I should not be doing this, I should not be doing this, I should not be doing this.
And yet my fingers continue to type away Satan's name in the google search bar and click on the little magnifying glass on the right. I glance around as if he can see what I'm doing under my covers in the dark and comfort of my own room. Knowing him, he probably can with his evil little powers.
I click on the first available link at the top of my search and, unsurprisingly, it's an article about how Holden blew his shoulder out and lost his chances with the NFL. It happened only a year after he was drafted and playing as a wide receiver for the Minnesota Vikings.
Holden was taking their team by storm, the new golden boy who was full of talent and potential and the promise of making it big someday. Holden was drafted straight out of college and despite being the youngest among his team, he obviously possessed a natural skill for the sport. He was wicked fast and his intuition about the ball's position on the field made him the best wide receiver in state. Within months of being drafted, his face was all over various sport tabloids and magazine issues. It didn't hurt that he was good-looking as heck. A lot of his front cover features were body-related and I can remember passing through the state of Minnesota and seeing his gloriously taut and ripped muscles on every stand. He was our hometown hero.
And then, one day when the Minnesota Vikings were up against the Chicago Bears, Holden was body-checked by a left guard and the impact to the ground was hard enough to dislocate his shoulder. That day is so vivid to me, even now. Our entire hometown was watching that game, every sport bar or regular bar playing the match. I'd secretly been watching from the kitchen and pretending like I didn't care about the game but even I couldn't stop my gasp when Holden was knocked to the ground. Even on television it looked painful. And then the camera zoomed in on Holden who was on the ground and clutching his arm with a death-grip. A teammate took his helmet off and I remember the way my throat locked up at the palpable agony on his face, skin flushed and sweaty and eyes full of unshed tears. He was rushed off the field and then the whole match went to shit. The Vikings lost the playoffs, Holden was sent into surgery for a torn ligament, and the team botched their qualifications for the super bowl.
All eyes were on Holden after that. Every media outlet closely followed his recovery as he worked with a physical therapist. It was a grueling few months before we received the news that Holden sustained a permanent shoulder instability and could never play professionally again.
Reading the article and being taken back to that moment eight years ago makes my chest twist painfully. I feel a flash of guilt that I had taken a poke at his injury the first night we met after over a decade. And then I weaseled my way into his sexy times and made a whole new commotion. I haven't been very neighbourly, have I? And all because I'm still a little bitter about my lost friendship with him? It's wrong and I make a mental note to put in more effort to be nice to him the next time I see him. He'll always be Satan to me but...I can try. Right?
I close my laptop with a sigh and wonder if there's something I can do. A nice gesture or something. I resist the urge to throw up at the prospect of it alone. Me, making nice with the devil. Imagine! I stick my tongue out and make a disgruntled noise, then shake off the sensation of spiders crawling up my spine. Dramatic? Maybe. But he's my nemesis so I get to have this moment, especially if I plan on being the bigger person. At least that's how I justify it to myself as I walk around my room and shudder like I was tasered.
Eventually I settle on an idea that's decent enough. Nothing too big or small. I rip a piece of paper from the notebook on my nightstand and scribble the words on. And by scribble I mean make the words barely intelligible so he won't know what the hell I'm saying and I won't have to do what I'm forcing myself to do. Then I make the short trek between our apartments and slide the note through his mailbox. As soon as it slips through I haul ass and slam my door behind me. This is hard enough. I don't need Holden catching me in the act and gloating in my face.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter and I grab it, grateful for the distraction. I answer the incoming call with a grin and a moment later my parents' faces appear, smushed together as they both attempt to fit in the frame. Adorbs.
"Hey, guys!" I flop down on my couch. "What's up?"
"About time you answered our calls," Mom reprimands immediately. She suddenly gets way too close to the screen and all I can see is the corner portion of her glasses. "This thing is working right?"
The tip of Dad's nose appears in the top corner and I can see right up his nostril. "Honey? Hon—check the volume, Rhonda."
"Is it this one?" The screen suddenly goes vacant.
"What did you do? No, no, you turned the phone off. That's the power button."
"Why would they make it look exactly the same as the volume button? That's ridiculous."
"Technology, I tell you. How do you turn this thing back on?"
"I'm pressing. It's—it's not working. Gerald! Help me out here."
"Guys," I try to call over their bickering. "The power button is on the right side of the phone. The volume buttons are on the left. There's two, right? Hit the side where there's only one."
There's more bickering and then they both come back on the screen. Well, most of them. It's still Mom's eye and Dad's nostril.
"There you are!" Dad cheers. "Can. You. Hear. Me?"
Oh, Christ. "Yes, Dad. I can hear you fine."
