When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,88

touch and deep conversation erasing the distance we tried to keep between us. But in a few short weeks, that distance was going to be real.

“Unless…” I murmured, exhaling the word on a plume of smoke. It was no secret River dreaded his departure as much as I did.

You think he’s going to throw his life in the NFL away and crush his dad’s hopes? For you? asked a snide voice in my head, sounding suspiciously like my own father.

A shiver wracked me, and the cigarette dropped out of my numb fingers. I ground it out just as Mr. Chouder strolled by. He stopped and sniffed the air, then turned to me, eyes narrowed.

I twiddled my fingers at him and blew him a kiss.

He huffed and kept walking.

I lit a new smoke and pondered my options, alarmed to discover there was only one.

Tell River.

The chorus of chattering voices in my head laughed at the idea. To stand naked in front of him and ask him to choose me…

“It could happen,” I murmured. “It worked for Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant.”

A pair of girls passing by gave me a weird look.

I curled my lip at them. “Oh, like you haven’t seen Notting Hill a hundred times.”

The bell rang and I chucked my smoke, Ronan’s words ringing in my head, louder than the chittering voices. To fight for River and maybe for myself, too.

At lunch, I went to the band room as usual, but it was empty. A text came in on my phone from River.

I’m at the bleachers. Meet me.

I frowned. The Make Out Spot?

I’ve never been. Want to. With you.

The tiny flame of hope I’d been kindling flared bright. The Make Out Spot under the bleachers was out of sight from the general public, but couples came and went on the regular. Risk of discovery was high. Maybe River planned to roll the dice and let fate decide.

He was waiting for me in the shadowy space that was littered with hot dog wrappers and smelled like stale popcorn. He kissed me hard, and we quickly melted against each other. The night of the meteor shower was alive in every touch, every glance, every breath.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, breaking our kiss.

“This is bold. And unlike you.”

“Fuck it,” he said, his blue eyes burning like the hottest part of a flame.

I raised a brow. “Oh, I see. Someone got laid this weekend and now is ready to fuck or fight the world.”

“Fight them,” he said, pressing his groin to mine. “But I don’t want to fuck anyone else.”

God help me, neither do I.

He kissed me again and I let him, my thoughts filling with possibilities. River felt me drift and pulled back, his brows drawn.

“Is everything okay?”

“You’ve called or texted me that same question eight hundred times since Saturday,” I said. “Yes, everything is still fine. The night was magical and perfect. The angels wept. The heavens shook…”

“All right, all right,” River said with a short laugh. “So what are you thinking about?”

I sucked in a breath, my heart crashing in my chest like a cymbal. I took a step back so he wouldn’t feel it.

“It’s nothing, really. But I have this English teacher. Ms. Watkins. She read one of my essays and thought it wasn’t terrible.”

“Of course, it wasn’t. You’re brilliant.”

Ugh. The simple truth in his tone went straight through me, the bastard.

“She also thinks it might be a better use of my time to work for an MFA degree instead of doing drunken pirouettes under the Eiffel Tower.”

“She’s right,” River said, then his expression changed. Realization—and suspicion—slowly creeping over his handsome features. “Wait, what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means I’d go to college.”

“Where?”

“Wherever I want.” I inhaled. “The University of Santa Cruz, maybe.”

And you could stay with me…

River’s eyes widened and not because he was suddenly overjoyed. He stared at me, thoughts whirling. Every second that passed in silence punctured my heart, my hope bleeding out into the dusty, trash-strewn ground at our feet.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, relax,” I said, mustering every survival skill I’d forged in Alaska to keep my tone flippant. “I’m not going to ruin your NFL fantasy life. I could go to the Sorbonne. Or Yale. Or Pig Fart Community College—”

“Wait, you’d stay in Santa Cruz?” River asked, still shaking his head. “I thought it was too dull for you.”

“It is,” I said quickly. “The last thing I want is to stay in this sleepy town and die of fucking boredom over and over, every day,