It's November and I invite Holt to Thanksgiving with my family. Eloise has already met him, and so far she's followed through her assurance that she wouldn't date him. I mean, they might be doing it like they do on the Discovery Channel behind my back, without me knowing, but what I don't know doesn't hurt me. And I'm not going to leave Holt alone another year. That would break my heart. I wouldn't have the strength to just wave at him as I leave him behind in our apartment and he just looks at me with his sad little smile.
He argues against it at first, but Eloise comes by and helps convince him.
We all drive together to my parents' place. Eloise sits in the back and naps the whole ride—her midterms kicked her butt. And Holt is sitting beside me, happily chatting and sorting through the pictures on his camera's memory card.
I smile. I wish this scenario would be a little different and I could hold his hand. I wish I was allowed to do that. I've found myself wishing to be allowed to do little, simple things around Holt more and more lately. It's annoying. Sure, I totally want to ravage him. But I would also want to be able to just hold his hand or brush a hand through his hair, or touch his stupid moles. I wish I could wake up in the morning and find him in the kitchen and we'd just smile at each other a knowing, private smile, the kind that people in couple can share. And it's stupid because what Holt and I have is so close to those little things. I live with him, I'm always around him, he smiles at me in the morning. I'm so close to those silly platonic gestures, so close but not quite. And that's what kills me.
After a long drive, we're finally home. It feels good to park in the familiar driveway. My parents visit Eloise and I often, but it's a lot more comforting to be back here.
Now, what's kind of amusing is the way Holt can't seem to handle himself during his whole stay.
There's a lot of bumping into furniture and doorframes because he's too awkward. My dad's a sweetheart so he's always smiling at him and saying it was okay, but my mom is a bitch like me so she's always hiding her laughs in her hands.
At one point, when Holt is in the bathroom, I tell her, "Mom, come on, control yourself."
She giggles a little. "I'm sorry, he's just too adorable."
"I know, so don't make him more uncomfortable than he already is," I narrow my eyes at her.
"Should I tell him that we don't have a guest bedroom and that he needs to cuddle with you?"
"Mom."
"What?"
"Sometimes I feel bad for my poor innocent father."
"Don't, your dad's got it preeeeetty good."
"Ugh."
When I drive us back to real life, happy from the nice weekend, Eloise and Holt both sleeping in the car with me, I brush my index against Holt's pinkie. And then I clutch the steering wheel again.
So close, but not quite.