When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,67
to his chest. I held his arms that held me.
“You sure?” he asked hoarsely.
“It’s better this way,” I whispered, my eyes falling shut.
“Then why does it feel like shit?”
“That’s a catch-22. The solution to our dilemma is inherent in the problem itself.”
“Which is?”
“We both want something we can never have,” I said as sleep dragged me down on vodka fumes. “A normal life.”
Part III
Chapter Fourteen
March
“They’re here,” Dad said, a grin splitting his face. He held up four large envelopes. “Texas, Auburn, Alabama, and Michigan. Call me crazy, but rejection slips are never this heavy.”
He dropped them on the dining room table like a conquering hero bringing home the spoils. Mom was just finishing dessert—a tiny wedge of apple pie—while Amelia and I cleaned up the dinner plates.
“That’s quite a haul,” Mom said to me when I returned from the kitchen. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”
Her voice was tired, as if she’d just woken up. Since Christmas, she’d been coasting on relatively good health, though she still had good days and bad. Today was bad. She had a check-up with her oncologist in a few days. The dread of what he might say hung over the house like a cloud that Dad tried to keep from choking us with his enthusiasm.
“We need all the good news we can get,” he’d told me that afternoon as I helped him at the auto shop. “Your mom wants to know, more than anything, that your future is secure.”
Mom wants us to be happy, I’d thought then and again as he fanned out my future on the table in front of us.
“Well?” Dad said. “Which do you want to open first? I say we save Alabama for last.”
“Sure,” I said, smiling weakly.
During our college application process, we’d discussed which school would be the best fit for my career prospects and the University of Alabama came out on top. Because of course it did. It was Dad’s alma mater. He was getting a second chance at the life he wanted, through me. His excitement broke my heart a little.
“I hope, gentleman,” Mom said, “you spare some thought for River’s actual education when it comes to the final decision.”
“Of course,” Dad said, tearing into an envelope like a kid on Christmas day. “Alabama has a distinguished academic program.”
“Good. Our son is too smart to leave everything on the football field.” She turned to me. “What do you think you’ll major in, honey?”
My stomach roiled at all this talk about my future that Mom would never see.
“Not sure. English Lit, maybe. Or mechanical engineering. Or both.”
Dad made a face. “You could major in underwater basket-weaving, and the NFL is still going to come begging for you.”
Mom shot him a look. “Jerry…”
“You’re right, you’re right. An education is paramount.” He gave me a wink.
“It is,” Mom insisted. “Your brain, River, is more important than your throwing arm.”
“That’s code for you’re a dork,” Amelia said, returning from the kitchen and flopping into the chair beside me.
“Amelia!” Mom said, biting back a laugh. “River is not a dork.”
“Right.” She flapped an envelope at me. “Does Jockstrap University know you’re secretly a huge nerd?”
I took the envelope from her hand and smacked her lightly on the top of the head. “It’s not a secret.”
She laughed and the laugh loosened the hard, fuck-the-world attitude she’d been trying to build since Mom’s diagnosis. The little warm moments like these—snippets of a normal life— always brought her guard down. Amelia’s eyes filled with sudden tears, even taking herself by surprise. She got up muttering something about homework.
Mom reached out and snagged her wrist. “Hey. You okay?”
My sister nodded quickly.
“Love you.”
Amelia bent and kissed Mom on her scarf. “Love you,” she said brokenly and then hurried upstairs, keeping her face turned from us.
“Well,” Dad said into the silence that followed. He forced a tremulous smile. “We don’t have to do this now.”
Mom smiled gently. “No time like the present.”
Dad and I exchanged glances. She was right. There was no time like the present because that was all she had.
When I trudged onto campus the next morning, students were huddled in groups, whispering and murmuring, the girls giggling behind their hands. I followed their starry-eyed gazes to Miller Stratton, Ronan Wentz, and Holden. The three of them made an odd group; Evelyn Gonzalez had started calling them the Lost Boys. The name stuck, mostly because of that old vampire movie set in Santa Cruz.