When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,133

I’m twenty-one years old. They can’t disown me—”

“It’s a symbolic gesture, to be sure,” Bernard said in a low voice.

“They don’t want me to have their name.”

“That’s the short of it.”

I leaned against the wall of the anteroom, the phone clutched in my hand so hard, my knuckles ached. “What about my aunt and uncle? Any word from them?”

I hated how pathetic I sounded. Weak and needy. Reg and Mags had moved back to their Florida mansion after I left Santa Cruz. They had no way to contact me, except through Bernard.

“I have not heard from them, no.”

I nodded, conscious that Mette and Elliot were waiting for me.

“Forget what I told you to tell my parents,” I said. “This is my answer to their two requests: fuck you and fuck off. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to give a reading of my banned book.”

I hung up, turned the phone on silent and shoved it in my pocket with trembling hands. My therapist’s advice came back: I breathed over the whispering voices, listening to the soft in-and-out instead of them.

I’m alive. I’m still here.

When I felt warmer, I forced a bright smile for Mette and Elliot.

“Sorry about that. A little unpleasantness with the family.”

“Are you all right?” Mette asked.

“No,” I said, smiling gratefully. “But I’m getting there.”

Mette smiled gently and pressed a copy of Gods of Midnight into my hand. “They’re going to love you.”

And that’s not nothing, I thought and stepped out onto the stage.

Thunderous applause greeted me, accompanied by a few cheers and whistles. It rolled through me—the approval and acceptance…I almost turned back around. But I sucked in a steadying breath and gripped the edge of the podium with both hands.

“Hi, my name is Holden and I’m an alcoholic,” I said. “Woops, wrong group.”

Laughter tittered through the crowd.

“It’s a surreal to see so many of you here for me and my naughty little book but thank you for coming.”

Another round of cheers and applause; smiling faces waiting to hear what I had to say.

“I’m supposed to give a reading of Gods of Midnight, but I’ve changed my mind. If you’ve read the book, you’ll be bored. If you haven’t, I’ll spoiler it. Plus, I don’t need to read my own stuff out loud. I can—and do—jerk myself off any time I want; no need to do it with an audience.”

More laughter and a few whistles.

“Instead of reading, I’m just going to skip right to the question and answer.”

A hundred hands went up.

“If your question is about the ending, put your hand down.”

Ninety percent of the hands went down.

I laughed. “You have your ending. I’m not telling you mine. Next question.”

A few good-natured boos and laughs went through the crowd, and then a guy in the back wearing a dark jacket and baseball cap raised his hand.

“Jules suffers through pretty intense drug and alcohol addiction,” he said. His voice sounded vaguely familiar. “You’ve said that this book is a fictional memoir. If it’s not too personal, is any of that character based on real experience?”

“Art is personal. And yes, my little joke at the beginning isn’t much of a joke. I’m an alcoholic, but I’ve been sober for two years.”

Applause ripped through the auditorium making my eyes sting. I tried to get a better look at the guy but someone else was asking a question. More followed: about my ideas, my inspiration, and how someone as young as twenty-one could write with such depth.

“When you go down into the abyss,” I answered, “you come back out with something to say.”

When the Q&A was over, the attendees lined up to have their books signed. Mette and Elliot flanked me to assist in keeping the chain of books moving.

I signed my signature and scribbled out a note to each reader; their names already spelled out on Post-It notes to ensure I didn’t fuck up the inscription. Many attendees told me how much what I’d written had meant to them. I didn’t know what to do with compliments, but I muddled through, being as grateful and gracious as possible.

Finally, we came to the last attendee. A book slid in front of me. The Post-It read Silas.

I froze, then slowly lifted my gaze to Silas Marsh.

He wore a blue shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap that he took off as he gave me a tentative smile. Silas’s hair was the same chrome blond I’d remembered in Alaska only instead of ragged and dirty and hanging in his face, it was cut