When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,24
wind was cool and bracing. Calming.
An ocean, I decided, wasn’t like a lake. An ocean was alive and moving—energy flowing through it, rising up and crashing, washing against jagged, broken rock and leaving it smooth.
A lake was sinister. Still. Its cold, black water suffused your every pore, and if it sucked you down, it wouldn’t leave a trace.
I shivered and tried to do what Dr. Lange had always suggested—to ground myself in the present moment where the past couldn’t touch me.
“It’s nice here,” I said. “Really fucking nice. Like I can just…breathe.”
Miller nodded. “Same.”
“Same,” said Ronan from his rock chair on the other side of Miller.
On the drive over, I’d learned that Ronan had recently moved to Santa Cruz from Wisconsin, which meant he and Miller had only known each other for a handful of days and yet were already perfectly at ease. I glanced around at the fire, the Shack, the ocean, and the two friends sitting in companionable silence.
I have all the money in the world, but the things I want most cannot be bought.
“Do you guys hang out here a lot?”
“All the time,” Miller said. “You’re welcome to come here too. Anytime. Mi casa es su casa. Except it’s not a house. How do you say, our shitty shack is your shitty shack in Spanish?”
“Nuestra choza de mierda es tu choza de mierda,” I said quickly to cover the swell of happiness that threatened to turn me into a puddle of goop the way Beatriz tried to do with her lunch.
Miller’s brows rose. “You speak Spanish?”
“And French. Italian. A little Portuguese and some Greek.”
“You some kind of genius?” Ronan asked.
“So they say. My IQ is 153.”
Miller whistled his disbelief.
“Sounds as if it could be helpful, right?”
“Helpful?” He scoffed. “That’s like having the answer key to life.”
“If only,” I said, relishing how easily I fell into conversation with these guys. “As far as I can tell, it just means the nonstop thoughts in my head are more cunning and can torment me in multiple languages.”
A short silence fell, and I held my breath, waiting for ridicule or for them to kick me off their beach.
“So,” Miller said finally. “Do I email you all my homework assignments directly or do you prefer hardcopy?”
Warmth flooded me. “No chance, Stratton.”
“Worth a shot.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty damn perfect, right here,” I said after a few minutes. “Like we’re at the edge of the world and no one can touch us.”
“Yep,” Miller said, and Ronan nodded.
I sucked in a deep breath. Here goes nothing. Or everything.
“I’m gay,” I said. “I just wanted to get that out there. In case it wasn’t obvious. Is that going to be a problem?”
Miller’s brows came together. “No. Why would it?”
“Ask my parents,” I said, hope rising in my chest. I looked to Ronan. “How about you?”
Ronan downed the rest of his beer and threw the bottle aside. “No, I’m not gay.”
Miller and I exchanged glances then and our laughter came roaring back. The kind of laughter that keeps going until you’ve forgotten what was so funny in the first place. The kind that cements friendships instantly. A warm balloon expanded in me, lifting me for a few moments out of the shadows. When I caught my breath and came back to earth, I belonged around this fire, with these guys.
“You’re a crazy motherfucker, you know that?” Miller said to me, still laughing.
“So I’m told.”
“You could have been in with them, you know? The popular kids.”
“Why would I do that when fucking with them is so much more fun?”
“Fun,” Ronan said, his eyes on the roaring flames. “Is that what that shit with Frankie was about? Fun?”
“I did it to throw him off guard,” I lied. “That’s all.”
They wore twin expressions of doubt and concern, but they let it alone and I understood that giving each other space was one of the key tenets of their friendship.
“Where are you from?” Miller asked after a while.
“The Pits of Hell. Seattle,” I clarified. “Not that Seattle is hell, only my parents’ house. I live with my aunt and uncle now. They have a vacation home here in the Seabright neighborhood and are living in it year-round while I finish school.”
“Why even bother with school at all?” Miller asked. “With an IQ like yours, shouldn’t you be curing cancer or building robots at MIT?”
“Medicine takes discipline. I have none.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“Be a writer,” I said, rubbing my ink-stained fingers. “Don’t know that I’ll be any good at it.”