When You Come Back to Me

©2020 Emma Scott Books, LLC

Cover Art: Lori Jackson Designs

Cover Photographer: Cory Stierley

Cover Model: Dylan Brooks

Photograph Licensed by: The Cover Lab, LLC

Proofing and Formatting by: R. Anderson

No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, events or incidents, businesses or places (such as Santa Cruz Central High School, Soquel Saints, Campbell Coyotes, Gold Line Records) are fictitious or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Books by Emma Scott

Playlist

Content Warning

Dedication

Prologue

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part II

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part III

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part IV

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Part V

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Sneak Peek

About the Author

Books by Emma Scott

(All books but the Beautiful Hearts Duet are available for FREE through Kindle Unlimited)

Duets

Full Tilt

All In

Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts #1)

Long Live the Beautiful Hearts (Beautiful Hearts #2)

Series

How to Save a Life (Dreamcatcher #1)

Sugar & Gold (Dreamcatcher #2)

The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)

When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2)

The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys #3) coming soon

RUSH (RUSH #1)

Endless Possibility (RUSH #1.5)

Standalones

Love Beyond Words

Unbreakable

The Butterfly Project

Forever Right Now

In Harmony

A Five-Minute Life

Someday, Someday

MM Romance

Someday, Someday

When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2)

Novellas

One Good Man

Love Game

Playlist

Walkabout // Augustines (opening credits)

Señorita // Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello

Night Running // Cage the Elephant (feat. Beck)

When Doves Cry // Prince

Fix You // Coldplay

I Will Possess Your Heart // Death Cab for Cutie

Fine Line // Harry Styles

Wish You Were Here // Pink Floyd

Not Over You // Gavin DeGraw

Superposition // Young the Giant (closing credits)

Content Warning

Please note that this book contains content that may be triggering for some sensitive readers such as the death of a family member, depression, mental health struggles, repercussions of conversion therapy, and sexual exploitation (off the page). It is my sincerest hope I have treated these issues with the care they deserve. Intended for readers 18 and up.

Dedication

For Bill, with all my love. Thank you for being the calm to my storm.

Let everything happen to you

Beauty and terror

Just keep going

No feeling is final

—Rainer Maria Rilke

Prologue

Sanitarium du lac Léman

Geneva, Switzerland

“Can I tell you a secret?”

The lump in the twin bed on the other side of the room answered with a petulant sniff.

I tried again. “I’m not kidding, Milo. It’s a very important, life-changing secret. Trust me.”

My roommate hunched deeper in his blanket. “Leave me alone.”

Milo resembled a snow-covered mound in our whitewashed room. White sheets, white walls, white linoleum floor. Like the inside of an igloo. If I dwelled too long on all that white, I’d start to shiver under my own thin blanket.

Not because I was cold. Switzerland in August was quite pleasant, actually. But my parents had sent me to a brutal conversion therapy camp in Alaska for six months, which necessitated this vacation at the Sanitarium du lac Léman. A year later, and my brain was still turning my waking hours into a remembered nightmare.

My room’s walls and ceiling would morph into the vast white plains of Alaska. The green forests surrounding the sanitarium grounds awoke memories of endless night marches through bitter cold. The indoor pool’s warm water became the icy depths of Copper Lake where I’d been plunged, naked and freezing…

I don’t swim in pools anymore.

Dr. Lange would say I was projecting my past trauma onto the sanitarium, that was actually warm and inviting. But PTSD doesn’t give a rat’s frilly pink ass what a thing was supposed to be. Its computations are mindless. White = snow = Alaska = torture.

And warm and inviting wasn’t how I’d describe the room I shared with Milo anyway. Sanitarium du lac Léman was a mental hospital trying to disguise itself as a bed and breakfast. The moonlight filtered through the barred windows over our meager furniture: twin beds, one bookshelf—filled mostly with my journals, and a few of Milo’s drawings on the wall (hung with tape, not pins or nails).

I give an A for effort, but bars on the windows were less cozy hotel and more prison chic. And prisons were high on my list of things onto which I projected my trauma. I’d let myself be trapped twice—first Alaska and now here.

Never again.

Milo sniffed under his blanket, upset that I was getting out in the morning. I couldn’t fathom why. If I were gone, I wouldn’t miss me. But he was a sweet kid. I hated that he felt bad. I leaned over in my bed to try again.

“Milo, hey.”

“Don’t talk to me.”

“My secret is kind of a big one,” I said. “Like, huge. You’re not going to want to miss out.”

“I said, leave me alone.”

The pain in his voice—child-like and tear-choked—pierced the shriveled icy rock that passed for my heart. Milo Batzirkis, son of wealthy shipping magnates from Buffalo, New York, was two years younger than my seventeen years, but the traumas that had landed him here had beaten him down, making him sound and act like a lost little boy.

I could relate.

I put on my best Big Brother voice. “I’m going to lay it on you, anyway, Milo. Ready? Here it is: you’re going to be okay.”

He rolled over to face me, his dark eyes shining in the moonlight, his black hair askew. “Are you joking? That’s your big secret? You are so full of shit.”

“It’s true.”

“That’s a stupid secret for one thing, and why would I believe you? You are not okay. You are a mess.”

I tapped my chin. “And here I thought I was hiding it so well…”

“You keep hitting on Dr. Picour even though he’s forty-five and married.”

“Have you seen him in swim therapy? Without a shirt? No jury in the world would convict me.”

“You have a death wish. Everyone knows that.”

“Death wish is a strong choice of words,” I said airily. “I prefer to think that life and I are keeping things casual. No need to get serious.”

Milo’s voice tapered to a whisper. “You said in group that you wanted to die.”

“Oh, that.” I rolled away to turn my gaze to the ceiling. “That was ages ago. When I first got here.”

“But I know you still think that way,” Milo said. “I don’t know how you got them to let you out, but you’re not well.”

I flapped my hands in the air. “Sure, I’m fucked up. We’re all fucked up. Who isn’t fucked up? But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re going to be okay. You can be okay and completely fucked up at the same time. I’m living proof.”

He sniffed. “Doesn’t feel like I’m going to be okay. Not without you.”

“Sure you will. You just don’t believe me because I’m Cassandra.”

“Who?”

“Don’t you know your Greek mythology?”

“But you have it all memorized, right?” He scoffed. “Whatever. Keep your giant IQ to yourself. You’re leaving and it sucks and that’s all there is to know.”

Milo rolled away again, but I barreled on, undeterred.

“Cassandra lived in ancient times and was like me: so extraordinarily good looking that gods were falling out of the sky to try to hook up.”

Milo snorted. “Give me a break. You’re not that good looking.”

“I beg your pardon. Have you seen me?”

He laughed a little, and I took that as a small victory.

“Apollo, the Sun God, took one look at Cassandra and decided he had to have her. In an attempt to win her heart, he gave her the gift of prophecy.”

“What’s prophecy?”

“Cassandra could predict the future, which honestly seems like a pretty sweet deal for some under-the-toga action. My last date didn’t even buy me dinner before I gave him a blow.” I stroked my chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Or maybe that was the dinner…”

Milo smacked a hand to his forehead. “Dude…”

“TMI?”

“With you? Always.” He rolled back to face me and propped himself on one elbow. “But wait, who was your last date? There’s no dating allowed. Or did you talk them into breaking the rules for you? Again.”

“Dr. Picour needed no persuading, I assure you.”

Milo practically fell out of bed. “What? That is so bad! He’s a doctor. You’re a patient. And seventeen—”

“Keep your voice down,” I hissed. “Some side-action with a doctor—”

“A married doctor.”

“—is a mere footnote in my sordid history.” And my ticket out of this place. “Now, hush up and let me finish. Where was I?”

“Cassandra and Apollo.”

“Right. Cassandra knew what Apollo really wanted with his fancy gift and she wasn’t interested in being turned into a walking Magic Eight Ball.”

Milo laughed again, which made me feel good about myself. And that didn’t happen very often. Like Halley’s Comet—a rare bright streak across a cold black sky and then gone again.

“As with many entitled dude-bros,” I continued, “Apollo lost his shit when Cassandra rejected him and cursed her so that no one would believe her prophesies. So here’s poor Cassie, wandering around Ancient Greece, telling everyone Troy is going to burn and no one believes her. They all think she’s crazy and they even lock her up. See where I’m going with this?”

“You’re the reincarnation of a Greek goddess?”

“Let’s examine the evidence, shall we?” I ticked off my fingers. “I’m ridiculously hot. They all think I’m crazy. I’m locked up in here and no one believes what I say.” I smiled gently in the silvery dimness. “Including you, when I say you’re going to be okay when I’m gone.”

“You’re right,” Milo said, tears rushing back to choke his words. “I don’t believe you.”

Shit.

He turned his back to me again. The comet streak of good feeling faded to black. No one would ever accuse me of being the comforting type, and I was running out of ideas.

Milo cried softly, trembling as if he were cold, and a memory—my only good memory from Alaska—came back to me. It snuck up and wrapped its arms around me and I felt better instantly.

I climbed out of bed and sidled up next to Milo, squishing myself against him.

“Get off me,” he whined. “I’m not one of your boyfriends.”

“I’m not coming on to you,” I said. “When I was in Alaska, another guy did this for me. It helped. But I won’t if—”

Milo grabbed my arm and held on tight, his body shaking with silent sobs. I moved in closer, spooning him, and put my blond head on the pillow next to his dark one.

After a few moments, he sniffed and said softly, “Alaska. That’s where you were sent for conversion therapy? Before you came here?”

I stiffened. “Yes.”

“You hardly mention it. Not even in group. Unless they make you.”

“You must be special, then.”

I felt Milo smile, a loosening of tension in his skinny body. “What happened?”

“I was freezing,” I said. “We all were, huddled on the floor of an old cabin, no fire and the wind blowing in through the cracks. I’d never been more miserable or alone as I was in that moment. Then one of the other boys brought his shitty blanket to where I was lying under my shitty blanket. He hugged me like I’m hugging you.”

“What was his name?”

“Silas. His name was Silas.”

“Do you still talk to him?”

“No.”

“Why not? Did you lose touch? What’s his last name?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. It mattered a whole fucking lot, but as much as I cared about making Milo feel better, Silas Marsh was off-limits. If I shared too much of him, he wouldn’t be mine anymore. He existed mostly in my journals. Stories. My endless writing where I tried to purge myself of Alaska until my hand cramped and tears blurred the ink on the page.

But there was always more.

My parents had sent me to Alaska in the name of “fixing” their broken son, but it’d nearly destroyed my already tentative hold on sanity. They knew their mistake the instant I came back, bruised and hysterical. A year in Sanitarium du lac Léman was their way of trying to put me back together, but it was too late. What happened in Alaska was now woven into my marrow. My cells and bones. A cold that would never let me go.

