I'm also given faith that I'll be perfectly comfortable in their company by the fact that they produced someone as wonderful as Benedict. Yet... I know that sometimes, those assumptions can be misleading (I mean... look at the movie Meet the Parents), so I try to keep an open mind.
"I'm sure you're going to love them!" she squeals. "And they're going to love you, too! And everyone's going to love everyone!"
"Alex..." I warn, not wanting her to get too overexcited again.
"Sorry," she peeps, but still laughs. "Well, I know you wanted to call Ben before you got onboard, so I'll let you go. Try to get some beauty sleep before you land!"
I scoff comedically. "You know me—I can't sleep on planes, or in cars, or, basically, anywhere but on a solid, unmoving floor. But, for you... I suppose I could try."
"Okay, okay, I'll stop bothering you!" she says, and I can tell just from the way her voice wobbles that she's literally jumping up and down on the other end of the line. "Love you!"
"I'll let you know when I land," I assure her, and then she squeals again before hanging up the phone.
I smile widely, and feel my face warm up at the knowledge of how much she cares about me, how silly all of this feels, how much like a movie. Though Ben is one of the most grounding forces in my entire life at the moment, I still can't help but sometimes get the feeling that I'm about to float right off the face of the earth. That, or, that I'm about to wake up and realize this was all a dream...
To put a stop to that line of thinking before I can get upset or anxious, I look back at my phone and open my messages with Ben. "You awake?" I type, aware that, since it's five in the evening, here, it will be almost midnight, where he is. He'd promised earlier to call me before I boarded, but I don't want to expect anything, and waking him up with a phone call is just short of a nightmare scenario in my mind.
I send the message, and put my phone away, sure that he's already fallen asleep—but, lo and behold, just seconds later, my phone starts to buzz and I scramble to take it back out of my carry-on, having to pinch my lips together to avoid smiling from ear to ear and attracting the attention of the mostly stony-faced travelers surrounding me.
"Holly, how are you!" he exclaims in his easy-going way, but I can tell from the lowness of his voice that he's tired.
"You shouldn't have stayed up with me," I tell him, already blushing to the tips of my ears and deciding not to care that a few people sitting in the row of seats across from me have started to notice.
"Are you knocking me for wanting to make sure you're safe?" he sings with a laugh—and despite the public setting, I'm more than willing to enter into one of our increasingly frequent playful arguments.
"You've done altogether too much for me already. A first class plane ticket, a stay over the Christmas vacation at your parents' house..."
"You're being entirely too modest, Miss Whitaker. I would never have invited you if I wasn't enthralled by the company you offer."
"Well, Mr. Cu—" I clap a hand over my mouth suddenly, barely catching myself and sucking in a sharp, sudden breath of mixed terror and amusement. For a beat, I can hear Ben tense on the other end of the line as well, but then we both seem to exhale simultaneously, and I give up a little giggle at the near-disaster. "That was a close one," I tell him. "But It looks like you'll be winning this one. I have no chance in this courtroom if I can't address you, formally, by your last name."
He chuckles a little and I can almost hear him sarcastically shrugging his shoulders: "Well, if we're in a courtroom, you could always address me as 'your honor,' Miss Whitaker," he says deeply, almost flirtatiously, the suppressed rumble of his voice sending a light shiver from my head to toe.
I feel my jaw loosen at his suggestion, and I scoff lightly after a moment of speechlessness, shaking my head hard enough for him to hear it on the other end of the line. "How dare you!" I say in a whisper, and the sound of his chuckle makes me smile so widely that I feel the need to cover it with the sleeve of my sweater so that the people around me will stop casting me annoyed, speculative looks.
Suddenly, from the desk near the opening to the boarding bridge, comes the announcement that boarding is beginning now, and I start to gather up my carry-on backpack, grinning at the thought of what's inside. I put a lot of thought into a gift for Ben, and I think I struck gold with the exact copy of Hamlet which Mark Whishaw used for the 1972 production. I might have put it in my suitcase if Alex hadn't made me pack so many clothes that it was impossible to fit—and, besides, I like having it close to me.
"Well-" I ALMOST say 'your honor' as he'd proposed in jest, but then decide at the last moment against it, still making a conscious effort to be careful "-Mr. Ben, I've got to board my flight, now. So I suppose this session is adjourned." I pick up the backpack, check for the hundredth time that I have my passport and other needed documents on my person, and then start for the desk with a number of other people in the first boarding group, who look much more like they belong in the first class than I do...
"Hmm," Benedict says from the other end of the line, still not over our bit. "Mr. Ben just doesn't quite cut it, don't you think?"
"Shut up," I say, trying to be short, but I'm still incapable of keeping the lilt of amusement out of my voice; I find myself far too comfortable and happy with him to argue—even playfully—for very long.
"Sorry," he says with a laugh, dropping the act. "But, really, Holly, it was my duty and my pleasure to stay up."
"Aww, shucks—you're making me blush."
"Isn't that my job?" he chuckles, and I can't help but chuckle back. It's been interesting, after our conversation in New York, and a subsequent (and secret) meeting later that week in his hotel room, deciding that our feelings should no longer be ignored and stifled. We haven't defined our relationship specifically, but it's clear that we have passed friendship somewhere along the line, and the new dynamic is interesting, new, and slightly nerve-wracking with every new day that comes.
"I suppose it is," I say simply, after a moment of consideration, and I smile a little as I imagine him, sitting somewhere in his parents' little cottage in the North of England, snow falling peacefully outside the window. A little shiver thrills me as I think that I'll be there with him before too long, and then my mind returns to the present. "Ben, I've got to go. I'll see you in—good Lord—seven hours."
"Try to sleep a little," he says with a low laugh.
I nod to myself, as though he's right next to me—his voice reaching out across the entire ocean to embrace my heart with its warmth—before answering, "I'll try."
And, though it's surprising to me, once I've situated myself into the extremely comfortable and private first-class seat (whose price, I have to keep reminding myself, was probably only the equivalent a drop in Benedict's monetary reserves), put some relaxing, instrumental music in my earbuds, I do end up dozing off.
