w/ @its-ol-good
Holland didn’t let many people into her house. It was a fortress of her own design, complete with walls of cardboard boxes and junk stacked high. It was dark and dusty, and the air conditioner was long shot. There were things that leaked and there were cracked windows abound, but it was all hers, and Holland refused to let anyone in. Refused to let anyone judge the dreariness of it all.
But, as always, Oliver was an exception the the rule. There were a handful of reasons why, but top of the list was the fact that Holland didn’t think the man kept one mean thought in his body. Whether or not her house was a disaster zone, he wouldn’t judge. Besides, Holland thought he’d get a kick out of it all -- the memorabilia and such. She had grown used to having a house filled with movie props, old scores, golden globes, that old Oscar gathering dust on the mantle -- but something told Holland that Oliver’s visit might reinvigorate the pride she held for her parents, and the tiny little bit of magic they brought to the silver screen.
When he rang the doorbell, Holland nearly ran to answer it. She wasn’t excited. No. Of course not. Holland didn’t get excited about anything. It was too much effort. She was just ... quick. That’s what it was. She was quick on her feet. “Ollie,” she said, welcoming him in with a wave. “C’mon in. It’s way too fucking hot out there.”