I tightened my arm around Milo. “It was forbidden for us to touch, but Silas had laid down with me to try to keep me warm anyway. It only happened that one night, but he saved my life.”

And I never told him. I should have told him…

“Why just the one night?” Milo asked.

“We got caught. They beat the hell out of us. Him, mostly. They beat the hell out of him…”

Another shiver wracked me, and I squeezed my eyes shut at the memory: a ramshackle cabin and a dozen boys huddled under thin blankets. Silas—big and tall with gold hair; an Adonis—being yanked away from me, the counselors wailing on him for the sin of comforting another human being.

“Did Silas tell you that you were going to be okay?”

“No,” I said. “That would’ve been a lie. We didn’t lie to each other in Alaska. Alaska wasn’t like this place. Here, you get good food and exercise, and instead of people telling you that you’re worthless and have to change who you are, they try to make you better.”

“You’re not better, so how come you get to leave?”

“I feel the institution no longer has anything to offer me.”

“You don’t get to say. The doctors do.”

“The doctors agree.”

“That’s a lie.”

“My parents pay the doctors,” I said. “I told my parents it’s time to go, so they stopped paying.”

“Your mom and dad just do whatever you want?”

“Since I came back from Alaska, they do. They’re afraid of me. And they should be.”

Milo gasped at my sinister tone. “Are you going to hurt them when you get out?”

I pretended to be affronted. “Do I look like a violent psychopath to you? Never mind, don’t answer that.”

He sniffed a laugh.

“No, I can hurt them where it counts,” I said. “If I tell the press about my Alaskan field trip—or worse, if I spill it on Twitter—my parents’ empire of money could come crashing down in shame and infamy. That scares the crap out of them.”

“So you’ll get out and become a famous writer someday, while I’m stuck here forever,” Milo said, sounding petulant again.

“Not forever. And you’re going to be okay. Take it from your Uncle Cassie.”

“You’re so weird.”

But I heard the smile in his voice. His back pushed against my chest in a big sigh, and I felt him settle deeper in the bed, closer to sleep.

“Holden?”

“That’s me.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Constantly.”

“I mean, aren’t you scared of getting out of here? When you’re not better yet?”

I thought long and hard about how to answer, sorting through the voices in my head clamoring and shouting, banging their cymbals like toy monkeys. I wasn’t better. I was never going to be better. No matter what the counselors and doctors and pills and therapy tried to do, the cold would always find me. Alaska had broken something inside me forever.

“Are you kidding?” I said, making my voice light. “I’m going to live in sunny California. I’ll live in a new town where I don’t know anyone and be the new kid in school and…yeah, no. Now that I’m hearing it out loud, it sounds terrible.”

Milo laughed and the good feeling came back a little. Truthfully, I didn’t give two shits about being the new kid at a school. The universe had bequeathed unto me a tortured mind, but that mind also happened to be firing on all cylinders. An IQ of 153 meant a year of high school was more of an attempt at normalcy, not something I actually needed.

“I’m going to miss you, Holden,” Milo said, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Nah. You’ll forget me by dawn.”

He hugged my arm tighter. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk like you don’t matter. You do matter. To me.”

I clenched my teeth. Milo’s care and concern were perplexing and made my heart feel strange. Tears even tried to spring to my eyes, for crying out loud.

“It’s late,” I said thickly. “Get some sleep.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Holden. See you tomorrow.”

I didn’t trust my voice, so I held very still as the dimness in the room softened and grew darker. Milo’s breathing became even and regular. Carefully, I slipped out of his bed and back into mine. For an hour, I watched the shadows creep across the ceiling like long black fingers.

When dawn’s first light started to color the sky, I quietly dressed and packed up the rest of my belongings in matching Louis Vuitton luggage. My journals, mostly. The sanitarium didn’t allow us to keep much of our own clothes; my wardrobe for the past year was criminally full of crew neck shirts and poly-blends.

At seven a.m., a key turned in the lock of our door. I was already there. I shushed the orderly with a nod at Milo. He nodded and wordlessly took my luggage for me. I glanced back at my roommate.

He wasn’t going to be sad I was gone. Or if he was, it’d last for a few minutes and he’d get over it.

I went out and shut the door behind me. It locked itself with an automatic click.

The family lawyer my parents had sent to facilitate my exit from Sanitarium du lac Léman looked adequately slimy and expensive. Monsieur Albert Bernard sat beside me in the Director’s Office, resplendent in an Armani suit. I felt pitiful in jeans and—God help me—a short-sleeved button down with little yellow pineapples all over it.

Dr. Lange, the sanitarium director, looked uncharacteristically unsettled. He nodded at me. “Good morning, Mr. Parish.”

Now that I cradled the sanitarium’s balls in my hand—to crush or massage them depending on how smooth my escape was this morning—I was Mr. Parish.

I smiled, showing all my teeth. “You look nervous, Dr. Lange. If all goes well, I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes, and you won’t hear from me again.”

Dr. Lange shifted in his chair. “Yes, well, we consider what transpired between you and a physician here to be very serious business. We pride ourselves on giving only the very best of care—”

“Don’t sweat it, doc. Random pedos aside, you run a very fine establishment. The unpleasant business with Dr. Picour wasn’t entirely unpleasant anyway, if you know what I mean.” I shot him a wink and lounged back in my chair.

Dr. Lange’s pale face turned paler. His eyes glanced at Monsieur Bernard who lifted his hands as if to say I don’t know what to do with him either.

Lange cleared his throat. “Dr. Picour has been terminated and his license revoked, effective immediately. Your discharge papers are here, as per our agreement.” He pushed a file folder across his desk to Bernard. “And if I may offer my sincerest of apologies, Holden. I do hope that you continue to seek care when back in the States, so as not to lose the progress you made—”

“I’m good, thanks,” I said, my smile thinning.

I’d been telling the truth—lac Léman was a decent place. Dr. Picour had been a fledgling predator; rumors of him crossing lines with male patients in subtle ways had caught my attention. It had been a simple matter to push him over the edge, playing the role of a vulnerable-yet-horny patient (not much acting required) and Picour had folded like a lawn chair. Sanitarium du lac Léman didn’t want an international incident and I wanted to get the hell out of there. Not bad for ten minutes of action in a supply closet.

“All looks in order,” Monsieur Bernard said.

He signed my release papers along with a Non-Disclosure Agreement. He passed the pen and folder to me, I signed on the dotted line, and then I was free.

Out of one prison, on to the next.

I followed Bernard to the sanitarium drive, dragging my luggage. Two town cars with drivers waited—one for him, one for me. Mine came with an intimidating hulk of a man dressed in black.

“Is he my going away present?”

“Not quite. Antoine will escort you back to the States. Your parents are concerned for your safety.”

“Since when?”

The lawyer delicately cleared his throat. “To reiterate the terms of your release, your aunt and uncle have agreed to spend the year in their vacation home in Santa Cruz acting as your guardians,” Bernard said while Antoine loaded my luggage into the trunk. “Per your request, your parents will stay away—”

“Stay the fuck away.”

“I beg your pardon?”

I punctuated my words in the air with my hand like a conductor. “I want them to stay the fuck away from me.”

He sniffed. “They have agreed to not interfere or make contact of any kind on the condition that you reside with your aunt and uncle peaceably. You will have a generous allowance, but large withdrawals in cash are not permitted and all credit card transactions will be monitored. A chauffeured car will be provided as you will not be allowed to drive.”

“That’s probably for the best since I plan to do a lot of drinking.”

He rolled his eyes. “Your aunt and uncle are sainted people.”

“They can handle me for one year. Not even one year. I turn eighteen in February.”

“You must finish school, Mr. Parish, or no inheritance. Only with a high school diploma will the trust be released. It’s the very minimum of education required, though your parents—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Parish,” I corrected. “Parents are people who care for their children. Not sociopaths who torture their only son because he happens to be gay.”

I said it lightly enough. I always did. Made jokes. Pushed the pain down and hid it with a smile and a wink, and maybe a gallon or two of booze or a night with a stranger. No one got to see how bad I hurt.

Bernard bristled. “Mr. and Mrs. Parish extend their regards to you and hope that, given your extraordinary intelligence, you will pursue an advanced degree. I hear you are something of a writer?”

“With all due respect, the only thing I extend to those ghouls is my middle finger. Here it is.” I flipped him off and then climbed into the back seat of the town car. “And my writing is none of their fucking business. Come to think of it, nothing I do is their business ever again.” I slammed the door and then rolled down the window as the driver started the engine. “Thanks for your help, Bernie. You can go back to Paris now until my next scandal.”

He pursed his lips. “I can’t wait.”

My aunt and uncle met me at the baggage claim at San Francisco International. Antoine—whose entire method of communication during the sixteen-hour flight consisted of grunts and intimidating glares—followed behind me like a huge, epically muscular shadow.

Aunt Margaret and Uncle Reginald (my dad’s brother) looked like California-fied versions of my parents: middle-aged, impeccably dressed, sticks up their asses, but tan.

I looked nothing like them. After a year in captivity, my skin was pale, making my green eyes stand out in a way that may or may not help me get laid. No telling what the Santa Cruz guys were like. My dad called all Californians dirty tree-hugging hippies in that close-minded, prejudicial manner of his I’d grown to know well. Never mind that they’d invested much of our billions in the tech industry that was right up the road from Santa Cruz. But I’m pretty sure the Parish family motto was “Never let a little hypocrisy get in the way of profit.” It’s probably emblazoned on our family crest.

My aunt and uncle bid Antoine farewell, and Reginald pressed a wad of cash into his hand.

I saluted my travel companion. “Package successfully delivered. I’m going to miss that big guy. Certain parts of him more than others, if you know what I mean.” I shot my aunt a wink.

“You look…well,” she stammered, glancing at me up and down as if I were a tacky gift she was too polite to return. “You’ve grown so tall since I last saw you.”

“Indeed,” Reginald said. “What are you, six-feet? Strong muscles. They fed you well in Switzerland.” He looked like he was going to chuck me on the shoulder then thought better of it.

“Indeed,” I said with a wide smile. “Protein shakes on the regular.”

They exchanged glances and I let the awkwardness simmer for a few moments, then said brightly, “Thanks for letting me crash with you, Aunt Mags and Uncle Reg.”

“Aunt Margaret, please,” she said timidly, as we headed to the car they’d hired. “Or…if you prefer, I suppose Mags is fine too.”

“Call us whatever you like,” Reg said. “We’re just so very pleased to have you, Holden, my boy.”

My ass. They were also scared I was going to spill the Alaskan baked beans to the press about what the family did to me. Already I could tell Auntie and Uncle were handling me as if I were a ticking bomb, ready to go off.

I could work with that.

Luggage stowed, I slid into the backseat of the town car, Mags on my right and Reginald sitting up with the driver.

“I need to make a little pit stop before we head to the homestead.”