Though it's not until I actually wake up again, at the end of the flight when the captain announces the beginning of our descent, that I realize I'd fallen asleep at all. My playlist has stopped and it's with a vague sense of coming out of a time-travel machine that I take my earbuds out and look out the window at a pure white landscape beneath the plane, lit up by the sun of seven in the morning, England's time.
But despite the oddness of the jetlag, I feel rested enough, and I have to keep myself from shivering with intense excitement at the prospect of finally seeing Ben again, as I get off the plane and work my way through the airport towards the baggage claim.
But my sudden high of excitement is disrupted when, after I've been waiting for ten minutes, and I notice that most of the other people I'd seen getting on and off of my flight have already retrieved their bags, I realize that my suitcase is simply not going to show up. If anything, I feel relief that I'd brought Ben's gift in my carry-on bag, but I still feel a little disappointed and concerned about my clothes: practically all the clothes I own had been in that suitcase, as Alex had made sure of... and now I feel a bit trapped...
I find my way to a support desk and ask for confirmation of my theory, which I receive quickly. It turns out, as the man behind the desk informs me tolerantly but tiredly, that my suitcase somehow found its way onto a different plane. He tells me that the bag's location should be discovered within twenty-four hours, once the other plane lands and the unclaimed suitcase is collected, and that, then, I'll be contacted regarding the next steps in reclaiming it. I thank the man for his help, and turn towards the elevator to get to where Ben will be waiting, deciding not to be disappointed—I've spent days in the same clothes before, and in much worse conditions—and I'm sure that I'll be able to get some other clothes to use while I'm here.
At the very moment I get into the elevator, my phone starts buzzing with a call from Benedict, and I answer it quickly. "You didn't get lost, did you?" he says with a joking tone. I check the time and swear softly to myself when I realize that it's been almost half an hour since my flight arrived; I hope he hasn't been worrying.
"No," I tell him, "but my suitcase did."
"Oh," he says, sympathetically. "That's unfortunate."
"It's alright," I say, quickly brushing it off, not wanting to linger on it. "They're sure it just found its way onto the wrong plane; they'll be in touch once it's found. You haven't been waiting too long, have you?"
"No amount of time is too long, Holly," he says, sincerely. And with that, we fall back into our banter of seven hours ago, Ben congratulating me on the hours of sleep I accomplished. He keeps me company over the phone until I reach the sliding doors to the outside pick-up lane.
I shiver audibly as the blowing heat of the airport gives way suddenly to the freezing, wet cold of the outdoors, the sky a bright grey that makes me blink as my teeth immediately start to shatter.
"Hurry before you freeze!" Ben laughs. "I'm at the end, in the suspicious black hatchback."
"Duly noted," I say, my laugh taken up an octave by the all-consuming cold. My already-freezing eyes sweep the row of cars, people getting in and out of them, kissing loved ones hello and goodbye. "I see you," I tell him after a second, and then hang up, hurrying at what can only be described as a prancing jog towards his car.
When I reach him, I make a funny face at him through the passenger side window before he unlocks the door with comic, torturous slowness and I get in, sighing in relief at the heat blasting from the vents. Before I can say a thing, and before I've even had a chance to set my backpack down between my knees on the floor, he's reached over, wrapped his hand gently around the back of my neck, and pulled me towards him, our lips meeting in the middle with a sudden tenderness that makes me gasp lightly into his mouth.
A moment passes between us in which time seems to stutter and then start again, but more slowly than before—it's only him and me in the warmth of the car, the engine humming underneath us. I'm immersed in the gentle, probing passion of his soft lips, and in the comfortable feeling of slow-growing confidence in my own. I'm reminded of just how much I'd missed the feeling of his hands, and now, there's none of the overly-cautious tension which had plagued our interactions over our summer together in his apartment. Slowly, he removes his other hand from the steering wheel and brushes his thumb over my temple with the perfect amount of pressure, his lips pressing deeper into my own, my mouth loosening at the feeling, a light sound of pleasure elicited by his actions and the warm feeling of honey they inspire in my lower zone...
Suddenly I'm jolted out of the silent intimacy of the moment and I remember who I am again, and who he is... and half out of the fear that I'm going to wake up from a dream when I pull away, and half out of the fear that this is all too real, and that somebody will recognize him, I press a hand against his chest—and he pulls away in an instant, smiling impishly, making me wish for more, and grow warmer from his considerate nature.
"Mr. Cumberbatch," I say, breathless, after a moment, smiling at the close proximity of his face, and tentatively letting my fingertips trace the line of his cheekbone.
"Miss Whitaker," he says back, his voice low after our moment of indulgence, leaning into my touch gently and returning my curious smile.
Both of us chuckle a little bit, but he seems to understand the reason for my caution, drawing back slightly while still considering me, looking into my eyes with a literally devastating gentleness. I catch his lips in another light kiss, and then let go after a mere second, settling back in my seat before he has the chance to capture me again. We sit and consider each other a bit longer, before he pulls out of the lane and starts weaving his way onto the main road, the world opening up outside the windows as we get further from the airport, snow falling gently, delicately, from the sky. I can't help but look out the window, my face nearly pressed against the glass, at the pure-white sight—this is nothing like the dirty, grimy, sleet-like snow I always experienced in New Jersey growing up, and later, the even more grimy snow in New York.
Before too long we're going through a tiny town, each building beautiful, with dark wood cutting across cream-white stucco—a postcard-worthy place, which reminds me of something out of an idyllic Robert Frost poem, or a fairy tale. A small main street, lit by fairy-lights and lamps, the shop windows illuminated and colorful against the falling snow, is host to people walking in groups, carrying bags, holding hands with one another. In a white-blanketed yard sporting an excellent snowman a few streets away, kids have a snowball fight, hiding behind barricades built up out of the snow, their shouts crisp and joyful in the air. I breathe out against the glass of the window, thrilled by the peaceful, innocent piece of world just beyond, and turn to look at Benedict in wonder: he smiles at me, a content awareness in his eyes.
Just beyond the main part of the town along a quiet, still road (lined on one side by a crumbling stone fence and on the other side by snow-covered hedges), is his parents' house: a beautiful, medium-sized clapboard one, a stunning old-fashioned charm summed up by the windows and a wreath of real red holly branches on the white front door.
