Holly wasn't dead. She wasn't bones in a grave and she wasn't a blood-stain on concrete and she wasn't the men she'd fucked for four years or the basement she'd lived in. She wasn't a cautionary tale anymore and she wasn't in Jersey where the grime stuck to everything and probably would have snagged along for the ride. She didn't see herself as failure: who did? She was walking, talking and the damage? Whatever damage was parked under a layer of don't-give-a-shit, shellacked on with cherry-colored nail polish.
She slid into his arms without question. People didn't hug, in Repose. So maybe they did, but it wasn't the 'shit, I'm glad we're alive' bond that strung them together like beads on the same shitty necklace. People here? Hugged because it was church or because it was Christmas, or because they were friends. She missed her niche, whether it had eroded in years of black darkness and a macabre sense of humor cultivated to keep a light on, even if the strip-lights were dark, or whether it would have naturally drifted away. Her niche? Was three people who didn't manage to stay in one another's periphery long enough to count for an orbit. Holly? Was totally okay orbiting other people. She didn't crave spotlight and center stage, even if she did a two-hour stint at the club. What she wanted? Was to be seen, and that was one secret she wasn't spilling.
"Of course you, don't give me that shit," she pulled back, fond and a smile and an eyeroll. "So what gives? Not that I'm not ecstatic you're around, but if you're weird," she looked up, wild curls and questions, even if she didn't actually ask.