“Oh?” Aunt Mags surreptitiously glanced at the delicate gold watch on her wrist.

Reginald craned his head around, frowning. “Where to?”

“Union Square, in the City. A little back-to-school shopping.” I tugged at the collar of my pineapple shirt. “You don’t mind, do you?”

They exchanged glances and then both smiled thinly at me. “Of course not.”

Four hours and $14,000 later, I had enough fine coats, shoes, designer jeans, sweaters, and silk scarves to get me through the school year.

“It’s quite pleasant in Santa Cruz until October,” Uncle Reginald said, eyeing the cashier at Gucci as she zipped an ankle-length wool coat into a garment bag. “You might want to think about clothes for warm weather.”

“I have thought about it, dear uncle,” I said with a pointy smile as I handed the gal my heavy black AMEX card. “But where I live now, it’s always winter.”

He and Mags exchanged more looks, and pity flashed over their faces.

Too late for that, I thought. The time to care about what they did to me was before Alaska. Not after.

I left the store dressed in designer jeans, a black silk button down shirt, and a black pea coat that I wrapped around me like armor. Aunt Mags eyed the trunk of the town car, bulging with the rest of my purchases, and smiled brightly.

“Time to head home? It’s about an hour and a half drive to Santa Cruz—”

“I’m not quite done preparing for my triumphant return to the land of the living,” I said, running a hand through my ash blond hair. “Why don’t you two grab a coffee somewhere while I pop into the salon?”

Without waiting for an answer, I headed to the DryBar salon across the street from the Square. Either it was a slow day, or the stylist thought I was hot (most likely the latter). I got in right away.

Damon stood behind me in the chair and ran his hands up through my thick hair that was cut short on the sides but longer on top. “Gorgeousness,” he said. “Don’t you dare make me cut this off.”

I met his eye in the mirror and gave him my flirty if-all-goes-well-we-might-fuck look. “Never. How about some color?”

“Perrrrfect. What did you have in mind?”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“With your coloring, I think something silvery would make those eyes of yours stand out like wow.”

“Do it.”

Several hours later, I emerged into the setting sun with silver hair that made my pale skin and green eyes even more stark.

Purely by coincidence, Damon’s dinner break happened to be the same instant he was done with my hair. At my request, he took me to the smoke shop a few doors down and bought four cartons of Djarum Black clove cigarettes and a silver flask with my credit card, then a bottle of my favorite vodka from the liquor shop next door.

In a small alley behind the Square, we laughed as the vodka spilled over my fingers while pouring it into my brand-new flask. Damon went in for a kiss. Or what I guessed was a kiss—his tongue was apparently trying to get to my asshole via my mouth. He rubbed against me, instantly horny and out of breath.

“You are so fucking hot,” he breathed into my neck. “How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty?”

I smiled sweetly. “Seventeen.”

Damon reared back, his eyes wide. “The hell…? Are you trying to get me arrested?”

I held up the bag of smokes and booze. “Thanks for your help. And for the hair. Looks fab. Five big ones on Yelp.”

“Asshole,” Damon sniffed and strode away.

I met my aunt and uncle at a Starbucks. They were both obviously out of patience with me and yet too chickenshit to do anything about it.

“My, your hair looks…nice,” Mags said.

“Very modern,” Reginald added.

“Thanks.” I took a shot from my flask, capped it, and put it back in my coat. “Shall we?”

Reginald shot to his feet. “Yes, indeed. Let’s go home.”

Home.

I wasn’t familiar with the concept. As a kid, home had been a cold, loveless museum—everything was very beautiful, very expensive, and you only saw someone who lived there when you touched something you weren’t supposed to.

Then Alaska happened and obliterated any idea or concept I’d had of home and family.

Mags and Reginald were stand-ins. Actors called up to perform the role. Once I graduated high school, they’d be released from their contracts with a sigh of relief that it was over. I’d come into an inheritance that was larger than the economies of several small nations, and we’d go our separate ways, never to interact again. Why would we?

I’d take my money and run. I’d travel all over the world, go anywhere at any time, and stay only as long as I wanted. Never again would I allow anyone to imprison me or lock me up. I’d be free.

Or maybe I’d just disappear.

Part I

Chapter One

August

I crouched behind Chance Blaylock with my hands under his thighs, taking in my team’s defensive line-up, reading their coverage, finding their weaknesses.

“Hut one, hut two… Hut!”

Chance hiked the ball into my hands and then hurled himself at a defender who was intent on taking me down. At scrimmages, we wore flags tucked into our waistbands, but our D was bloodthirsty, even when it was their own quarterback in their sights. I wasn’t in real danger; our O-line was the best in the league. Moreover, any teammate who tackled me would face swift retribution.

I dropped back to pass, scanning the field, calculating angles, probabilities, distance. Coach Kimball had called the play and I was going to run it, but that didn’t stop me from exploring options that unfolded on the field in real time—one of the many tools in my arsenal Coach said was going to take me all the way to the NFL.

Donte Weatherly, our fastest wideout, was already halfway down the right sideline with our safety on his ass. At the thirty-yard line, he’d cut left. I smoothly sidestepped a defender that came at me from my peripheral and cocked my arm to pass. In fractions of a second, I visualized the arc of the ball, putting it not where Donte was now but where he would be.

I let fly. The ball spun like a bullet. Donte faked out the safety and cut in, running like lightning and glancing back for the pass at the last moment. The ball sailed over his shoulder and landed in his outstretched hands. Without breaking stride, he tucked it under his arm and turned on the gas, surging out of the safety’s reach into the end zone.

A genuine smile touched my lips. The perfect pass. The perfect catch. It was satisfying as hell.

And that’s where my love for the game of football began and ended.

My teammates on the line had ceased their battle to watch Donte score. A cheer went up, and Chance turned and hooked his fingers in my faceguard. He yanked me toward him, his mouth twisted into a snarling grimace of triumph.

“Yesssss! Whitmore, you fucking maniac!” He crashed his helmet to mine and then released me with a shove.

I shoved him back, teeth gritted as my teammates surrounded me. They slapped my shoulder pads and whacked me on the helmet hard enough to make my teeth rattle.

Donte jogged in from the end zone and took his turn being congratulated. His smile was wide and blinding white against his dark skin, relishing the brutal attention that I hated more with each passing day.

“Come on in, boys,” Coach Kimball said, easing one knee down to the turf with a grunt. He wore a white and gold Capitals cap on his balding head and a polo shirt stretched over his belly.

We huddled up with the August heat beating down, the guys breathing hard and hanging on each other’s padded shoulders.

“And that, gentlemen,” Coach said, “is why we’re going to have our fifth championship season in a row.”

The team hollered their agreement, his words prompting another round of shoulder slapping and helmet banging.

Coach went around, calling out guys who hadn’t given their all. My teammates hung on his every word, sweat and grime-streaked faces broken open with huge, hungry grins. For the millionth time I wondered what they’d think if they knew their star quarterback harbored an aching desire to rip off his pads and helmet and walk away.

Coach Kimball finished with his feedback and wrapped up the practice with orders for us to return at eight a.m. the next morning. I tried to slip out with the crowd after the team rally, but Coach called me back. He fell in step with me and steered me to the sidelines while the rest of the team shuffled toward the locker room.

“So,” he said, his voice low. “How you holding up, son?”

“Good, I guess.”

He rubbed his chin with stubby fingers. “I know it’s been a rough summer for you, what with your mom…” His words trailed and he cleared his throat. “Sometimes, when we go through hard stuff, the best thing to do is to put all your energy and focus into something else. Channel it. Drive toward something that makes you happy.”

What makes me happy…

Working at our family’s auto body shop instead of pissing my summer away with practice… Building something with my hands, build a life in Santa Cruz… That would make me happy. Football wasn’t even in the top ten, but I was damn good at pretending it was. Judging by Coach’s skeptical glance, my mask was slipping.

“I felt pretty focused today,” I said.

“You were, absolutely. That last bomb you dropped on Weatherly is one for the highlight reels. I just meant if things get real tough, you have this team. You have us.” He put his hand on my shoulder pad. “Let it all out on the field.”

I heard him loud and clear: If you’re sad about your mom being diagnosed with Stage IV liver cancer, play harder, but don’t ever quit.

“Thanks, Coach. I get it.”

He rubbed his chin dubiously. “Yeah? Seems like the fire’s gone out a little. Not that I blame you. News like what you got…it takes some getting used to, I’d imagine.”

I nearly choked on the idea that I’d ever get used to my mother dying. And my “fire” for football was a sputtering flame, kept alive by my father’s persistent and relentless insistence it never burn out.

“I’m good, Coach. Promise.”

“Good to hear it, son.” He smacked my pads again. “Go get showered up and I’ll see you tomorrow. Come early if you can. There’re some plays I want to run by you and Donte. Something to wow the scouts coming next month.”

“Okay, Coach,” I said automatically. Like a soldier responding to a commanding officer. Doing my duty.

His disappointment for my lack of enthusiasm breathed over my neck as I wandered to the locker room in the remains of the afternoon. The sun was nearly gone.

Nearly gone…

Pain slugged my chest like a heavy mallet. I had to stop and grip the flagpole outside the gym, shocked at how much power Mom’s diagnosis still had, even weeks later.

My “big brain” that Coach liked to fill with complicated plays recycled the events of this last summer like a film on rewind. My mom, looking fit and happy in the pool, laughing with my little sister, Amelia. Amelia’s laughter fading when she pointed out that she could see the outline of Mom’s stomach…

Mom had been losing weight and didn’t know why. She brushed it off as a mysterious diet she didn’t know she’d been on. Then came the weakness. And pain. So much pain. The diagnosis came less than a week later.

Six months. Maybe more. Probably less.

Nearly gone.

I blinked stinging sweat and tears out of my eyes and joined the guys in the locker room. They were showering, walking around bare-ass naked, crowing about the last play, giving each other shit, or talking about girls. Locker room talk that would make most parents weep for humanity.

As always, I kept my head down, eyes averted, wearing my exhaustion like a heavy coat so no one would wonder why I wasn’t joining in.

“Yo, Whitmore!” Donte called as I passed him on my way to the showers. “Plans tonight? Maybe with that sweet little Violet McNamara?”

A chorus of oohs and laughter went around. Despite all of us at Central practically growing up together since preschool, Violet McNamara was new to our group. Earlier this summer, Evelyn Gonzalez—the queen bee—had pulled Violet from behind her books to reveal a stunning girl with raven-black hair and intense blue eyes.

I slipped on my king-of-the-world smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Donte laughed. “He’s such a smooth player, our boy, Whitmore.”

“Lucky bastard,” Chance said. “I shoulda claimed her first. Who knew she was so fucking hot and un-tapped, if you know what I mean.”

They all laughed. My ears reddened.