"For you," says Ben, gesturing to it once we've gotten out of the car. "Dad and I said it was cheesy but Mom insisted."
I grin and lean against the strong arm he holds out to me, shivering but glad of the chill as we shuffle through the light dusting of snow on the shoveled-out path to the front door. "I love it," I tell him, admiring the fullness of the berries that bear my name.
Before we can reach the front door, however, still walking up the steps, it's opened by someone inside and I feel my breath catch in reaction to my nerves. Ben holds my arm tightly, increasing the pressure of his hand in support, and I lean further into him, feeling my ankles weaken in anxiety as the door opens further to reveal both of his parents, standing side by side, in the warmly lit doorway—his mother's hands clasped together, and his father's arm around her shoulders, both of their faces bright and welcoming with anticipation.
"Oh, Holly!" says his mother, opening the door wider and inviting Ben and I inside (he has to practically lift me over the threshold), embracing me immediately. For a second I stiffen on instinct, but almost instantly the warmth and might of her embrace helps me to loosen, and I feel as though—for whatever reason—I've just walked into the arms of someone I've known for a very long time. She kisses me gently on the cheek, and then releases me, smiling broadly. "Call me Wendy, dear. We've been so looking forward to finally seeing your lovely face."
I feel my cheeks grow warm at her kindness and I feel, inexplicably as though I might cry. Ben's father turns to me, as well, extending a hand in greeting, which I take, before he, too, pulls me into a comfortable hug. "Call me Tim, dear heart. Ben can't stop talking about you, and now we can see why." He gives Ben a cheeky grin, and Ben returns it with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, giving me a look that makes me laugh.
"Dad!" he says in a mock-whisper, and the two of them chuckle; instantly, I feel inducted into the comfortable circle of their companionship, and I can't stop smiling as I'm led through the main floor of the house, being showered with greetings and hospitality until, after a series of movements and laughs, Benedict planting a gentle kiss on the top of my head once to playfully tease my height, I'm settled on the couch in the comfortable, warm living room, before a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, with Ben just beside me, Wendy and Tim on the loveseat across from us, and a tray of food on the table which I gratefully take from—I'm terribly hungry after seven hours of dozing on and off in the plane.
I settle into a natural comfort with the two of them very quickly, to my great relief, and also (I can tell) to Benedict's. Tim is the one to first note that I've come in without a suitcase, and Ben and I share the task of relating the baggage accident to them, in response to which Wendy tells me that she's sure she has some spare clothes that will fit me well for the duration of the stay. No explicit questions are asked about the state of the relationship between myself and Ben, but a general curiosity about us is clear in the way they inquire—sensitively—into my personal goals... and the way they shower both Ben and I with complements that make both of us simultaneously shrink in humility and swell in silent appreciation in our separate ways.
I'm endlessly grateful that Benedict has had such a good childhood—which I can tell is the case without a doubt, simply from the easygoing interaction between himself and his parents, the warmth tying them all together, and extending so effortlessly to me. And in some magical way, I feel that, despite my own lack of steadiness and love in my own younger years, I'm getting a little bit of that, now, belatedly—and I feel myself warm with appreciation at the knowledge.
After questions and answers have been exchanged, and a general warmth and comfort has been established between the four of us, Wendy takes me up to the guest room I'll be staying in, and sets me up with some clothes to wear. "Most of these," she says, rifling through the drawers of a dresser in the room, "are old pieces I kept from my younger years, for the memories. They're certainly not what people your age would consider 'hip,' I'm afraid..."
But though Wendy is a bit taller than me, her past self's size matches mine well, and I happen to enjoy the clothes very much: they fit me well, they're from another time, they're extremely warm, and I can feel the stories in them when I put them on. I thank her profusely for allowing me to wear them, as I can tell they're precious to her, and I change out of the airplane clothes and into a pair of comfortable, loose jeans, and a comfortable and warm black long-sleeved shirt that isn't too tight.
When we come back downstairs, Tim has left and is making some clinking sounds with pots and pans in the kitchen, and Benedict is standing by the beginnings of a fire in the wide fireplace, a hand on the mantle.
"Look at you!" he says with a chuckle, bringing me into a warm hug which I never want to leave—and which, I realize, I don't have to leave, especially after Wendy has slipped away to join her husband in the kitchen. But, after a minute, Ben pulls back slightly, a mischievous angle in his eyebrow, and I can't help but bask in his warmth and smile as he says with a lilt of boyish excitement, "Are you ready to go on an adventure?"
"Ben, where are we going?!" I say for the umpteenth time, almost out of breath trying to keep up with his strides as we cross a crisp, untouched field of snow.
We've walked for an hour through the village and then out to a barren field covered in snow, sometimes at a careful distance from each other, sometimes hand in hand—the latter, now that we're the only ones in sight, and the falling snow shields us from view. I'm covered in coats—one of his mother's and one of Ben's own, which dwarfs me—and heavy boots, a little too big for my fairy feet. Ben looks not dissimilar to Sherlock in a long black coat and boots, scarf and hat, his cheeks a light red in the cold, and his eyes squinting with joy. I'm free, now, as I hadn't been last summer, to revel in his appearance, to be slightly intimidated by, but not afraid of, his body.
I'm caught looking at his profile against the grey wall of snowflakes again, and my ankle slips suddenly, causing me to yelp and stumble into his side. He catches me, and I laugh, the freezing, wet flakes stinging my cheeks pleasantly. "This is unfair; your legs are too long!" I say with a sniffle, pulling myself up and taking his hand again.
"We're almost there!" he says, helping to drag me along—the snow is so deep that even he has to pick his knees up further than usual, and I'm practically lost trying to plow myself through the white depths at his side—but it's an enjoyable, almost nostalgic struggle.
A minute or so of stumbling and laughing later, we make it through the bulk of the field, and the shape of a huddled, snow-cloaked wall (waist high for him, and up to the base of my ribcage) emerges out of the flurrying snowflakes. As soon as we make our way to it, he stops and announces, with a ringmaster's voice, "Ta-da!" looking at me joyously, eyes bright with expectance.
