When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,46

therapy had finished the job.

There was nothing more to know.

Monday morning, I dragged my hungover ass to school.

I still reeked of booze and popped an Altoid or ten for Ms. Watkins’s English Lit class. She watched me take my seat with narrowed eyes, but she didn’t call me out. I made it through the hour and thought I was home free until the bell rang and she stopped me at the door.

“Holden? Can I have a word?”

“Cough syrup,” I blurted.

“Excuse me?”

“I have a cold…never mind. What did you want to see me about?”

She rifled through some papers on her desk and singled out mine. “Your essay on Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking was excellent. Truly moving and emotional for what’s essentially a book report. I’m excited to read more from you. Have you always been a writer?”

“I’ve always written. Can’t say that makes me a writer.”

“I’d have to disagree. I think this essay is one of the best things I’ve read in my fifteen years on the job.”

Christ, between her, Beatriz, and Aunt Mags, I had nice ladies coming out of my eyeballs. I itched to go.

“Have you thought about pursuing a degree, Holden? An MFA?”

“No.”

“What about your parents? What do they think?”

“They don’t get a say,” I said. “And no offense, but neither do you. Can I go now?”

I hated how my words hit her. Her smile dropped but the concern never left her eyes.

“You may go. But I’m going to be watching you closely.”

I started to tell her not to bother but nodded instead. Because maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

But any good feeling she’d cultivated died in Calculus. River and I sat as far away from each other as humanly possible while still remaining in the same room. He didn’t look at me and I didn’t look at him. It was as if Saturday never happened. When class ended and he still hadn’t looked my way, it felt like we’d erased not only that night at the pool but every small moment we’d had since the day we’d met.

Now there was nothing left.

Because it was a mistake.

After school that day, James drove me to the Cliffs. I stumbled my way to the Shack where Miller and Ronan were already there in front of a fire, Miller plucking his guitar, Ronan drinking a beer.

“What’s the story, gentlemen?” I sat down heavily in my chair. The day was overcast and cloudy, but I kept my Bulgari sunglasses on to hide my bleary eyes.

“What’s up with you?” Miller asked. His expression was as heavy and troubled as always. “You okay?”

I got drunk with River Whitmore and sucked his thumb as if it were his cock. How was your weekend?

I had to keep River’s secret, even if it was suffocating him, but I’d kept him away from Violet. That was something.

“Peachy,” I said. “How was Homecoming?”

Ronan snorted and tipped his beer. Miller gave him the finger.

“What’d I miss?” I asked.

“That asshole, Whitmore, ditched Violet at the dance.”

“You don’t say,” I said, feeling Ronan’s eyes on me. “So you swept in and rescued her and are now living happily ever after.”

“Not quite,” Miller said. “I hooked up with Amber.”

“Plot twist. Why?”

“My numbers were low, and I was drunk. It was a mistake.”

“Where have I heard that before?” I muttered.

Miller shook his head. “Anyway, that’s no excuse. What happened, happened and I’m going to make the best of it. See if there’s anything between us.”

Ronan snorted again and Miller shot him an angry look.

“Clearly, you’ve been discussing this turn of events at length, prior to my arrival,” I said. “Ronan, you don’t approve?”

He scoffed. “Amber put his dick in her mouth, so Miller thinks he owes her.”

“Fuck off, Wentz,” Miller snapped and tossed his guitar in the case and closed the lid. “I gotta go to work.”

We listened to him lock his guitar in the Shack, and then he trudged out, head down, shoulders hunched.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“Just what I said,” Ronan replied. “They hooked up and now he’s trying to do what he thinks is honorable.”

“I’m not acquainted with that word personally, but isn’t that a good thing?”

He toyed with his beer. “Where were you on Homecoming night?”

I pretended to flinch. “Weren’t we talking about Miller eight milliseconds ago?”

Ronan’s gaze was relentless. I started to make up a lie, but my vodka-soaked brain wasn’t cooperating.

“Running interference for Miller,” I said with a sigh. “I thought it would help. I guess not.”

Ronan’s eyebrows rose slightly—the equivalent of massive