When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,127

on top and shut the door behind me. The house was quiet.

“Hello?” I called again.

“In here,” Dad’s voice came from the den.

My father had the blinds drawn and sat in his recliner, feet up. A rerun of the 2003 Niners-Giants wildcard game played on the flat screen.

Dad smiled as I came in. “Smells great. Let’s eat in here, okay?”

I frowned. “Where’s Amelia?”

“Out. She met some loudmouth in a Camaro and he took her to the Boardwalk.”

I sank down in the chair beside his. “She knew I was coming, right?”

“Who knows what’s going through her head,” he said, his eyes on the screen.

I gritted my teeth. I’d moved out of the house six months ago, to my own apartment not far from the shop. Amelia hadn’t taken it well but had never missed my twice-weekly dinner visits.

“What’s this guy like?” I asked, setting the pizza box on the coffee table and handing my dad a napkin and a Coke.

“You know the type—bad boy, leather jacket, no ambition to speak of.”

My jaw clenched. My sister was on the verge of dropping out of high school and had recently added a parade of lowlife guys with “no ambition to speak of” to her downward spiral.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“What can we do?”

“You could try talking to her, Dad,” I said, trying to keep the bitter accusation out of my mouth.

“I have, but she doesn’t listen. She doesn’t want my advice, son. She needs her mom.”

So do I.

I buried the thought. I had enough shit to deal with without diving into that black pit too.

Dad and I ate pizza and watched the game.

“Look at that,” Dad said as Jeff Garcia evaded a half-dozen tackles and ran for twenty yards. “You had moves like that, River. A sixth-sense about where the defenders were coming from. You could see running lanes before they opened while still keeping an eye on the receivers. All options on the table.”

“Yeah, I did.” I swallowed a lump of pizza that tasted like clay.

“I was talking to Sam Blaylock the other day. He says both Chance and Donte Weatherly are likely to go early in this year’s draft. Isn’t that something?”

“Great,” I said dully.

Three years later and my dad was still holding tight to my imaginary football career the way he held the remote, playing and replaying it in his mind.

I cleared my throat and put on a smile.

“But hey, I have some good news. I secured the loan for another garage extension. Construction can start as soon as next month. Already have two clients lined up and two more hires to help run the rest of the shop.”

“That’s fantastic, son,” Dad said, his eyes on the game. “You’ve really taken the business way beyond anything I’d imagined for it. I’m proud of you.”

“I wish you’d be there more, Dad. Sitting around here isn’t good for you.”

“You have things in hand. You don’t need me.”

“Yeah, I do. It’s still your shop.”

“Nah, it’s yours, River. With all the additions…”

“That’s the restoration. We still need you in the garage. The customers ask for you all the time. Dropping in once or twice a week isn’t enough.”

“We’ll see.”

I sighed and cleaned up the dinner.

“I’m sure Amelia is sad to miss you,” Dad said when I returned from the kitchen. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow. Never hurts to see your ugly mug around these parts.”

“I can’t tomorrow.” I cleared my throat. “I’m going out.”

“With friends?”

“On a date. With a guy.”

Dad’s smile froze and his gaze darted back to the screen. “Anyone I know?”

“No. Someone I met at the shop.”

My father nodded and said nothing else, and suddenly I knew how Amelia felt—lost and scattered. I wished I had Mom to talk to about a first date with someone who wasn’t Holden. My guts twisted with nerves, but mostly with an ugly feeling. As if I were betraying us.

But there is no us.

After I’d left him in Paris, Holden had seemingly pulled his life together. Late last year, he’d published a book, Gods of Midnight, that was now topping bestseller lists and garnering major acclaim from every corner of the literary world. According to an article in Vanity Fair, he was about to embark on a thirty-city book tour.

Book tours and interviews, but not one fucking word to me.

I’d promised Holden I’d wait for him no matter how long it took, but the years were getting longer. With every passing day, it seemed clearer that he’d moved on. Maybe met someone else. Or lots of someone elses,