I puzzle for a moment, looking up and down the wall, stretching off to both sides over the snowy terrain as far as the eye can see through the snow. And then, after another beat, I look up at him, feeling my face widen in surprise as I piece together the landmark with our location. "This is Hadrian's wall!" I exclaim, excited beyond belief by being right beside such an intriguing historical landmark, which I'd previously thought I would only ever read about.
He confirms my knowledge and for the next quarter of an hour we walk alongside it, packing down the fresh snow under our boots, our laughter ringing through the air as we piece together the lyrics of Christmas carols we remember, singing them stuffily through inevitably-developing colds. Soon enough we both have snow in our boots and set about turning from the guidance of the wall, going back over the snow-covered field in the direction from where we'd come. The snow is so thick that I'm afraid to let go of Ben, and he holds onto me tightly, in turn, seeming to be thinking the same thing. For a few minutes, we make slightly on-edge jokes about getting lost and not finding our way back, but we get back to the main path easily enough, and then walk back through the heavenly-smelling evergreen woods until we reach the warmly lit little village.
Ben takes me into a series of little shops, buying us Christmas chocolates, once coaxing me to close my eyes while he sets a small, delicious truffle on my tongue, and seals the gift with a short, soft kiss. There's no worry on either of our parts about being spotted; everyone is altogether too absorbed in their own lives and companions to be on the lookout for him, and, as a precaution, I'm the one to go up to the cashier and pay whenever we choose to buy something. He always insists that he pays, and it would be difficult enough for me to argue even if I still hadn't had my dollars converted to euros, and if most of the shops didn't require payment in paper money.
"What do your parents like?" I ask him, when we're in a nice shop with some affordable little gifts, which also takes credit cards. Initially, I hadn't bought anything for his mom and dad along with the present I got Ben, not knowing their tastes, but it feels wrong, now, not to at least give them a small token of my deep appreciation.
"Nothing," he says in answer to my question, completely genuine. "They can't stand presents unless it's from each other. Besides, they'd never forgive me for letting you buy them something."
"Not even a card?" I protest, slowly moving around the rotating stand of beautiful paper Christmas cards I've been considering for the past minute.
"That might be acceptable," he says with an endearing chuckle, "but I still wouldn't risk it." I frown a little, wondering if, perhaps, it's the fact of my being from the United States that prevents me from understanding, and getting a little embarrassed at the possibility: Alex, for example, always expects gifts on special days. "Holly-" Ben says with a laugh, noticing my anxiety and placing his hands comfortingly on my shoulders. "They've been on the edge of their seats all month long, just to have your company. Your presence is your gift to them, as it is to me."
I sigh in mock dejection, turning out of his touch and placing a pretty card with a delicate painting of a robin on the front back onto the stand, hiding a smirk from him, hoping he'll be surprised by his gift. I agree not to get anything for his parents, though I still feel a little odd about it. But by the time we've strolled through every shop in town sipping from cups of hot chocolate, the little debacle around gift-giving is completely forgotten.
After our day together, around four in the evening, we walk our way back out of the village and down the snowy road to the beautiful clapboard house. Now, it's dark enough outside that there have been candles lit in every window of the house, and a delicate frost has adorned the red berries on the front-door wreath.
Our noses start running as soon as the warmth of the house hits us, and Wendy is prepared in the entryway with a tissue box, which she holds out to us once we've gotten our coats and boots off, our faces still smiling and red from the excursions of the day.
"Just like the old days, Benedict," says Wendy with a smile. "But you had better not have gotten Holly sick, or I'll have to have a word with you."
"Take it easy on the poor youngsters!" says Tim with a laugh, from behind her, giving me a secret wink that makes me grin too widely for my face.
But before too long, the sniffles pass for us both, anyway, and I go into the kitchen with Wendy to help put the finishing touches on her elaborate Christmas Eve dinner, while Ben and his father strengthen the fire, set the table, and light candles all around the main room, as well as placing some in special holders on the tree itself.
During the meal—for which Wendy and Tim sit on one side of the beautiful, glittering table, and Ben and I sit together on the other side—I eat very little in comparison to the others. I've never needed much food, and certainly not as much as people in the United States usually consume, and I'm slightly nervous that my appetite might give Ben's parents a bad idea about me. But they seem not to mind, or, really, even to noticed, they're too engrossed in the conversation between the four of us. I take a bit of everything to be respectful, and enjoy it all, reveling in the stories behind some of the dishes, long traditions in their family, and extremely nostalgic for Ben. He gives me a quiet, knowing smile and nudges me under the table with his knee when I try to mimic their European table manners, and we chuckle softly to ourselves, faces aglow in the warming light of all the candles.
Once we've all four worked together to wash and dry the dishes by hand, settling them away into their separate cabinets with a satisfying chorus of clinks, we move into the living room. Ben tasks himself with putting on a CD of acapella choral music, sung by young boys' choirs. "There was going to be a Christmas service in the next town over," explains Wendy to me, "but half of the boys came down with something, so it was canceled. This should suffice. Tim, sweetheart-" she leans over to where he sits next to her on their loveseat, placing a gentle hand on his knee, "do you remember when we bought those CDs in London?"
"Oh, yes," says Tim, looking pleasantly across the room, absorbed in memory, "when was that, back in '87, wasn't it?"
I look at them with a serene feeling in my heart, completely at peace seeing them enveloped in the warmth of their past together, their souls so clearly at peace and in perfect happiness together. Benedict casts me a meaningful expression across the room as the CD starts to play, warm music streaming though the speakers at a comfortable background volume, and I can tell that he feels the same way I do, in deep appreciation of his parents' wonderful bond.
Ben joins me on the loveseat opposite Wendy and Tim's, and we gather closely and comfortably around the fireplace. Before too long, Wendy and Tom have lapsed into a pleasant pattern of reminiscing over old Christmas stories, which Ben sometimes stars in, and both Ben and I listen and look on with bright eyes, glad to hear them so happy and content. Ben shares a few funny stories of his own, centering around his first Christmases spent away from home in his late teens and early twenties, and stupid things he got up to with friends.