I’d only hung out with Violet a handful of times this summer, but I liked her. Shy but also capable of holding her own. I thought she was sort of brave.

And maybe my last chance.

I tried to date girls from Central High or nearby Soquel and never felt a connection. Maybe Violet would be different. She wanted to be a doctor. Maybe I could have a real conversation with her, and something would happen between us. Maybe I’d finally feel the spark of something—anything—and then the nagging anxiety in the back of my mind would go away.

I stripped out of my sweat-soaked gear and claimed one of the showers. The cold water flowed over my skin, raising goosebumps. I turned my face to the spray, and the echoing voices, slamming lockers, and laughter were distant sounds from an alien planet.

“Hey, River. You coming to Chance’s back-to-school rager?” Isaiah, our star running back asked later, while I dressed quickly at my locker.

A beefy arm slung around my shoulder, jolting me.

“Of course he is,” Chance bellowed in my ear. “Wouldn’t miss it. Right, Whitmore?”

I gritted my teeth and threw off Chance’s arm with more violence than I meant to. A low rumble of whoas issued from the guys in the vicinity. I rarely got pissed. Never lost my temper or my cool, or showed any emotion other than calm, casual confidence.

“Asshole,” I said into the awkward silence that followed, a smooth grin on my face. “I just fixed my hair.”

The guys busted up laughing and Chance’s wide, ruddy face broke out into loud guffaws. He acted tough with me, but by some twist of fate—or maybe because I helped win us games—at Central High, I was king.

When the other guys went back to their business, Donte sidled up to me. “Hey, man. You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, grinning. “The gentlemen among us Neanderthals. If you’re really into pretty Miss Violet, just say so. We’ll cut the shit talk.”

“I’m good,” I said again. “It’s stuff with my mom that’s rough, you know?”

“I hear you. Sorry, man.”

“Thanks,” I said, and for a split second, his earnest tone and serious eyes made me think I could have a real conversation with him. Then his face broke into a wide grin—the charming, mega-watt smile that made him so popular with girls.

“Chance’s rager is just what you need,” he said. “Get fucked up and forget shit for a while.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Maybe that sweet Violet McNamara could help you in that department.”

“Yeah,” I said, my shoulders sinking. “I’ll see if she’s interested in the job.”

Donte whacked me on the back. “There you go! See you bright and early in the a.m., my brother.”

I lingered until the locker room cleared out, then walked to my Silverado alone. The sun wasn’t even thinking about setting; amber rays fell across the black asphalt. I revved the engine and then sat in the AC before driving home.

Home.

The word had taken a new meaning since Mom got sick. I’d grown up in that house. In this town that I loved. It had seemed safe; a place where nothing bad could happen. And it had betrayed us all.

My last refuge was the shop, fixing something broken and making it work again. I wished there were something—or someone—who could do the same for me.

Dinner was starting as I came into our spacious kitchen. Dazia Horvat, my mom’s best friend, was stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce and humming to herself. She’d flown in from Washington DC the day after Mom’s diagnosis and hadn’t left since.

Dad was already in his seat, scrolling his phone while Amelia set the table. My fourteen-year-old sister glanced my way, then went back to the knives, forks, and spoons. She’d been a sweet, vibrant girl up until two months ago. Now she hardly spoke, barely ate, rarely smiled.

“How was practice?” Dad asked, looking up from his phone eagerly, his eyes lighting up as they only did when talking football these days. The bulk under his grease-smudged overalls showed the remnants of his own football career, muscles packed onto his stocky frame. “Coach Kimball told me he has a few new plays for you and Weatherly tomorrow.”

I gritted my teeth. Dad had a direct line to Coach, always texting and talking about my progress, especially now that my last year of high school had arrived and it was time to choose a college.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing napkins from the shelf near the table to help Amelia. “He mentioned that.”

“River, darling,” Dazia cut in, her words colored with a faint Croatian accent. “You must be starving. Two practices a day is too much!”

“It’s not too much at all.” Dad beamed proudly at me. “It’s what it takes to make a champion. Isn’t that right, River?”

“Sure.”

“And this year is it. The year.”

“What does that mean?” Dazia asked. “What is so special?”

“Next month, scouts are coming to watch River play,” Dad said. “College applications come after that, and then we decide which university will highlight his talent best and propel him to the NFL.”

“Oh, is that all?” Dazia shot me a wink.

“It’s what we’ve been working for since River was old enough to hold a ball. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”

I smiled thinly. “Sure, Dad.”

Amelia let me take over setting the table and sat down, phone in hand. Her long dark hair formed a curtain, shutting the rest of us out.

I nudged her shoulder. “What’s up with you? Do anything fun today?”

She shrugged. “Not really.”

“Are you looking forward to starting at Central High, Amelia?” Dazia called over her shoulder. “Freshman year is a big deal. Like senior year. Must make them special.”

“I don’t know what’s so special about it,” Amelia muttered. “It’s going to suck.”

I set down the last napkin and my sister lifted her eyes to mine. She was right. Mom wasn’t likely going to make it to Christmas, so I didn’t bother telling Amelia she was wrong or that she needed to cheer up. I never let myself have any of my own feelings, which ironically made me protective of everyone else’s right to theirs.

“Hey,” I told her. “If you get Ms. Sutter for math, you’re golden. She never collects homework.”

Amelia smiled gratefully at my change of subject. “And if she does, you can do it all for me. Nerd.”

“Sure, I will,” I teased, desperate to keep that smile on her face. “For a small fee. Your allowance, maybe? Even better—your collection of painted doll things would get me a buck or two on eBay…”

“They’re Russian nesting dolls, doofus, and you’d have to do my homework all through college before I’d even consider letting you put your huge, grimy hands on them.”

We exchanged playful, challenging looks. I knew perfectly well what they were called, and she knew it. The shelves in Amelia’s room were lined with the brightly painted wooden dolls, each holding a small doll inside the other, smaller and smaller, until the smallest was the size of a thimble. She saved her allowance to buy sets from different sellers all over the world and received them as gifts at every birthday and Christmas. They were her prized possessions.

“You sure?” I asked. “You’re passing up a pretty sweet deal.”

“Touch them and die, lunkhead.”

I laughed and she grudgingly laughed with me, grateful for the small moment of levity.

“Is it true that you’re something of a math whiz, River?” Dazia said, coming to the table with a bowl of bread.

“Math nerd is more like it,” Amelia said. “River’s the nerdiest jock in school.”

I gave a lock of her raven hair a tweak. She stuck her tongue out at me.

“Is that so?” Dazia laughed, then discreetly removed one of the table settings I’d put down. “Your mom isn’t coming down for dinner tonight, darling. She’s a bit tired today.”

“Oh.”

The light moment crashed to the ground like an anvil. My father stared at Mom’s empty chair, his eyes heavy. Amelia retreated behind her hair with her phone.

That’s some math for you: We were a family of four. Subtract one mom, and what did you have left?

I don’t know who we’ll be when she’s gone…

“I’ll go up and say hello,” I said.

“Good boy,” Dazia said. “She will love that.”

I strode through our big house quickly and took the stairs up two at a time. Not because I was in a hurry to further witness what cancer had done to my beautiful mother, but to prove I wasn’t as scared as I felt.

I knocked on the master bedroom door softly. “Mom? It’s me.”

“Come in, love,” came the faint reply.

The shades were up and the window open to let in the fresh air and golden twilight. Mom lay in the center of the king-sized bed, looking small and frail, swimming in man-style silk pajamas. A scarf covered her head and she set down the book she was reading to smile at me.

She’s still beautiful, I thought fiercely. Fuck cancer.

“Hey, Mom.” I kissed her on the forehead. “How do you feel?”

Not that I’d get a real answer. She’d finished a course of chemo and targeted radiation last week that left her weak, nauseated, and exhausted. But she never complained. Not once.

I wish I were as brave.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little tired today.” She reached up to cup my cheek as I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You look tired too. How was practice?”

“Fine. Same as yesterday. Coach is aiming for another championship.”

“I’m sure he is. What about you? What are you aiming for this year? Your senior year.”

To somehow survive if you don’t.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Look good in front of the scouts. Get into Alabama, I guess.”

“And make your father proud.” Mom pursed her lips. “I’ve been thinking a lot about his football dreams and yours. Sometimes I get the feeling they’re not the same.”

It should’ve been so easy to tell her the truth, but I’d been boxing up my emotions and putting them away for years. Stuffing them in the attic where they were growing dust, so that Dad could be happy. He’d been a star quarterback for Alabama, almost assuredly a first-round draft pick to the NFL. Until disaster.

I still remember watching the replay. Once. One viewing was all my stomach could handle. Dad dropped back to pass, his O-line fell apart and two defenders took him down in a pile. Then the guys jumped up and frantically waved over the medics, because my father’s leg was bent at a sickening angle no human leg was meant to bend.

Career over.

“He wants it so badly for you,” Mom said. “Mostly because his dream is unfinished. He sees the potential for you to have everything he couldn’t. But do you want it for you? Sometimes, I’m not so sure.”

The truth was waiting to be released. Like setting down a thousand-pound weight. Or unpacking all those boxes I’d carefully stored out of sight. But if I told Mom the truth, she’d insist Dad know too. It’d crush him and then he’d have to deal with me and losing the love of his life. It was too much.

I was too late.

“Nah, I’m good,” I said. “Just tired. Lots of practice. But forget that boring shit. What about you? Can I bring you anything? Dazia’s making spaghetti…”

Mom’s clear blue eyes narrowed. She knew I wasn’t saying everything, but she let it go. For now. “That woman is a whirlwind, isn’t she? I’m so glad she came.”

“Me too. But she has to go back to DC soon, right?”

“In a bit, but she promises to come back as soon as she can.” Mom’s thin hand squeezed my strong one. “It’s been easier having her here, I know. Not that anything about this is easy.”

“Least of all for you,” I said, my throat thick.

Mom smiled. “I’m sick, but I’m still your mom, even if I can’t take care of you the way I want to. I never want to be a burden—”

“Impossible,” I said fiercely. “You’re not a burden.”

“And you’re a sweet boy growing into a good man.” She pulled out an envelope from today’s mail. “I’ve signed myself up for the Medical Center’s Patient Care Program. Twice a week, a promising student from your school will spend the afternoon here, helping around the house and taking care of things for me.”

I flipped opened the letter. “Violet McNamara? She’s going to be your patient care…person?”

“Volunteer. Do you know her?”

“She’s been hanging around our crowd lately. She’s very pretty. Smart. In fact…” I cleared my throat. “I was thinking about getting to know her a little better. Maybe ask her out.”

Mom’s eyebrow ridges rose. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I…I like her.”

Jesus, I sounded like a terrible actor giving the world’s worst line reading.

