When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,21

him. My parents hated me for being myself. A cycle that fed on itself until I thought I’d shatter into a thousand pieces.

I inhaled sharply and belted, “I love it when you call me señorita…”

Evelyn reared back and sat on her heels. “The hell…?”

“Something, something, your touch. Ooh la, la…”

I couldn’t remember the words; I’d only watched the music video a thousand times for Shawn Mendes straddling a motorcycle. But the crazed energy consumed me, pushed me off the wall onto my hands and knees.

“You should be running. I keep on coming for you…”

Evelyn shot to her feet. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m serenading you. Obviously. You don’t like?”

“Umm, no. God, why do you have to be so weird and ruin everything?”

“Ah, the million-dollar-question…”

“Ugh, whatever.”

Evelyn threw open the door and I dove out of the closet after her, catching her by the ankle and singing loudly. I got up on one knee and took her hand, imploring her as a sea of partygoers watched with phones out.

Recording our love.

Evelyn’s face twisted in rage and embarrassment. She tore her hand out of my grasp. “God, you’re fucking crazy.”

She stormed through the living room toward the kitchen.

I got to my feet and bowed to the smattering of applause until the soft strains of a guitar filtered through the music and cut through the talk of dozens of conversations.

Someone was playing the Coldplay song, “Yellow.”

Not just playing it. Slaying the shit out of it.

I craned over heads and saw a guy in jeans, T-shirt, and beanie strumming his guitar in the corner, his voice raspy and heavy with emotion. The immediate audience around him was rapt—a little oasis of calm, while I stood in the swirling maelstrom of the party and my own tempestuous thoughts.

The guy’s voice was deeper and rougher than Chris Martin’s and infused the song with a different depth, making it new—and sort of perfect—all over again.

And aside from that small group, everyone was missing it.

The bottle of Patrón, now empty, lay abandoned on the carpet. I ran for it, swept it up, and leapt onto the dining room table that overlooked the living room. My sleek boots slid across an acre of polished mahogany. I managed to keep my footing but the Patrón bottle smashed on the smooth wood surface, scattering glittering shards across the tabletop.

A massive party foul, but on the plus-side, it helped me get everyone’s attention.

“Everyone shut the fuck up!”

Stunned silence made its way through the dark living room, snuffing conversations. I hissed at the guy nearest the sound system to shut off whatever bullshit was currently playing so that we could listen to that guy in the corner singing his goddamn heart out.

The party went quiet enough to my satisfaction. People flooded in from the kitchen and backyard to listen. Chance emerged, red-faced and snorting, wanting to know what I’d done to his parents’ table, but I’d barely registered his presence. Lighters flicked on. The soft glow of phones illuminated the dark, recording something a little bit miraculous—a guy being completely vulnerable. He let it all out, pouring himself into the room for everyone to hear.

The song ended on a final soft note, and silence descended. For a few perfect seconds, the room held its breath.

I let mine out. “Holy. Shit.”

My words ignited applause and cheers that broke the peace. Shattered glass scratched the polished wood under my boots.

Because that’s what I do. I ruin things.

But fixing everything I’d ever broken was impossible; I’d long ago given up trying. The peace of the song evaporated. I couldn’t hold on to it, so I let the mania take over. The only thing to do, my cracked, tequila-soaked mind suggested, was to keep going. Hurl myself into the crazy. Maybe I’d land safely. Maybe not. Might as well dance.

“Dude! What the fuck are you doing?”

Chance’s eyes bulged as I tap-danced on the shattered glass, daring fate to let me slip and fall. To cut myself to ribbons on the jagged shards and feel real pain instead of the howling agony that lived permanently in my heart.

“I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the raaaain…” I crooned.

Not bad. Like Fred Astaire if Fred Astaire was a seventeen-year-old guy drowning in booze and self-loathing.

“My parents are going to fucking kill me!” Chance raged. “Someone get over here and help me get this prick off the table.”

He made a swipe for me, but I danced out of reach, never losing a step until River Whitmore emerged from the kitchen. His beautiful