I get a vague feeling as the evening wears on into night and the night grows later, the flecks of snow dissolving into a pure blackness, in motion outside the window panes, that they don't ask me to tell any of my own stories, because Ben has probably let them on in some respect to the difficulty of my childhood. There's no awkwardness around it, either, and I'm grateful: most of my Christmases hold memories of being stuck in freezing rooms with my drunk and violent father, or in soup kitchens, or, on a few lucky occasions I can remember, with a Christmas cookie given out by caroling strangers. I'm beyond grateful that, now, I've been invited into this incredible warmth, the comfortable closeness of their own Christmas traditions. I feel incredibly honored, and especially happy, almost sedated, with the feeling of Ben, inviting me to lean into him, wrapping an arm around me with a firm gentleness.
When it's gotten very late, just over an hour shy of midnight, we resurface from the past and realize how lost we'd gotten in the stories, and we all begin to yawn, deciding that, now that the fire had dwindled, we had better be off to bed. Ben is the first to retire to his room, bidding me farewell with a kiss on the forehead and a close hug—though I know he would have kissed me on the lips if his parents hadn't been so near. Wendy goes upstairs second, inviting me to join her to pick out some nightclothes for myself, once Tim and I have finished snuffing out all the candles around the room. He has a quiet, aging way about him which is very pleasant, and it's perfectly natural and expected when, once we've finished and ascended the stairs into the second floor, where everyone's bedrooms are, he pulls me into a light hug and tells me he's very, very glad that Ben found me. I thank him with my cheeks and heart warmed by his words, and he leaves to go into the room he shares with Wendy, leaving me in the hall to shuffle down towards the guest room.
But before I can reach the guest room door, I hear a low whistle from the doorway to the bathroom just across the hall, and turn on instinct in direction to the sound. Ben's standing there, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed and a mischievous smile on his dimly lit face. "What are you up to, now?" I question with a laugh, at the look on his face.
Without saying a word he steps aside slightly from the door and extends a hand, and I look into the bathroom to see the old-fashioned Victorian bathtub filled with perfectly warm water, a candelabra of three candles set beside it, and some perfectly soft nightclothes in my size folded on the counter. I smile and draw in a light gasp of surprise at the sight, and turn to him with a barely-contained look of exasperation—he is doing entirely too much for me—he is entirely too good of a person to be allowed.
"You drew a bath for me?" I ask rhetorically, in gentle surprise.
He shrugs his shoulders a little, and I can't help noticing how powerful but soft and comfortable his body looks beneath the soft, worn fabric of his Henley shirt. He steps closer to me, brushing his fingertips over my smiling lips, and then he does what he couldn't do downstairs because his parents were watching: He leans down slightly to catch my lips with his. To accommodate his height I have to go up on my tip-toes slightly, and tilt my head up and back, so that the very act of kissing him is like a complete surrender—a surrender which, in this case, I don't mind at all.
He pulls away almost painfully, just before we can cross into more dangerous territory, and draws my small body to his, his hand pressing against my back, the warmth of his chest making me feel as though I could stay this way—my cheek leaned against him, resting on him and feeling weightless—for hours on end without tiring of it.
"Keep warm tonight," he says after another minute, pulling away and punctuating the point he's trying to make inadvertently, the loss of his body heat making me shiver slightly already. "It gets drafty up here in the winter." He stands in the doorway for a moment, and seems to debate internally whether or not to take my mouth upon his once more—but eventually he leaves without doing so, giving me a little wave and a nod, which I return, blowing him a kiss before he closes around the door, leaving me in the chill of the bathroom, the candle flames wavering with the change of pressure at his sudden absence.
I hurry in taking off my clothes, letting them lie in a heap on the cold floorboards and stepping into the marvelously warm bath, sinking down into it with a sigh—the water made all the more warm by the knowledge that Benedict's hands are the ones who prepared it for me, with such consideration. The scar of the bullet wound I got on the first day I came in contact with Ben reacts differently to the warm water than the rest of my skin; and it stings for a moment, releasing the feeling of crawling, before it mellows and becomes almost numb, letting the wince on my face relax into a pure bliss. I'm so tired that, after washing myself with a bar of gentle lavender soap, and then relaxing without movement for a minute, I almost fall asleep.
It's purely to keep myself from dozing off and inhaling water that I finally get out, likely a whole half hour after I'd gotten in. I shiver audibly at the feeling of the freezing air, and am quick in draining the tub, drying off and dressing in the perfect warm and soft pajamas. I blow out the candles and then hurry silently across the hallway and into the guest room—not without noticing the ribbon of lamplight sneaking out from under Ben's door at the end of the hall. I close my own door as silently as I can, and then go over to the window pane, looking out on the breathtaking, snowy landscape, and almost crying with the hospitality I've been shown, and the exhaustion that plagues my body after such a long and energetic day.
But, though I am very tired, and trembling on my feet, as soon as I tuck myself into the warm, comfortable bed, I still cannot fall asleep. My body doesn't relax or melt instantly into the plush mattress as I'd expected it would—and I don't have to spend long wondering why this is the case.
It's the pressing thought of that band of light I'd seen under Benedict's door, like a silent invitation, which reveals the truth of my heart to me so quickly. The feeling of his hands when he'd hugged me good night, his wish for me to stay warm... and I realize, all at once, and without any real surprise, that I love him.
I've never loved anyone before, but it's not a feeling one has to learn, and I simply, truly, know. It's a simple, undiluted fact, not burdened by any girlish jitters, the way I'd (foolishly) felt when I'd once had a crush on an older boy in school before realizing the hopelessness of a relationship with anyone ever working in my favor... All that I feel, now, is a sensation of warm honey, spreading fluidly through my entire body, making my toes tingle and my brain fuzz over with a warm, confident clarity—it's all so adult-like, and I feel more sure of myself than I ever have been, at any other time in my life. In addition, there's no question of whether or not to wait to tell him; it's something that needs to be said, and something that seems natural to say between the two of us—something that seems even dangerous to leave waiting for too long.
So within the next minute, after a few seconds of necessary procrastination, given the hour of the night—though, probably, it's already early morning by now—I'm up and out of bed again, going very quietly across the wooden floorboards and opening my door to the freezing hallway. But my body doesn't shiver as I cross to Ben's door, and I tap twice softly on it before opening it a crack, peeking in.