Mom suddenly screams. "Ahh! What did I do? What was that? Did I take a picture? Sierra, it's showing the picture and your face at the same time. I think I broke the phone!"
"Mom, chill! You took a screenshot."
"I didn't shoot anything! Why won't the picture go away?"
"Just swipe it to the left."
"What does she mean by swipe?" Both of Dad's nostrils come into the frame. "Sierra, honey. Can. You. Still. Hear. Me?"
Oh my God. I smack my hand over my face. You'd think they just discovered phones or something. I taught them how to use FaceTime a year ago and every call still manages to go like this.
"Mom, look at me." I show them my finger and motion it to the side. "That's all you have to do. Click the picture and swipe just like this."
There's a pause and then, "Sierra! Where did it go? That was a very nice picture. Can you bring it back?"
"It's automatically saved in your photo album."
"The one upstairs? Gerald! Isn't that amazing!"
"No, Mom. The photo album on your phone."
Dad giggles. "Rhonda, I think it's the album that has that naughty picture you took for me."
"Ew! Dad! Reel it in. That's TMI."
"What is a TMI?"
"I've heard of that!" Mom chimes in before I can answer. "Totally, moronic, idiots."
"Sierra!" Dad scolds. "Do not call your father an idiot. What's gotten into you?"
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I pinch my eyes shut and count to three. They're your parents no matter what, they're your parents no matter what, they're your parents no matter what.
"Holden lives across from me," I blurt, knowing it'll distract them. I can't believe my only options were to keep up that fuck-fest or admit the one thing I'd planned on keeping secret from them. But it works and Mom and Dad both gasp together, their faces smushed together again as they stare at me with stars in their eyes.
"Well, I'll be!" Mom hoots. "This is fate!"
"I always did like that boy," Dad agrees. "How's that shoulder of his?"
"Sierra! Do you still love him!"
"Mom!" I gape. "I never loved him!"
"The little thing was smitten," Dad adds wistfully, ignoring me. "Remember when she used to sit on our front steps so she could 'accidentally' catch him on his runs? Wasn't that adorable, Rhonda?"
"My baby is going to give me grandbabies!"
Oh. My. Fuck. Tell me this isn't happening. I sputter, at a total loss. "What is wrong with you guys?"
"Let us talk to the strapping lad," Dad declares in with a God-awful attempt at a British accent. "He hasn't come home to Minnesota in years. We miss him."
"I will do no such thing! I've barely had one decent conversation with him myself."
Mom gasps in dramatic fashion. "Sierra, now that is just unkind. Don't tell me the two of you are still bickering away."
"Are not," I defend guiltily.
"Rhonda, that's how kids flirt these days. I heard it has something to do with sexual tension."
"So you and Holden have sexual tension? I knew it!"
I sink into the couch, covering my burning face. Kill me. Kill me now.
"Gerald, we embarrassed her. You promised we were going to be the cool parents for this call."
"Honey, I'm trying! I mentioned sex!"
"You guys!" I burst. I've only been away from my parents for two weeks and have somehow forgotten how overwhelming they are. All of my friends have always loved them and I agree that my parents are cool as fuck but when they're your parents...that's a different story.
"How's the hospital?" I ask in another attempt at changing the subject. Did I mention my parents are doctors? Dad's a general surgeon and Mom's a scrub nurse and the two have worked together for years. They're both ridiculously smart yet clueless at the same time and I have no idea how that works but that's them.
"No celebrities today," Dad gives me the answer I was expecting.
Ever since he treated famous boxer Asher Pryce from a bullet wound, he's been boasting about what a hotshot and how "in-demand" he is. Which is a total lie, of course. Dad treated him three years ago, way before he got famous, so there's absolutely no credibility on his end for it. But we let him have it because it is pretty cool and Dad's retiring soon and considers that moment a highlight of his career.
The conversation takes off in the direction I intended, finally, and I listen to my parents with a small smile on my face. God, I miss these crazy idiots so much. It's not my first time living without them but it is the first time I'm not a mere ten minute or half an hour drive away. I miss Minnesota more than I realized. But life here has been...interesting enough to keep me occupied.
My eyes seek out my front door, wondering if that note got to its owner. Then I push the thought out of my head because I promised myself I wouldn't make a big deal about it. Holden Rey can never be a big deal to me again.
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A/N
Crying of laughter. Does Sierra have the best parents or what?
Also, those who read my FD series, did you squeal a little at the mention of Asher? I sure did.
So excited to see what's next for Holden and Sierra! I need more one-on-one of those two and their banter! Who else?
Please VOTE, comment and share if you liked this chapter!
Happy Reading :)