My mother regarded me closely, as if seeing right through me. I wished she could. Maybe she could tell me what she saw because when I pictured myself on a date, I couldn’t see who with. Only a nameless, faceless girl who made me laugh, whom I could tell all my shit to and she’d understand. No judgement. Only connection.

And maybe not a girl at all.

I quickly boxed that thought up with the rest and tucked it away.

“I’m happy to hear that you like her,” Mom said. “I can’t remember the last time you mentioned being interested in someone.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Football takes up so much time. But yeah, Violet is…nice.”

Christ.

“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting her. Now go on downstairs and eat before your dinner gets cold.”

I practically jumped off the bed, eager to get away from this convo. “Can I bring you anything?”

“Maybe a Hot Pocket later?”

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “You and your Hot Pockets.”

She grinned. “Nutrition at its finest.”

But the fact she was willing to eat at all was a win in my book.

I went back downstairs to a quiet dinner with the tension of perpetual worry strung between Dad, Amelia, and myself like wires, pulling us tight, ready to snap.

The air was different now in the house, every second tainted because each one brought us closer to a time when Mom wasn’t going to be here. Dad left dinner early to seek refuge in the den with his football highlights. Amelia took her phone and went to her room while I cleaned up so that Dazia could sit with Mom.

After the dishes were done and the kitchen dark, I went to my room, stripped down to my boxer briefs, and tried to get some sleep for yet another early practice. But my body was wide awake and exhausted from the strain of repressing my deepest longings at the same time. I’d been playing a role, lying to myself for so long that I had no idea who I was.

How did it get this far?

Except I knew how. I’d let my own life—my own self—slip out of my grasp the first time I lied to my dad. I didn’t want to repair his broken dreams of a future in the NFL, using my life as a kind of do-over. But that ship had sailed, leaving me stranded on an island of my own making.

And now Mom was sick, and that island felt even more remote. Isolated.

I needed relief. I needed a feeling that was all mine, even if it only lasted a few moments.

I grabbed my phone and pulled up a porn site. My thumbs hovered over the categories, lingering over one in particular, and then quickly moving on.

I picked something vanilla and the video snippet started. As usual, my eyes drifted from the raw act with the woman to the guy’s face. I concentrated on his reactions and movements, telling myself that was okay. What I truly needed wasn’t physical anyway. I needed eye contact. The connection.

I watched for a few minutes, then shut it off and slid my hand into my underwear. I was already hard. I gripped myself, stroking fast, filling my mind’s eye with the guy’s expression, the way he moved, how he gazed into the woman’s eyes with intensity. In my fevered imagination, the woman vanished altogether, and it was just the guy, stroking himself to finish while I watched…

I came so fast I nearly didn’t have time to grab a tissue.

Breathing hard, I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. My release faded quickly, washed away by guilt and shame.

What is wrong with me?

Sleep started to drag me down. My hand reached across the empty space of my bed for something—or someone—to hold on to and found nothing.

Chapter Two

“The first day of school,” I muttered, regarding myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. “What a joke.”

What did anyone at a pitiful little high school tucked in a redwood forest think they could possibly teach me? I’d been to the edge of the abyss and back. There was nothing left for me to learn but how to survive with the scars it gave me.

Everything—and everyone else—could go to hell.

Do you want the money or not?

“On the other hand…”

I drew on Gucci jeans, a long sleeve black button down, and black Balenciaga boots as morning sunlight streamed in from the bay windows and spilled across the cedar floors of the guesthouse Mags and Reg set me up in.

Admittedly, they’d done good. I had a mini-living room, bathroom, king-sized bed, an ocean view, and built-in bookshelves that ran the length of one wall. I’d already begun filling the shelves with the dozens of books I’d bought over the last few weeks and my own journals.

Though the view outside my window forecast a sun-drenched day, I put on a heavy black pea coat and looped an emerald green scarf with gold paisley swirls around my neck. My armor.

“You’re not physically cold,” said the Ghost of Therapy Sessions Past. “It’s a psychological manifestation of the trauma you endured during the conversion therapy.”

I’d had an entire year’s worth of round-the-clock treatment and that “false cold” still felt pretty fucking real to me.

A soft knock came at the front door of the guesthouse.

“Mr. Holden? You will be late for school.”

Beatriz Alves, the Brazilian housekeeper, was the only person in this house I could tolerate, including myself.

“Bom dia, Beatriz. Estou indo.”

“Muito bem, senhor.”

On my way out, I closed my journal—the black and white speckled kind you could find anywhere—and set it on the stack of others like it on my mahogany desk. More journals filled a locked trunk I kept under the window. My life story. A story I’d been writing since I was ten years old and desperate for an outlet for the clamoring voices in my mind.

Loud voices that told me to be bold and live life fully and never give a fuck what anyone thought of me.

Quieter voices that whispered sinister things in my ear; that I was broken, that my mind a labyrinth that I’d never map.

Writing was my map.

Someday, I’d write something official. I’d distill my life through fiction. Pile the pain on a hapless character and make him suffer. Maybe he’d get a happy ending.

Hell, one of us should.

I dropped my Djarum Blacks into one pocket of my coat and a silver flask filled with Ducasse vodka into the other, then took the path through the backyard, past the pool I’d never swim in, to Mags and Reggie’s huge beachside Craftsman.

Because they had more money than God and not a shred of imagination, the house was slathered in nautical décor. Blue and white striped everything, anchor-themed art on the walls, and glass bowls of seashells for days.

In the depressingly cheery kitchen, Mags and Reginald lounged over breakfast, their mugs filled with steaming coffee. Beatriz, small but spry for a woman pushing seventy, maneuvered around the white and chrome kitchen.

“There he is,” Reginald exclaimed, then frowned. “You look quite…elegant, Holden.”

I could hear today’s weather report behind his words, but over the past three weeks, my aunt and uncle had learned not to question my winter wardrobe choices. Not unless they wanted an earful of Alaska.

“Thanks, Reg,” I said, pouring myself a cup of black coffee from the French press. I stifled a yawn and joined them at the table, stretching my long legs.

“You’re something of a night owl, eh?” Reginald ventured. “I heard some activity late last night down in the basement gym.”

And before that, I snuck out to break into your neighbors’ empty house, Reginald.

It was a little habit of mine, begun when I was a kid in Seattle and driving my parents crazy with my “sociopathic antics.” Breaking into people’s houses was easier than you’d think—a key under a pot or a window left open. I never stole anything; I just liked to see what real homes looked like.

But no sense in freaking out Auntie and Uncle so soon. The year was young.

“What can I say? I’m a health nut.”

My aunt frowned. “But exercising at three in the morning? Is that…normal?”

“I’m not familiar with the term.”

They exchanged concerned glances, and a twinge of guilt nipped at me.

“I don’t sleep much,” I explained. “Racing thoughts, anxiety… Sometimes exercise is the only way to burn it out of my system.”

I didn’t add that obsessively working out was another piece of my armor. I honed my body into a temple of lean muscle for future lovers, and because I’d be fucked if I let anyone overpower me again.

Reginald smiled brightly. “Well, you’re free to use the gym however you like. It’s been gathering dust, quite honestly. Glad someone in the house is getting use out of it.”

I sipped my coffee.

“Are you excited for your first day of school?” Aunt Mags asked. “Senior year. That must be exciting.”

“We hear you’re quite the intellectual,” Reginald chimed in. “In fact, the curriculum at Central might not be enough to challenge you.”

“I’ve been challenged quite enough already,” I said bitterly. “Don’t you think?”

Another unwarranted flash of guilt lanced through me at my aunt and uncle’s distressed expressions. They’d known perfectly well what my parents had planned for me in Alaska, and neither had said a damn word or lifted a finger to stop it.

I whipped my wrist to check my antique Philip Patek. “I think we’ve played house enough for today. I’m going to be late for school.” My chair scraped the travertine tiles as I abruptly stood up. “Is James ready?”

“Uh yes, he should be out front,” Reginald said.

“Have a good first day,” Mags said.

“Yep.” I pushed in my chair, that stupid remorse nagging at me like a toothache. “Thanks for the coffee,” I mumbled. “And the gym and the guesthouse and…everything else.”

Their surprised, touched smiles made my chest tight, and I turned to make an escape go before anyone said another word. Beatriz stopped me, pressing a small brown paper bag into my hands.

“What’s this?”

She gave a confused smile, warm and gentle. “It is lunch, meu doce garoto.”

Lunch, my sweet boy.

I stared. Beatriz had made me a sack lunch, like mothers had been doing for their kids since time immemorial. My heart clenched tighter, and my jaw worked soundlessly—for once my chattering brain had nothing to say.

She patted my cheek. “Have a good day, Mr. Holden.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I hurried out of the kitchen, seeking the reassuring weight of the flask in my coat pocket. Before I reached the front door, I took a deep, fortifying pull. The unsettling feeling in my chest drowned in the vodka that burned a path down my throat, the sharp edges of reality blurring slightly.

That’s enough of that, thanks very much.

Kindness, I’d come to know in my seventeen-and-a half-million years on this planet, had only been ever used as a tool to get something out of me. The docs at the sanitarium used it to encourage me to spill my guts in therapy, and my parents…

Charles and Estelle Parish had turned on the warmth just before sending me to conversion therapy. They shocked me with their sudden care and concern so that my naïve fifteen-year-old-self tearfully agreed to let a sadist who called himself Coach Braun take me to Alaska where he and his “counselors” reached into my chest with cold hands and tried to rip out a fundamental piece of me. A part of me that was as essential as my blood and bones but a “reckless lifestyle choice” to my parents. That night, after they explained the camp, Mom actually cried and Dad touched me, right on the cheek, for the first time in years. So I agreed. Anything to have more of that.

“Fool me once,” I muttered as I walked down the driveway and away from that awful night.

I took another pull from my flask, but the day was annoyingly brilliant. Ocean salt laced the air, and mountains draped in forest cradled this city by the sea, forcing me to acknowledge its beauty. Mags and Reg were stuffy and sort of ridiculous, but they were also trying their best to take care of me. And Beatriz and her goddamn mothering… What the hell was that about? I’d fallen through the looking glass from a cold, loveless wasteland into a world of sack lunches and parental figures wishing me a good day.

It won’t last. Give it a month before they try to get rid of you.

The driver my parents had hired for the year lounged against the side of a sleek black Cadillac in a black suit and white shirt, smoking a cigarette.

“Morning, James. Got a light?”

“Good morning, Mr. Parish. Of course.”

James Costa was pushing fifty with salt and pepper hair and a tough mobster look about him. We’d been getting weird looks all summer as he shuttled me around to explore the city and its tourist-packed Boardwalk. I imagined how the two of us would look, rolling up to Santa Cruz Central High School in this black sedan.

I lit a Djarum off his lighter and inhaled. “They’re going to think we’re mafia, James. I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.”

“If I may say, sir, I wasn’t under the impression you gave a fuck about what anyone thinks.”

