When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,71
home, and maybe consider what I said about the program at the university. Not only will your talent be cultivated, but they have mental health services—”
“Wrong answer. This isn’t home. There’s nothing for me here.”
And no one. Not after River leaves…
Ms. Watkins sighed. “All right. But if you change your mind or want to talk between now and then, I’m here for you, Holden. Please remember that. Okay?”
I swallowed a jagged lump of sudden unwanted emotion.
“Okay,” I said, leaving the door open just a crack.
That night, the guesthouse was claustrophobic in its emptiness. I tried to write but the sound of the pen scratching the paper set my teeth on edge. Every little sound was big, amplifying my solitude and turning it into a living, breathing thing.
I tossed down the pen—River’s pen—and started for the freezer where a fresh bottle of Ducasse waited for me. The cold, frosty air wafted over my skin, carrying memories of Alaska with it. Another drunken night of delirium stretched out before me, followed by another hungover morning. Rinse, repeat.
I slammed the door shut.
“It is possible,” I said to no one, “to be completely sick of one’s own shit.”
I changed into my pajamas and robe, flopped onto the couch with a bag of cheese-dusted popcorn, and began flipping through channels. I was starting to give up on finding a decent movie when I landed on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. A movie about a guy who has his ex-girlfriend wiped from his memory.
“Lucky bastard,” I muttered and hit play.
If I could, I’d go back and wipe River Whitmore from my mind, starting from the very first second I laid eyes on him.
Then you’d have even less than what you have now.
A few minutes in, a knock came at the door. I opened it to Beatriz. She wore slacks, a jacket over her flowered blouse, and her purse on her arm.
“I’m going home for the day, Mr. Holden, but wanted to see if you need anything first.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You never came to dinner tonight.”
“I never come to dinner.”
She frowned. “Mr. and Mrs. Parish ask about you every day.”
“They do? No, they don’t.”
Beatriz waggled a finger. “I never lie. It’s not good for the soul. They also said you would not let them celebrate your birthday last month.”
“I didn’t have a birthday last month.”
She pursed her lips. “You did have one, no matter what the calendar says. You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Technically speaking.”
Her face softened, and her smile was like one I imagined mothers wore when they were trying to comfort their child through something painful. She peered past me and squinted at the TV.
“That girl has very red hair.”
I opened the door and stepped aside to let Beatriz in, since it was clear she wasn’t going to leave me in peace. And maybe I didn’t want her to.
“That’s Kate Winslet,” I said. “Her hair is red to show us when she is in her relationship with Jim Carrey.”
Beatriz frowned, more interested in the bag of cheesy popcorn on the couch. She picked it up with two fingers. “What is this?”
“Popcorn?”
She sniffed the bag and grimaced. “No, no, no. Isso é um lixo. This is garbage. I’ll make you better.” She set her purse on the couch and headed for the door. “The big house has what I need. Be right back.”
Before I could comprehend this strange turn of events, Beatriz returned with her arms full of ingredients and breezed past me to my little kitchen.
“I will make you pipoca,” she said, laying out brown sugar, honey, butter, and a can of dulce de leche. “Much better.”
She and Ms. Watkins are tag-teaming me with motherly niceness.
And like a sucker, I was falling for it. Aching for it.
Beatriz hummed as she stirred the ingredients in a saucepan, and soon my little place was filled with the scent of warm honey and sugar and the sound of popcorn kernels clanging around a pot.
When she was done, she came out with a bowl of fluffy white popcorn drizzled with thick brown syrup and a bunch of napkins. She frowned at the TV.
“Now her hair is blue.”
I laughed a little as Beatriz settled herself on the couch beside me with a sigh. She offered me the bowl. “Try this. It’s not garbage.”
I took a sticky handful of pipoca and crammed it in my mouth while Beatriz watched me closely.
“It’s good, yes?”
I suppressed a groan as the sugary-salty goodness melted in my mouth. “Eh, it’s okay. Not bad. Passable.”