He's still sitting up in his bed, reading by the light of the lamp which had also created the ribbon of warmth beneath the door as viewed from the hall. At the sound of my entrance he looks up from his book and smiles, as though this had been a silent hope of his, as though he'd been expecting this, and that this had already been planned silently between the two of us for a long time beforehand. I stand in the doorway with a sudden feeling of nervousness which doesn't match up with the feeling of bravery I'd been armored with in the guest bedroom. But under his gaze, I also feel a new longing, and without thinking too much—which is a wonderful feeling, since I know, also, that with him, I am unquestionably safe—I step further into the room, and listen to myself say, "May I join you?"
In reaction to the question, to my half-relief and half-horror, Ben smiles and raises a sarcastically suggestive eyebrow, the enticing casualness of his body beneath his white, heavenly-looking blankets making his point clear. Not to... do anything," I say quickly, amending my initial question.
But he shakes his head quickly in understanding, chuckling lightly and looking at me warningly. "I was giving you a hard time," he says, his voice light and deep as usual, but softened slightly in the case that his parents have fallen asleep. "Close the door and come here," he says, motioning to the place in bed beside him, left open as though on purpose, his eyes warm and promising further warmth beyond them. "I would love to share a bed with you."
I smile at his wording, and do close the door again, as silently as I can, given the slight creak in the aging hinges, before padding across the cold hardwood panels and crawling up onto his bed, snuggling in under the covers, propping up a pillow close to him and leaning my head on his shoulder, which makes him smile.
"Ah..." I sigh instinctively once our sides have been pressed gently together underneath the cloud-like blankets. "You're warm."
"Your personal furnace since... Well, since ten seconds ago," he chuckles.
I turn to him with an air of mock sincerity and joke, my voice deadpan: "Benedict, you REALLY should have gone into advertising." He chuckles at me and presses his lips to the top of my head in what is shaping up to be an adorable habit that I could get used to—that, honestly, I already am used to. I smile at him and then shift my cheek against his shoulder again, gesturing with my chin to the stack of papers he's holding, and had been studying before I came in, not looking too pointedly at them in case they're something private.
"Sorry if I interrupted you," I say, a little guiltily. "What are you reading?"
In keeping with my suspicions, he quickly turns them over and places them on the bedside table face-down, making a mysterious face at me and saying lowly, "It's a secret." I look up at him with a smile, my face relaxing completely under the calming power of his eyes, and he bends down to kiss me on the lips.
But, though it takes a great amount of determination on my part, I pull away slightly and press a finger to his lips before he can make contact with my mouth. "Benedict?" I say to him, my voice lacking the strength I'd imagined it might have, but still capturing his attention effectively. He considers my face, imploring me to go on with his eyes, and I look into them, exhaling with a light shudder before saying, simply (though, really, not simply), "I love you."
A moment of silence and nothingness exists between us, as though the universe has exhaled a bit of its precious magic inside this room. Then the moment shatters into something sweeter, something entirely human, and he smiles at my words. Given confidence by the tenderness and joyful relief in his eyes, I lean forward slightly, preparing to give him the kiss I'd denied a moment earlier.
But, this time, it's his turn to stop me, placing two of his long, tapered fingers against my lips and smiling, saying, with his voice like the most luscious embrace, "Holly?"
I nod my head yes—yes, yes, yes... And he smiles his own smile, as I had done a moment ago, before saying, as though it's never been said before in the entire history of the world, "I love you."
And then, at last, our lips—and our hearts—are held apart no longer.
Benedict
When I wake up she's still in my arms, the subtle scent of lavender from her bath last night coming gently from her neck. I lay there, still and silent, as though still in a dream, and look at the way her hair lays over her shoulder, the gentle curve of her small body molded to mine, the steady rise and fall of her breath. For a moment I shut my eyes again, wishing myself back into that state of perfect quietness, but I know that I won't be able to fall back to sleep, so I remain awake, still and quiet, listening to her breath, smiling cautiously at the warmth and comfort of her close, compact presence.
The coldness of the morning (light comes through the thin window-pane, also illuminating the fields of snow outside, a few flakes falling spaciously from the white sky) hovers around us, but we are in our own perfect warm huddle together, as we have been all night.
My parents, as usual, have woken up earlier than I—even earlier, now, as I'm sure I slept longer and better last night for Holly's presence in my bed—and it is the sound of them downstairs in the kitchen which finally wakes her up: with a slight shudder of awareness that seizes her body for a moment before letting it go again. The moment after she stiffens, she relaxes completely into me, sighing gently and shifting her arm across her side, seeking out my hand, finding it and squeezing it gently with her warm fingers.
"Merry Christmas, sleepyhead," I tease through my smile, squeezing her hand, in return and wrapping my arm around her waist, pulling her carefully to me, mindful of her scars, healed bones and psychological wounds as I do so.
But it's still so early, and she's slightly groggy, so she doesn't pick up on my sarcasm, and seems genuinely worried when she says sleepily, "Oh, no—how long have you been up alone?"
I plant a kiss on the back of her neck and put my other arm around her, too, bringing her closer, still, to warm and pacify her. "Just a minute or two."
After another minute in bed in the quiet of the morning, becoming more and more aware of the cold just beyond the comfortable confines of our bodies, we force ourselves to leave the shelter of the blankets, and hurry downstairs, keeping close to each other's bodies to keep warm.
There's a relaxed slowness to the morning routine; a fire has already been made up in the fireplace, giving us relief downstairs, and Mum and Dad wish us both a Merry Christmas day, their embraces warming us both up in no time. They seem to know—as they always seem to know everything, especially when I try to hide it—that something was exchanged between Holly and I last night that they didn't bear witness to. And when Holly's back is turned, I flash them a meaningful look, in which it is communicated efficiently that there was no sexual intimacy between us—and this seems to relieve them a bit, though I know that there will still be a thorough questioning later, when we are alone.
After eating and clearing away the breakfast we all prepared together, I excuse myself and go upstairs to retrieve the present I bought for Holly, bringing it back down as Mum and Dad are starting to exchange their own personal presents to each other on the couch. Holly is engrossed in their kindness and the love they share, looking on warmly as their personal and special gifts are tenderly exchanged. It's only once they've finished that her attention breaks and she looks to me, noticing the brown-paper wrapped parcel for the first time. I start to hand it to her but the stiff and amused look on her face stops me. "You hypocrite!" she says, a lilt of pure joy in her voice, before excusing herself, continuing, in the same tone, "Wait a minute," and running upstairs, returning shortly with a wrapped package of her own.