“Too true, my good man.”

When we finished our cigarettes, I ground mine out under my boot and James opened the back door for me.

“Welp. High school awaits. Can you see it, James? Me? In high school, like a normal guy?”

“Not especially, sir. No offense.”

“None taken,” I said, climbing in. “I’m rather curious about it myself.”

It only took until first break to know that I’d never fit in at Santa Cruz Central High.

Prior to Alaska and the stint at the sanitarium, I’d only attended—and been kicked out of—stuffy prep schools. Regular high school was all so hopelessly, depressingly normal. A good percentage of the kids were probably going through some heavy shit, but I had nothing in common with any of them. I stuck out like an elegantly dressed sore thumb.

Rolling up in a chauffeured black Cadillac had begun the rumor mill churning. By the time morning classes were over, whispers followed me down the halls. Girls gawked at me with thinly veiled interest. Others stared at my wardrobe choices. The word “vampire” was tossed around more than once.

But I made it through most of the day without seeing a single person of the masculine persuasion who seemed even remotely interesting.

Until lunch.

The bell rang and I followed the crowd to the cafeteria. Some students opted to sit inside. Others sat in groups on the grass or at outdoor tables. I debated my options while inspecting the sack lunch Beatriz had prepared for me: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, corn chips, sliced apple, and a small carton of milk.

Is she trying to kill me?

No way in hell could I eat that in public without crying in my Fritos. I tucked the lunch back into my sleek leather backpack and leaned against a cement pole to survey my fellow students.

Besides, vampires don’t eat. We drink.

I took a sip from my flask and slipped it back into my pocket just as two girls approached. One was all Latina hotness with lustrous black hair flowing out of a high, tight ponytail. Her dark eyes drank me brazenly. The other girl was a raven-haired beauty with dark blue eyes and porcelain skin. She lacked the innate boldness of the first girl, but her eye contact was on point.

I reached for my packet of cloves as the first girl’s gaze raked me up and down with a predatory gleam. Her heteronormative assumptions that I was A) straight and B) automatically attracted to her, were amusing.

“I’m Evelyn,” she said. “This is Violet. We thought we’d come over and say hi, since you’re new and all.”

“Am I? It’s only noon, and it feels like I’ve been here for ages,” I said and lit a cigarette with my gold Zippo.

“This is California, not Paris,” Evelyn said, impressed with my blatant disregard for universally acknowledged health statutes. “There’s no smoking allowed at school.”

“I’m sure there isn’t,” I said and took another drag.

She pressed on with a flirty smile. “There’s a spot under the bleachers on the north end of the football field. Good place to smoke or do other things you don’t want anyone to see. Care for a tour?”

Not on your life, honey.

“As enticing as that sounds, I’ll pass. Raincheck, Princess?”

I gave her a grin and a wink to take the sting out. To her credit, she didn’t throw in the towel.

“Definitely,” she said. “There’s a party Saturday night at Chance Blaylock’s house. A back-to-school thing. Should be pretty epic.”

I glanced at the shrinking violet who hadn’t said a word. “What do you think, Violet?”

She crossed her arms. “I think smoking is bad for your health and those around you.”

“So it is,” I said. Her honesty was surprising. As was the fact she clearly wasn’t interested in me.

Evelyn elbowed her friend in the ribs. “Don’t mind her. Violet is going to be a doctor, so she’s anal about stuff like that.”

I shot Violet a wink. “So am I.”

My terrible joke sailed over their heads. Evelyn smiled harder.

“Anyway, if you want to come to the party, give me your number and I’ll text you the address.”

“Oh, I think I can find my way.”

“Cool. But if you change your mind about a tour, I’m around.”

“Yes, you get around,” said a lanky red-haired guy in oversized boardshorts carrying a skateboard.

He sauntered up behind the girls with two other guys, jocks by the size of them. One was bulky, ruddy-cheeked, his hair like dry straw. But my gaze snagged on the second guy and became stuck there. On him.

He wasn’t stylish in the slightest or even interesting-looking. Merely classically, epically handsome. All-American. Superman in a T-shirt and jeans. His face was a straightforward arrangement of perfect features—thick, dark brows over blue eyes fringed with long lashes. A strong nose over a luscious mouth and a cleft in his chin even more impressive than mine.

He spared a smile for Violet, then turned his gaze my direction. A lock of his dark hair fell over his brow, daring someone—me—to reach over and brush it away.

“I was just inviting our new friend to your party, Chance,” Evelyn said to the blond. “Guys, this is Holden.”

The pale slab of beef was Chance, but no one had told me Superman’s name, probably because he usually needed no introduction. It was obvious this guy was a football god, Prom King—the Jake Ryan of Santa Cruz.

“Good to meet you, man.” He offered his hand.

“Likewise,” I said, keeping mine to myself.

Mr. Perfect might’ve had the rest of the school swooning, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. But once our gazes found each other, I fell into the surprising depth of him. There was weight behind his eyes, and his casual smile looked like his own brand of armor.

The guy quickly withdrew his hand and laughed it off. “Okay, whatever.”

“Holden is from Seattle. Isn’t that right…?”

I didn’t stick around to hear Evelyn recite the rest of my bio. I rolled my shoulders around the pole and walked away from the small group. First rule of showbiz: always leave them wanting more. Better to leave the hot—and painfully straight—jock with the deep eyes far in my rearview.

Yet it bothered the piss outta me that I didn’t know his name.

Why? So what? Who cares?

All valid questions.

Near the edge of the quad, I pulled aside a pretty girl.

“See that guy in the white T-shirt back there? Dark hair? Looks like he stepped out of a Hollister ad?”

The girl gave me a funny look. “Um, yeah?”

“What’s his name?”

“That’s River Whitmore. Senior. Quarterback and captain of the football team.”

“Much obliged.”

I started to go but the girl touched my arm, her eyes raking me up and down unapologetically. “Hey, hold up. You’re new, right? I’m Leah. Do you want to—?”

“Nope, I’m gay, thanks.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that…?”

“I said, I’m good, thanks. Appreciate the help.”

“Oh. Okay.”

River Whitmore, I told myself, heading to my locker. There. You know his name. Happy now?

Happy wasn’t on my horizon and knowing River’s name didn’t assuage my curiosity. Just the opposite—my cracked mind seized on it, tasted it, turned it over and over. Whitmore did nothing for me, but River would sound sexy as fuck whispered right before a kiss…

“Nope. We’re done here.”

I deposited my uneaten lunch in my locker and slammed the door. Slammed it on Beatriz’s sack lunch and River’s sad eyes and on the weak flickering spark in my chest that wanted to make something out of both.

Chapter Three

The new guy sauntered away, releasing me from his piercing gaze.

Good.

I wasn’t supposed to be noticing things like the intensity of his eyes or how they were the purest green. Clear and hard, like peridot.

I wasn’t supposed to notice that under all that expensive clothing, his body was built. Not as big as me but lean muscle on a tall frame.

I wasn’t supposed to be paying attention to how fucking perfect this guy’s face was, angular and sharp, as if he were sculpted out of ice. Icy hair, icy attitude but with a fire burning underneath…

“He’s dressed like it’s winter,” muttered Frankie Dowd, the skater punk who tagged along with my crowd, mostly because we’d all gone to school together since kindergarten. “What a fucking weirdo.”

Inexplicably, my hackles went up; I had to clench my jaw to keep from snapping at him to shut his damn mouth.

“Do you ever stop being a jackass?” Violet demanded.

Against my will, my gaze lingered where Holden had gone, the scents of clove cigarettes and expensive cologne trailing after him. I inhaled deep, catching a few remnants. They went straight through me like an illicit drug, making my skin shiver.

What the hell…?

Frankie said something dickish to Violet and I whirled on him. “Get lost, asshole.”

“Touchy, touchy, Whitmore. Later, my dudes,” he said and slunk away.

“You’re coming to the party, right, Vi?” I asked.

Violet looked lost in her own thoughts for a moment before shaking her head. “Uh yes, I’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ll see you then,” I said and turned away without another word.

Because I’m the coward…

I could see it unfold so clearly. At the party, I’d ask her to Homecoming. We’d date and I’d make it through the year without having to confront any feelings I didn’t feel like confronting. Violet was an overachiever like me. We wouldn’t have time to get serious. I wouldn’t break her heart. She couldn’t touch mine. It was perfect.

Bitterness flooded my mouth.

“Hey, man. Wait up,” Chance called. The beefy linebacker lumbered after me. “You’re going to come over early on Saturday for party prep, right?”

“I told you I would, didn’t I?”

“Good, since Evelyn’s invited half the school. Including weird rich fuckers who smoke on campus, apparently.”

My teeth clenched. I felt Chance watching me as we strode across the quad, his wide face scrunched up in confusion.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said tightly. “Just…worried about my mom.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“It’s all good. I gotta go. I’ll be late to Calc.”

He chuckled. “Dude, I don’t get it. It’s our senior year. You don’t even need math.”

“I like it. And I’ll need a shit ton of math to balance the books on the auto body business.”

“Maybe in like, twenty years. Once you’ve racked up a Super Bowl or two, you can pay someone to do all that shit for you.”

I glanced at Chance Blaylock, a guy I’d known since we were kids, friends since grade school, teammates on Pee Wee football and beyond. His position as center was to pass me the ball so that I could be the hero while he took the brutal hits from any D-line that wanted to rip my head off. A thankless job he performed with ferocity, berating himself hard when someone got past him. Because he was my friend. My best friend, when it came down to it.

I wondered how he’d feel if I told him I wanted engine grease on my hands instead of Super Bowl rings. Or that I was still thinking about that “weird rich fucker” who might show up to his party.

“Gotta go,” I said and turned away.

“See you at practice?” Chance called after.

I sighed. “I’ll be there.”

After practice on Saturday, I spent the afternoon helping Chance set up for the party. Mr. and Mrs. Blaylock were out of town, visiting Chance’s older brother at Auburn.

“I don’t know why they don’t lock you in a cage every time they leave the house,” I said as Chance raided his dad’s liquor cabinet, on top of the keg we’d bought with his older cousin’s help. “You’d think they’d have learned their lesson after the last rager.”

Chance grinned and carried three bottles of liquor from the living room to the spacious kitchen. “Because they know that kings of the school—especially seniors—are going to live it up. So long as I don’t do major damage to the house or furniture, they’re cool.”

He emptied a bottle of vodka into his mother’s Waterford crystal punch bowl.

“My dad would have a shit,” I said, unwrapping a stack of red Solo cups from the plastic.

Not that I could have a party at my place now, even if I wanted to. I didn’t want to be at this party. It all seemed so pointless. Get wasted to terrible music and talk about unimportant crap as if it were life and death. Real life and death shit was happening in my own home.

