When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,130
texts. Live your life.”
My life. Whatever that was.
I met Brad at El Palomar, off Pacific Avenue. He was already there and waved me over to a table for two in the center of the restaurant. Brad had dressed in jeans, a blue button down, and a sport coat that made me feel casual by comparison.
“Hey, good to see you,” he said, smiling brightly. He had a nice smile. Thick, light brown hair, nice build, nice eyes.
He’s so…nice, said a sly voice that sounded like Holden. How nice for you…
I smirked to myself, but phantom Holden was right. Brad Martin was nice with a capital N, and he’d make someone a great boyfriend, it just wasn’t going to be me. Before the waiter came to take our drink order I knew we weren’t getting to a second date.
I listened hard as Brad told me about himself, letting him do all the talking while despair sank its teeth deeper with every passing minute. I wanted Holden. Three years gone except for one night in Paris and I was still waiting for him.
When the check came, I grabbed for it quick, ready for the night to be over.
Brad’s hand covered mine over the little tray. “I should get this. I asked you.”
“Nope, I’ve got it.”
I slid my hand out from under his dry touch. I’d wasted his entire night. The least I could do was pay for dinner.
Outside the restaurant, we drew on our jackets and lingered in that awkward, what-do-we-do-now, post-date silence.
“You want to go somewhere?” Brad asked. “Grab a drink?” His nice smile turned suggestive. “I had a good time tonight. Kind of don’t want the night to be over.”
He leaned into me, his breath salty and tinged with his margarita’s biting sweetness. For a heartbeat, I froze, willing to let it happen. For Brad to kiss or even fuck Holden out of me so I could get on with my life.
Instinctively, I reared back before Brad’s lips could touch mine. “Sorry. I can’t. Early morning tomorrow.”
“Uh oh,” Brad said, smiling tightly. “Pretty sure that’s code for this isn’t going to work.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you… I’m getting out of a relationship.”
“Oh yeah? Did it end pretty recently?”
It hasn’t ended.
“Yeah, pretty recent. I thought I was ready to get out there, but I’m just not.”
“Well, it was a nice dinner anyway.”
Brad gave me a hug, and again, I waited for my body—deprived of sex for three years—to respond. But Brad smelled different, felt different in my arms, and I let him go easily.
“Have a good one, River.”
“Yep. You too.”
Holden, you asshole. Where are you?
We went our separate ways, and I drove back to my apartment. I flipped on the light and tossed my keys on the table by the entry. Hard. My heart pounded in my chest and I fought for control.
I stripped down to my underwear and climbed into bed with Gods of Midnight. Again.
Because I’m fucking pathetic.
But in moments, I was lost in the complex story of one man, Oliver, who lives a seemingly perfect life—loving husband and career—but who dreams of another version of himself every night: Jules—who lives a wild, reckless life of sex, drugs, alcohol…and who dreams of Oliver.
Holden seamlessly wove their narratives together until the climax where Oliver and Jules see each other on opposite sides of the same bathroom mirror in a seedy club in Amsterdam. When their reflections touch, they’re transported to a black lake in a snow-covered wasteland. Both struggle to the surface but only one climbs out, shivering and naked. The reader is left not knowing which one emerged or if either truly survived at all. Maybe the life of one man was merely a drug-induced hallucination of the other as he died in that Amsterdam bathroom. Maybe not.
I felt Holden’s conflict dripping from every page, his yearning to be free of his demons, and the relentless power they wielded over him. But the open ending was a big question mark, leaving me without answers.
A sudden growl erupting out of my chest, I hurled the book across the room. The hardcover smacked the dresser and landed face down, pages bent and the spine dented.
“Fuck.”
The silence in the small apartment crowded in, and I nearly let go. Nearly screamed and let every ounce of grief—for my mother and for Holden—come pouring out. I felt it rise in my chest, like a boulder that needed to be coughed up.