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Holland stood there looking at where the house once stood. His eyebrows furrowed deeply.
It was almost like he could still hear the sound of her voice. Her accent. The way she whispered sweet-nothings in his ear until they both fell asleep. Almost like he could feel the ghost of her warm embrace. The press of her lips against his.
He stood there. Feeling the tears well up in his eyes.
This guilt he would carry with him for the rest of his life. The ring hanging against his chest, Holly's smile. All of it was a reminder of her, and how he failed.
His hands twitched at his sides with a want. He itched to hold her in his arms again. To apologize for their last fight, and for not believing her. To tell her he loved her.
"I'm sorry." His voice broke. The sound was quiet compared to how it usually was. He didn't even believe in ghosts or spirits, but he hoped. He hoped she could hear him.
He felt the warm stream of tears against his cheeks, and it made his chest tighten with sobs that threatened to escape.
He wanted for a complete home again. To not be alone. He hated the way Holly looked at him, and yet he could never get it right. He was a fuck-up. And most importantly, he missed his wife.
"Fuck I'm so sorry." He cried. A helpless sound escaped him before he could stop it. Wobbling slightly as he shook, he lowered himself onto his knees in the grass. His hands fighting for purchase against the strands and soil.
His knees digging uncomfortably into the hard ground as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against it. His whole body shaking with sobs.
Holland March wished in this moment that it had been him. That it was him who'd died in the fire. That Holly had someone caring for her who wasn't selfish, or a bad person. That his wife was the one breathing the smoggy air of Los Angeles.
Holland woke up the next day curled in a ball on the now dampened grass. His back ached in protest as he slowly sat up.
He stared at the ground for a moment before standing up. Stumbling when he was still bent at the waist.
His walk back to the rental was nothing short of painful. His back was screaming at him, and he was getting a pitiful look from Healy. Who was sat outside against one of the concrete walls of the flower beds out front.
"When did you get here?" Holland mumbled, stalking into the house with Healy a step or two behind him.
"At eight. Like we agreed on yesterday." Healy raised an eyebrow when he saw Holland beeline it for the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter, "Bit early, no?"
Holland turned his head slightly, looking towards the counter. He chose to ignore Healy. Grabbing a glass and pouring himself a hefty helping of the liquor.
"No." He finally replied. Hissing slightly at the burn it left in the back of his throat, "And, I don't remember agreeing on eight yesterday."
Healy just stared at Holland, sliding his hands into his jean pockets, "Who pissed in your cereal this morning,"
"Fucking—nobody. Jesus." Holland huffed, putting his glass back down onto the counter particularly hard. The harsh and bitter motion slightly startled Healy, his eyebrows furrowed.
"You sure? You seem... not like yourself." The older man pushed. Stepping further into the house. Leaning against the island in front of Holland, who was now bracing himself with his hands. Head bowed between his shoulders.
Holland tried, he really did. He didn't want to cry in front of Healy. It wasn't exactly a masculinity thing, he'd made a fool of himself the first day they'd met, and every day since. He wasn't the picture of masculinity either. He just didn’t want to cry. Not about this, anyway.
The tears started flowing before his breathing stuttered, and the shake of his shoulders started.
"Hey. Woah, March? Hey what—" Healy stood from his leaning position, his hands uselessly flexing as he looked around the rental. Searching for any sign of Holly.
"March, are you okay?" Healy asked, his voice lost its gruff edge. Holland just shook his head in whatever direction he could manage. Healy sighed heavily, watching the younger man sob in the kitchen.
"I miss her. So much, man." Holland said wetly between dry heaves and hiccups. He wasn't one for crying, opting to drown everything that stirred even the smallest twinge with any alcohol he could get his hands on. This was new.
"I... is there anything I can do?" Healy asked cautiously. His eyebrows furrowing as he watched his business partner fall apart.
Holland sniffled between soft cries, shaking his head 'no'. There wasn't anything anyone could do. There would be a void—an itch, inside him until the day he died. And he'd just have to man up and deal with it. His wife wasn't coming back.
Days later, Holly had caught her dad crying on the couch awhile after he thought she'd gone to bed.
She stood there, watching as Holland raked his hands through his hair, holding his head between his knees. His body shaking violently with his hushed sobs.
Holland was a few drinks in. Realistically more than a few. Holly had grumbled something vague on her way to bed, and it crashed down on him. The weight of being a single parent. One who was barely making do. He tried fighting it as much as possible. Wiping his tears with the back of his hand as he sipped his beer, mindlessly flipping through channels on the TV until he couldn't see anymore.
Holland shifted, lifting his head up. Startling when he see's Holly stood nearby.
"Shit. Hey kid." He gave her a soft smile, blinking away the remaining tears.
"Dad... are you okay?" Her voice was small, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sleep shirt. And Holland felt his heart break again for a different reason.
"Yeah." He breathed, blinking again. Hand moving to wipe the tears away. Holly looked lost. She'd never seen her dad cry like this. She shuffled towards him. Careful to not knock over the old bottles of beer, she sits next to him on the couch.
"I miss her too." She whispered, leaning her head on Hollands shoulder. Holland wrapped an arm around her, letting his tears fall again.
He pressed his lips and nose into the top of Holly's head, inhaling deeply like he was trying to smell her. In the same way he did the day he and his wife had brought her home from the hospital.
They both were missing part of them. But they had each other, even if Holland was a monumental fuck-up, and Holly hated him at times. They were all they had.