I dipped a Solo cup into the bowl of Chance’s infamous party punch: one-part cherry Kool-Aid, one-part Mt. Dew, one can of Red Bull, and a zillion parts cheap-ass vodka.

“Jesus Christ…” I croaked as the sip burned a path down my throat.

“Red Bull is the secret ingredient,” Chance said, grinning proudly. “Gives it that extra kick.”

“It tastes like carbonated ass.”

“Sixty percent of the time, it works every time.”

We laughed at the quote from Anchorman, Chance’s all-time favorite movie, and I felt a little lighter. Or maybe that was the booze. I switched to beer as we finished the set-up and students began trickling in.

But as with all parties, I blinked and suddenly the huge house was packed with bodies that shout-talked, laughed, or danced to the thrumming, base-pounding music from Mr. Blaylock’s state-of- the-art sound system.

Donte, Isaiah, and the rest of the team arrived, and I stood in the center of my group as conversations were shouted at me from all directions. I added a comment here and there but found my eyes scanning the faces of people who flowed in and out of the kitchen to fill up their cups from the keg or the punchbowl.

Donte nudged my arm. “You looking for someone special?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You look like you’re on a date and afraid of being stood up.”

“Oh, nah,” I said quickly. “Violet, I guess. She’s supposed to be here with Evelyn.”

“Oh yeah? You going to ask her to Homecoming? Make it official?”

I shrugged, took a sip of beer. “We’ll see.”

Donte laughed. “Always Mr. Cool. Well, look no further ‘cause here’s your girl now.”

My girl, I thought. It sounded strange even in my head. Like a foreign language.

Violet came in with Evelyn, wearing a skin-tight dress that highlighted her every curve. Her hair fell around her shoulders in silky black waves, and her deep blue eyes scanned the crowded kitchen nervously.

She was beautiful. Stunning, even. And was going to make a great Patient Care Volunteer; Mom said her first visit with Violet the day before went well and that she was a smart, sweet girl with a heart of gold. Only a fool wouldn’t try to earn Violet’s love and respect. And yet, my gaze kept wandering. Searching…

“Hey, boys,” Evelyn announced to my group in the kitchen. “This is Violet’s first house party.” She looked to me pointedly. “Be gentle.”

I knew my cue when I heard it and moved through the crowd to Violet, wearing my trademark give-no-fucks smile.

“Hey.”

Violet smiled shyly. “Hi.”

“So…this really your first party?”

She laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Nah, you’re doing all right.”

“Any pointers?”

“Yeah. If Chance offers you a cup of his ‘world famous’ party punch, say no. That shit is like gasoline.”

She laughed again, and it was time to make my move and ask her to Homecoming. But I was so goddamn tired of putting on this King of the World show when real life was hammering at me like the pulsing music and noise of this stupid party.

I moved in closer to Violet. “So listen…”

“Yes?” She glanced up, her blue eyes large and soft.

“My mom said it was awesome meeting you.”

“Oh. Right.” She sounded as if she’d been waiting for me to say something else. Or ask something else.

I just want to talk to someone and have a real fucking honest conversation.

“You made her happy and that’s a big deal to me. So, thanks for that.”

“Of course. She’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, she is.” My eyes stung and I drowned the swell of grief in a long pull of beer.

“Yo, Whitmore!” Chance called. “Beer pong is happening now.”

I sighed. “So…maybe we can talk more later?”

Violet smiled prettily. “Sure. Yes. I’d like that.”

I managed a small smile in return. “Don’t drink the punch.”

I left Violet to play beer pong with the guys, drinking the time down. Minutes bled into each other and my wandering gaze gave up searching for whatever or whoever I was looking for. When the game ended, we converged in the kitchen for shots while Evelyn talked up a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.

I quickly downed the rest of my beer. “Hey, Chance, I think I’m going to bail.”

“What? Hell no. It’s not even ten.”

“Yeah, but I’m—”

“Oh goody, everyone’s here…” Evelyn said loudly, then lowered her voice to a satisfied purr. “I take it back. Now everyone is here.”

I lifted my bleary gaze and my damn heart jumpstarted.

He’s here. And the part of me that had been seeking, stopped.

Holden Parish lounged against the kitchen counter as if he’d been there all night. But for a blood-red scarf hanging loosely around his neck, he was dressed all in black. The sheer fucking perfection of him seized my attention and refused to let go. He reminded me of the vampire, Lestat, from the Ann Rice books I’d stolen from my mom’s bookshelf and secretly read as a kid. Lestat moved across centuries, always elegant, always making the era conform to him.

Holden doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about him.

He lit a clove cigarette and observed the group of the school’s most popular kids without a care in the world. His peridot eyes landed on me and widened slightly. The icy green color warmed and grew cool again as he dissected me. According to Evelyn, Holden was some kind of super genius. Whatever it was, it seemed as if he could see through my carefully crafted persona to the confused mess beneath.

Evelyn slunk to his side and linked her arm in his. “Everyone, you remember Holden Parish,” she said as if his very existence were her doing.

“Smoking’s outside, dude,” Chance grumbled.

“You sure about that? Your living room smells like a Snoop Dogg concert.” Holden handed Chance a small paper bag. “A token of gratitude for having me at your little get together.”

Chance’s frown vanished when he pulled out a bottle of Patrón Silver. “Dude. Thanks.”

“Perfect,” Evelyn purred. “Line up the shots, boys, because it’s time to play Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

The kitchen erupted in cheers as Chance lined up solo cups on the island counter. Holden plucked the bottle from Chance’s hands and poured shots for them both.

“To our host,” he said, his gaze flickering to me and then away.

The guys tossed the liquor back. It whacked Chance hard, making his eyes water, while Holden drank his down smoothly and poured another.

“Step right up, ladies and gents, and let’s make some beautiful memories,” he said and instantly became the party MVP.

“You still cutting out?” Chance asked me under a swell of cheers.

“Nah,” I said, sipping my beer. “Changed my mind.”

“Hell yeah!” Chance pressed a cup with a shot of tequila in it into my hand. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and wind up in my hall closet with that sweet Violet.”

I tossed back the shot and felt recklessness infiltrate my thoughts. My gaze wandered drunkenly back to Holden. “Maybe.”

We headed past the formal dining room to the living room where Chance barked at people to clear a space. The music was turned down and some partygoers gathered in to watch. Others sat on the floor where I noticed Miller Stratton with a guitar on his lap. Another new guy, Ronan Wentz, stood over him, arms crossed like a sentinel or bodyguard.

I didn’t know Miller very well except that he was an intense guy and that he was friends with Violet. Four years ago, he passed out in her backyard and had to be hospitalized for diabetes. I’d hardly spoken two words to him in those four years, but as we took up our seats on the floor to play the game, he glared at me as if I’d run over his dog.

Chance and I, Donte, Isaiah, and Holden sat on one side of a semi-circle on the floor. Five girls—Violet and Evelyn among them—sat on the other. I was as far from Holden as possible, though it seemed like my every damn sense was attuned to him. He’d sprawled his lean frame on the carpet, elbow propping his head, cuddled up around the Patrón bottle. Every time I looked over at him, he was looking over at me, intently and obviously.

Part of me wanted to grab him by the collar and demand to know what the hell his problem was. Another part of me wanted to grab him…

And what?

Nothing. I was drunk.

Holden’s brows rose in amused curiosity, and I realized I’d been staring. Quickly, I turned my attention to Evelyn who was explaining her version of Seven Minutes in Heaven while tearing strips of paper to write down the players’ names.

“If your name is picked, you go in. Then we pick someone who joins you in the dark. I’ll leave it up to you to decide how to figure out who,” she added with a sly smile. “When time’s up, you leave, but that person stays in the closet, and another name is picked. You get it? Like a chain. If you’re not picked to go in, you drink!”

Since I was unable to keep my damn eyes off of Holden, I noticed him take a sip from the tequila bottle and swallow it as if it were water. Again, he caught me staring. A drop of tequila lingered on his lower lip. With merciless eye contact, he rolled his tongue over his lip to catch it.

I dove into my beer cup; my skin heating. Why was he here? To mess with me? Torment me?

It’s only torment if you care about what he thinks. Or about him…

“This is a woke version of Seven Minutes in Heaven,” Evelyn was saying, writing our names on the strips of paper. “That means I don’t give a fuck if you’re a guy and get paired with another guy, or girl with a girl. You go in and get to know each other. How well you get to know each other is up to you.”

I was instantly more sober at the thought of winding up in a closet with Holden.

Goddammit, Evelyn…

“Someone have a timer?”

“Yes, my queen,” I heard Holden say but this time kept my damn eyes to myself.

Evelyn chose a name from the pile of paper strips. “Up first…Violet McNamara.”

Violet hesitated and then picked her way between us seated players, toward the closet. Evelyn shot me a knowing look and I understood what would happen next. She pulled a strip with a new name, showing no one.

“River Whitmore!”

The guys thumped me on the back.

“Remember,” Chance said too loudly. “Be gentle.”

From the corner of the living room came a discordant note from Miller’s guitar. Now he glared at me as if I’d run over his dog, backed up, and did it again.

I hauled myself to my feet, pinned between Stratton’s evil eye and Holden’s relentless gaze. I stumbled inside the closet, brushing heavy coats aside to feel my way along a wall in the near-total blackness.

“Violet?”

“I’m over here,” she called from the back.

“It’s dark as shit…”

I felt my way to the wall opposite her, not wanting to crowd her in or make her uncomfortable. I fought for something smooth to say to pave the way for asking her to the dance. I had nothing.

“This is a crazy party, huh?” Violet said finally. “That Holden is a strange guy.”

“Yeah,” I blurted. “He’s fucking weird. Reminds me of that vampire, Lestat.”

“Oh my God, I said almost the exact same thing! I didn’t know you read Anne Rice.”

“I don’t. Saw the movie. I mean…my mom watched it once. I remember some of it, I guess.”

“Okay.”

Another silence fell. I leaned my head against the wall and stared at the black of the ceiling. I was in a dark, enclosed space with a beautiful girl who was clearly into me. And I felt nothing. Had nothing to say. Not even my prescribed lines.

Violet jumped in. “How are football practices going?”

“Good. Long. You play a sport too, right?”

“Soccer. We don’t start until spring.”

“Cool.”

The convo sputtered and died.

Enough of this bullshit. Just do it. Like tearing off a band-aid.

“So, Violet.”

“So, River.”

“Homecoming dance is in a few weeks.”

“Yes.” Hope came alive in her voice.

“Are you going with anyone?”

Miller Stratton, maybe?

“Nope!” she practically shouted.

“Cool. So…would you like to go with me?”

“Yeah. Yes. I’d like that. Thank you.”

Mission accomplished.

“Great. We can work out the details later.”

“Sure.”

Another silence fell. I’d come to do what I needed to do, but Violet’s expectations filled the quiet until a rapping on the door jolted us.

