When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,69

knot in my guts tightened.

“So, River. You ask anyone to Prom yet?” Julia asked, twirling a lock of blond hair around her finger.

“No. Why?” I demanded harshly.

“Wow, relax. Just curious.”

Another girl joined Julia, and they wandered off, whispering and glancing at me over their shoulders.

Calm the hell down.

Donte, Chance, and the guys were at our usual table. I forced myself to join them with my usual calm confidence. Donte didn’t know shit. No one did. I was still king of the damn school as far as anyone knew.

The group was occupied with a different drama, anyway. Over the weekend, someone had spray-painted rapist on Mikey Grimaldi’s white Jeep Rubicon. Mikey hadn’t been officially charged with anything, but he was absent that day, and the girl he’d been seeing, Kimberly Mason, had suddenly transferred out of the school.

“This is bad,” Chance said. “Bad for the team. A stain on our undefeated season.”

“Yep,” Isaiah said. “Our legacy. We don’t need this shit.”

“Not to mention the damage to our rep.”

Not to mention Kimberly, I thought with a grimace.

Donte was watching me. I shot back a questioning glare. You have something to add to the conversation?

He shook his head once—a temporary truce. He hadn’t ratted me out to Chance and the other guys yet, but he might when all this shit died down. Or if I slipped up again. But there couldn’t be another slip.

Every minute I kept up my pathetic charade felt like cheating on Holden. And myself. But he’d kicked me out of his life and there was no one to live mine but me. My mom was going to die, and my dad was going to be crushed. Our family changed forever. No one was going to suddenly swoop in and fix everything or make things easy.

I was on my own.

Chapter Fifteen

I held River’s gaze until he crashed headlong into one of his football buddies, Donte Weatherly. The tall football player’s own gaze was bouncing back and forth between River and me, like he was doing some math in his head—putting two and two together. I pushed off the wall and tugged Ronan’s sleeve.

“Let’s go.”

“Why?”

“Move, Wentz. I’ll explain later.”

We headed the opposite direction from River, but the bonehead glanced over his shoulder. “Whitmore?”

I winced. “Christ, say it again, why don’t you? Only half the school heard you.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because it’s nobody’s business but his when, or how, or if he comes out.”

Ronan snorted. “And yet you’ve been eye-fucking each other every day for three solid months. I thought you ended it.”

“I did. He’s a closeted jock going on to an illustrious but sexually frustrating career in the NFL, and I’m an uncloseted but mentally unstable billionaire who’s leaving the country the second my diploma hits my hot little hands. In what universe do we make sense?”

“None of that shit matters. If you care about each other, you figure it out.”

“As if it were that easy,” I said. “And what made you the sudden sexpert, anyway? Is it because Shiloh Barrera is hanging out with us at the Shack on the regular? You two looked pretty cozy the other night.”

Ronan said nothing.

I heaved a sigh. “I see how it is. You keep your private life private while I spill my guts in your lap.”

We came to the hallway where we had to part ways for our different classes. He took a step closer, looming over me—the man was a beast.

“All this?” He spun a finger in the air to indicate the school. “It’s just fucking noise. Bullshit. You want something, you fight for it.”

“Unfortunately, that would be a battle waged on two fronts. For him”—I tapped a finger to my temple—“and for me.”

“Mr. Wentz.” Vice Principal Chouder’s voice cut through the morning air. “My office. Now.”

I cocked my head at Ronan. “Again? Do you pay rent there?”

He shrugged. “Like I said. Bullshit.”

Chouder cleared his throat. “Wentz.”

I saluted Ronan and hummed “Taps” as he followed Chouder to the admin building to meet his fate—and likely another suspension—while I headed to AP English.

In class, Ms. Watkins strolled between the aisles, handing back our Personal Essays. We’d been assigned to write a first-person narrative about a time in our lives where we found ourselves at a low point. I’d considered hauling in my trunk of journals and dumping them on Ms. Watkins’ desk, but I wasn’t a showoff.

I’d written about Christmas Day and my trek to the Shack but in abstract terms. I fractured myself into two characters: one who was real and the