Now its Mum and Dad's turn to look on as we exchange gifts, too—our first.
I'm extremely surprised—and very pleasantly so, too—when I pull back the paper to find what Holly quickly informs me is the precise copy of Hamlet that Mark Whishaw studied for the 1972 production of Hamlet. My parents are both impressed by this, too, and there's a short anecdote shared by them both—they'd happened to attend that exact performance with each other in London, just four years before I was born.
After another minute of beating around the bush, Holly finally accepts my own papered parcel into her hands and opens it with the utmost care, as though the paper itself is infinitely precious. Once she's gotten it open, she sits there and stares, speechless, for a few long seconds, before putting her hand over her mouth and looking up at me—literally, with tears welling in her giant eyes. My parents look at me proudly and with a hint of approving mischief in their eyes, as Holly picks up the book—a first printing edition of her favorite novel, Great Expectations, printed in the year 1861—and flips carefully through each page.
The book, I'm just starting to realize, is her personal equivalent of a holy relic. And she looks up at me a second time as though I am the head prophet of her sacred religion. For a few seconds, watching the disbelief play across her face, I feel my body tense up with a sudden fear that I've intimidated her, that it was too extreme a decision, that I should have gone for something more tame. But quickly I understand that, though the fact of the gift is unbelievable to her, she's still absolutely over the moon.
"This is the definition of insanity, Ben," are the first words out of her mouth, making both my parents chuckle good-naturedly on the loveseat across from ours. She stutters for a second, shaking her head to herself, and finally managing, with a slight squeak of nervousness in her tone, "This must have cost two fortunes."
"Oh, no, I found it for next to nothing at an estate sale in London," I say, half-lying, quickly dismissing the subject, nonetheless, making her smirk widely and administer a playful smack to my arm as she continues to look down at the book, eyes welling in the purest version of wonder.
Shortly after, Holly goes up to her room to put Great Expectations in a safe place, and get dressed for the day. While she's gone, my parents take advantage of our solitude, as I'd known to expect, and I answer all their probing questions truthfully, telling them of the development which took place just last night, to which they respond with tender smiles, looking at me gently, and then looking at each other, seeming to revel silently in times gone by, recalling the simple beginnings of their own lifelong saga of love. I feel, sitting across from them, as though I'm staring into the face of what could be my future... but I don't want to get too giddy or ahead of myself.
Around lunchtime, Tom video-calls, catching Holly and I off-guard where we'd been sitting, leaning against each other, on the comfortable rug near the fireplace. "The two of you are NOT about to make me jealous," he says, catching Holly's head on my shoulder just before she moves it out of modesty and surprise. He's wearing a bizarre santa hat and his glasses, sitting on the couch in his London apartment, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. "Look at my wonderful cuddle companion... C'mere..." And both Holly and I make the appropriate sounds of endearment as his dog joins him in the frame. He presses his face into the dog's, and makes a point of sticking his tongue out at us before setting him down again. "It's wonderful to see you again, Holly!"
"Lovely to see you, too, Mr. Hiddleston," she responds, a slightly sly note in her voice.
At this, Tom dons a facial expression of mock despair and says with a wince of half-worry, "I knew it would only be so long before you found me out."
"A friend of mine," she explains, being admirably easy-going, "took me to see Crimson Peak in October—it was very good by the way-and I was rather startled when I recognized you. I'm sorry if I offended you back in London with my unawareness."
Tom shakes his head instantly, and I can tell he's flattered and impressed by her politeness and considerate nature. He smiles back at her, making sure to assure her of her faultlessness, before she excuses herself, leaving us to talk in private while she hurries off to help my parents with something. I tell him about the exquisitely special copy of Hamlet she gave me, and he takes this as evidence that she knows me quite well already, which I can't deny I believe, too, is true. Over the past months, Holly has come up frequently in our conversations together, and he asks me once more how things are going now that we've met in person again. I inform him of everything, and am bolstered by the knowledge of his happiness for me and my situation. He tells me he hopes things will continue to work out, and that whatever is the best thing for both of us will be the thing that happens.
Holly, too, gets on the phone a bit later, in the living room, reaching out first to Alexandra who, as I understand it, has left Columbia and is staying with her family for the holidays. I overhear her talking while I help Mum in the kitchen: "We walked along Hadrian's wall, Alex! ...I'm not a nerd, I'm just a person with a healthy appreciation for history which, sadly, most of my generation-my best friend included—has lost. No offense... I know you're champing at the bit to get to the theater for that new Tarantino movie... yeah, yeah... Mm-hmm... I'll be waiting eagerly for a minute-by-minute analysis of all that blood and gore... Of course, I'm joking, Alex, you know I can't stand that stuff... Okay... You, too... Bye!"
Her next phone conversation is much more somber, much shorter and less friendly, and it seems like something that takes a lot out of her because, when I go back out to sit with her, she looks very drained, but still satisfied. When I ask her who she'd spoken to, she tells me it was her Aunt, and that she'd felt the need to call and check on her after a long period of silence between them. The woman had taken her in after she'd run away from her father's clutches, and that had meant the world, even if she had been constantly in and out of rehab for alcoholism, and an extremely strict and envious woman. In one of our powerful moments of emotional intimacy, Holly tells me in confidence that she no longer feels the need to forget everything about her past—she is beginning to harvest pieces that were positive and strengthened her for the better, even if they were few, and beginning to try to appreciate them, even if most of her first seventeen years of life were pure hell. And for these efforts; for her extreme strength of heart and mind, I admire her endlessly.
My parents and I revel in Holly's company through the New year and until the seventh of January; she has to be back at school for the spring semester of her Sophomore year on the eleventh.
During those precious winter days, she and I continue to sleep in the same bed, and to fall deeper into each other, keeping our inherent lightness and love around us, but not being afraid to question ourselves—in the safety of each other's company.
We talk about the dangers of our closeness: the difference between our ages, the fact that we live across the ocean from each other, the fact of my profession and what comes with it, the fact that she is still coming up in the world and discovering herself and her capabilities as an individual.
But in the end we decide that we can see no reason to avoid the more important emotional bond which has formed so quickly and so deeply, and decide to keep going with it, and see where it goes—but tentatively—for we do realize that we really, really care for each other, and can also have fun, which is of great importance to us both.
With her, I feel different than I've felt with anyone else in my life, and it's a marvelous difference, too. There's an inherent safety in her arms, and the warmth that fills my heart when she tells me she feels safe with me, in turn, is unsurpassable.
We go out to the village a few more times before the day of her departure, go on more walks along Northumberland's stretch of Hadrian's wall-which she can't get enough of—and read to each other in the nights, before falling asleep, her back pressed to my chest, the warmth of our breath congealing into a forcefield against the rest of the world.
So, it's all the more devastating when, on the evening of the seventh, she has to leave. She says goodbye to my parents, Mum failing to hide her tears, and they promise to meet her again soon, the next time she and I can see each other, likely in London-which is where they also live during most of the year. I drive her to the airport, both of us keeping up conversation for the duration of the snowy ride, to keep from falling into a quiet, pensive sadness.
In the front of the airport I get out of the car to give her one final, tight embrace, before I'm required to let her go, watching her walk through the sliding glass doors, waving at me once more from beyond before going out of sight. I get back in the car for the sake of caution, and sit there for a while, considering that this feeling of potential loss will have to become normal if we continue on our path of togetherness, before driving back to my parents' house, my body already beginning to ache in a bittersweet way from her absence.
Holly
I get off the airplane in a daze, having not been able to sleep, this time, for the loss of Benedict's presence, which I've grown so dangerously, helplessly accustomed to over our precious days together. There's still no suitcase to claim—there's been no news of its whereabouts yet—so I pass through the airport and out into the polluted New York air with only my carry-on backpack. I hail a cab, still in the same daze, my heart heavy with a hint of depression at my sudden, harsh loss.
I'm so dazed, in fact, that it's not until I'm halfway to the Columbia dorms in the taxi, that I realize I'd forgotten to take my phone off airplane mode. I set about doing it, belatedly, hoping that I haven't made either Benedict or Alexandra worried by the mistake. But the moment I turn airplane mode off, my phone suddenly receives an entire storm of messages and missed call / voicemail alerts—and I can't help but be both startled and panicked by all the buzzing, certain that something must have gone terribly wrong over the seven hours I'd been in the sky.
And I soon find out, once the storm has stopped and I can open my messages and actually read them, this is actually the case. I get the gist quickly from Alex's messages (which are more explicit about what has actually happened, than Ben's more vague requests for me to call him as soon as I can, for me to avoid panicking), and I decide to call her, first, considering the time in England. She answers before the first ring has even come to an end.
"Did you see it yet?" she says, her voice stinging my already inflamed panic, which has actual tears of worry and confusion pricking at my eyes.
"No, I just read your messages-"
"Look it up, right now, Holly." I know from the worried tone of her voice that this is not something to joke about, and I do, looking up Benedict's name in the google search bar. And, to my dismay, the first thing to show up, is a series of latest articles, all centering around a group of photographs taken just seven hours ago at the airport in Northumberland, of Benedict and I sitting inside his car, standing and embracing outside of it. "The entire internet is having a field day over it," Alex says, almost in narration as I flip through article after article, dramatic headings and captions staring off the screen at me, everyone trying to figure out the identity of the young woman who appears to be so intimate with none other than the famous actor Benedict Cumberbatch.
"Oh, my God," I say, finding it hard to breathe. I can't stop scrolling, and scrolling, all the blood seeming to suddenly leave my body as I realize that being with Benedict is going to be much, much harder than I thought. That something like this has happened so immediately and on such a great scale is terrifying to me.
"Holly, please don't hyperventilate. We're going to figure this out, okay? You'll get back safe, and then, we'll call Benedict, and figure out where to go from here..." But she trails off, understanding the futility of reason in a situation like this, so unfamiliar to us both, so terrifying, so easily thrusting me into an entirely new territory—a new identify.
"Alex," I hear myself say, feeling myself slowly turning to ice. "What on earth am I going to do?"
Author's note:
Oh, for it to be the winter Holidays! You know that really weird feeling you get when you watch a special Christmas episode of a show but it's actually high summer where you are? That's the feeling I got writing this—kind of weird, but DEFINITELY worth it!
Regarding Benedict's Christmas gift: I must confess that both the actor Mark Whishaw and the 1972 production of Hamlet are FICTIONAL—though Mark is the first name of one famous Hamlet, and Whishaw the last name of another, that is as true as that little part is going to get. Had to go through that little loophole for the sake of an interesting / special / personal holiday gift.
I am so, SO sorry for the delay on this chapter! I was in the car for eight hours on Wednesday, on my way to visit some relatives, and then had some personal family issues to sort out, as well as technical difficulties with the internet! I wanted to give you guys an extra-long chapter as a reward for your patience (thank you SO much, I am seriously SO sorry about this)—and after some chocolate ice cream (my version of caffeine) and way too many hours at the keyboard (seriously, at least ten hours all in all, you guys, oh my goodness gracious), here we are. I'm sure there were some horrendous typos in this chapter—please forgive those. I will be very busy over the next couple days, so I might not be updating every twenty-four hours, but don't worry! Things will mellow out soon, and then we will get back to business!
In the beginning of the chapter when Holly is worrying about meeting Ben's parents, she references a movie, "Meet the Parents." If you haven't seen it, it's absolutely hilarious and I would totally recommend it to anyone who has a slightly crude or cynical sense of humor... A man (Ben Stiller) goes to his girlfriend's parents' house for the first time, and, basically, everything goes to shit. In the best way possible.
***Also, the Quentin Tarantino movie Alex is on her way to see is The Hateful Eight- another personal favorite, but definitely not for the weak-stomached! (Yikes).
I loved this chapter! How about you? How do you think Benedict and Holly are going to handle this new development?
Time to collapse in bed and finally get some sleep...
Une-papillon-de-nuit
1 August, 2020