“Time’s up! Come on out, Violet. River, stay put.”

“That’s my cue.”

Violet started to rise and all I could think about was Holden Parish lying stretched out on the carpet, watching me. Getting into my head and monopolizing my attention.

His tongue tasting that drop of tequila…

My hand shot out and grabbed Violet’s like a lifeline. I inhaled the scent of her perfume—something sweet and flowery and feminine—and willed it to have the same intoxicating effect on me as Holden’s cologne. Violet’s breath caught, waiting for my kiss. I waited, too, for my body to respond to the beautiful girl in the dark, wanting this.

My lips landed on her cheek.

“Thank you, Violet,” I managed weakly. I lingered there for a minute because I should kiss her again. A real kiss. She was ready, and I should’ve been willing…

Instead, I let her go and slumped back down on my side of the closet, humiliation burning my skin. “You’d better get out of here before Evelyn starts screeching.”

“Oh. Right.” Disappointment laced Violet’s words as she stood up and made her way to the door. “Okay…uh. Bye.”

My head fell into my hands. I had a beautiful girl waiting for me to kiss her in the dark, wanting me to kiss her. From somewhere inside, deep and neglected, a small voice whispered, What do you want?

Before I could contemplate an answer, the door opened, and Holden Parish stepped into the closet.

Because of course he did. Goddamn this stupid game.

The light from the living room outlined his tall form, and I stuffed my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. The closet went black as he shut the door, but I’d have known it was Holden if I were blind; the closet was infused with his clove-and-cologne scent, overlaid with the stringent sting of tequila. It hit my senses harder than the booze I’d drunk and was a million times more potent than Violet’s feminine scent.

“Hey, man,” I said. Casual as hell.

“Hey, man,” Holden mimicked me, and his dark shape slid down the side of the wall perpendicular to me. There was a metallic scrape and his Zippo flared to life, illuminating his face and nothing else.

I held perfectly still, watching as the shadows cut his cheekbones into even sharper lines, contouring shadows that lead to his full lips and the cleft in his chin. His green eyes glittered over the flame, then he snuffed the light.

It was too dark to see; my body sensed Holden instead. I felt his presence in the small room like a low hum. A current moved between us, but he said nothing, and I had nothing to say. I felt guilty of a crime I hadn’t committed…or had yet to commit.

“So,” Holden said after a minute of silence. “River, was it?”

“Whitmore, yeah.”

“Tell me something, River Whitmore…” Light flared as he lit his zippo. His eyes bored into mine, seeing through me as if I were made of cellophane. “Aside from me…who else knows you’re gay?”

I froze, every molecule in my body petrifying at once. I couldn’t move or breathe and yet I fell into the clear green depths of Holden’s eyes, tinged gold and fiery in the flickering light. He watched a storm of emotions I couldn’t control play over my features, and the sharp angles of his face softened.

“You’re crazy,” I said, my voice hoarse. “And drunk. You don’t know shit about me.”

Holden leaned forward until our faces were inches apart, the flame dancing between us. His nearness was all over me; I felt it along my skin, a tingling shiver that danced up my arms, down my spine, and straight to my cock.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he whispered. Then his lips parted—I couldn’t tear my eyes from his mouth—and he inhaled slowly and blew out the flame.

The darkness washed over me, breaking me from whatever fucking voodoo this guy was working on me. I got up off the floor and pushed my way to the door, unable to keep from slamming it open and storming out.

“Fucking asshole,” I spat and strode through the room, drawing attention. Making a scene.

Shit.

I sucked in deep breaths and tapped the keg for another cup as Chance, Donte, and some guys followed me into the kitchen.

“What was all that about?” Donte asked.

“Did the new guy try something on you?” Chance asked, chugging laughter.

“Yeah, get a little action you weren’t ready for?” another guy, Mikey Grimaldi, asked with even more glee. As if consent were a big joke.

I could’ve made up any story I wanted. Whether it was true or not, they’d kick the shit out of Holden for no other reason than I told them to.

“Nah, it’s nothing,” I said, taking a long sip of beer. “He shoots off at the mouth and I’m not in the mood for it. It’s all good.”

The guys absorbed this, and because I was their king, they accepted it without question. But how far would that acceptance stretch?

Who else knows you’re gay?

The question was a flare sparking in a pitch-black night or a bomb dropped into a dark pit, shaking the foundation and threatening the entire edifice.

I watched the guys—my supposed friends—laugh and joke as if nothing had changed.

Because it hasn’t, I told myself fiercely. Not one damn thing.

And yet the image of green eyes watching me—seeing me—over the flicker of flame wouldn’t snuff out, no matter how much beer I tried to drown it in.

It’d taken less than seven minutes, but everything had changed.

Chapter Four

“That…” I said to the empty closet, “was a dick move.”

I flipped my Zippo open and shut, over and over, a strange energy vibrating through me. It intensified when I recalled River’s face and how it froze in abject fear when I’d asked my question. Fear that had quickly softened to confusion and something else. Something that looked suspiciously like relief.

I hadn’t expected that. I was sure I was fucking with a straight boy.

But what if I wasn’t?

My little black heart stuttered at the idea that I might’ve touched a nerve River didn’t even know he had. Putting him on the spot like that was…

“Wrong,” I muttered. “It was wrong and now I have to apologize. Ugh, I hate that.”

On the plus side, apologizing meant I had an excuse to talk to River again.

Beg forgiveness.

On my knees…

“Down, boy,” I said, wagging a finger at my crotch. Shit, I was drunk.

I started to pull myself off the floor when Evelyn entered the closet on a cloud of feminine hormones and girly perfume, killing my hard-on immediately. I sank back down, my head lolling against the wall.

“Shit, I forgot we’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven: Herpes Edition.”

She laughed sharply. “What does that mean?”

“It means a chain of people kissing each other is a fabulous method of cold sore conveyance.”

“And yet, here you are.” Evelyn sat in the center of the closet in front of me. “Wait. Does that mean you kissed River Whitmore?”

I wish.

I considered the rumors Evelyn would start about River if she grew suspicious. I’d made him feel shitty enough.

“I never kiss and tell. But no. We did not kiss. In fact, I’m quite certain he hates my guts.”

“Good,” she purred. “I don’t like sharing.”

Evelyn prowled toward me, sliding her hands under my calves and then up over my knees. I’d drunk too much. Or maybe not enough. River’s agonized expression came back along with the hope that it sparked in me. A longing that I knew was impossible and doomed, because unless it was purely sexual, I wasn’t capable of being good for anyone. Including myself.

Evelyn’s hands were on my thighs now. In the dimness, her hair cascaded sexily around her cleavage. She reminded me of Camila Cabello and the song she did with Shawn Mendes.

“I love it when you call me señorita,” I sang softly. “Wish I could pretend I don’t need ya…”

“What are you saying?” Evelyn asked with a small laugh. “Never mind. Let’s not talk anymore.”

I snorted indelicately. “Anymore? Because we’ve been in a riveting tête-à-tête up until now.”

“Shh. This is what we’re here for.”

Her lips were nearly on mine, but a manic wildness was infiltrating me, fueled by old pain that was waking with a vengeance and greased by guilt for what I’d done to River.

My thoughts took off to the races—whispers from Alaska that said I was worthless, unlovable, that I ruined everything I touched…because it was true. I recalled over and over River’s expression and how I might’ve struck a chord—the right chord—but in the worst possible way. He hated me. I hated me for hurting him. My parents hated me for being myself. A cycle that fed on itself until I thought I’d shatter into a thousand pieces.

I inhaled sharply and belted, “I love it when you call me señorita…”

Evelyn reared back and sat on her heels. “The hell…?”

“Something, something, your touch. Ooh la, la…”

I couldn’t remember the words; I’d only watched the music video a thousand times for Shawn Mendes straddling a motorcycle. But the crazed energy consumed me, pushed me off the wall onto my hands and knees.

“You should be running. I keep on coming for you…”

Evelyn shot to her feet. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m serenading you. Obviously. You don’t like?”

“Umm, no. God, why do you have to be so weird and ruin everything?”

“Ah, the million-dollar-question…”

“Ugh, whatever.”

Evelyn threw open the door and I dove out of the closet after her, catching her by the ankle and singing loudly. I got up on one knee and took her hand, imploring her as a sea of partygoers watched with phones out.

Recording our love.

Evelyn’s face twisted in rage and embarrassment. She tore her hand out of my grasp. “God, you’re fucking crazy.”

She stormed through the living room toward the kitchen.

I got to my feet and bowed to the smattering of applause until the soft strains of a guitar filtered through the music and cut through the talk of dozens of conversations.

Someone was playing the Coldplay song, “Yellow.”

Not just playing it. Slaying the shit out of it.

I craned over heads and saw a guy in jeans, T-shirt, and beanie strumming his guitar in the corner, his voice raspy and heavy with emotion. The immediate audience around him was rapt—a little oasis of calm, while I stood in the swirling maelstrom of the party and my own tempestuous thoughts.

The guy’s voice was deeper and rougher than Chris Martin’s and infused the song with a different depth, making it new—and sort of perfect—all over again.

And aside from that small group, everyone was missing it.

The bottle of Patrón, now empty, lay abandoned on the carpet. I ran for it, swept it up, and leapt onto the dining room table that overlooked the living room. My sleek boots slid across an acre of polished mahogany. I managed to keep my footing but the Patrón bottle smashed on the smooth wood surface, scattering glittering shards across the tabletop.

A massive party foul, but on the plus side, it helped me get everyone’s attention.

“Everyone shut the fuck up!”

Stunned silence made its way through the dark living room, snuffing conversations. I hissed at the guy nearest the sound system to shut off whatever bullshit was currently playing so that we could listen to that guy in the corner singing his goddamn heart out.

The party went quiet enough to my satisfaction. People flooded in from the kitchen and backyard to listen. Chance emerged, red-faced and snorting, wanting to know what I’d done to his parents’ table, but I’d barely registered his presence. Lighters flicked on. The soft glow of phones illuminated the dark, recording something a little bit miraculous—a guy being completely vulnerable. He let it all out, pouring himself into the room for everyone to hear.

The song ended on a final soft note, and silence descended. For a few perfect seconds, the room held its breath.

I let mine out. “Holy. Shit.”

My words ignited applause and cheers that broke the peace. Shattered glass scratched the polished wood under my boots.

Because that’s what I do. I ruin things.

But fixing everything I’d ever broken was impossible; I’d long ago given up trying. The peace of the song evaporated. I couldn’t hold on to it, so I let the mania take over. The only thing to do, my cracked, tequila-soaked mind suggested, was to keep going. Hurl myself into the crazy. Maybe I’d land safely. Maybe not. Might as well dance.

“Dude! What the fuck are you doing?”

Chance’s eyes bulged as I tap-danced on the shattered glass, daring fate to let me slip and fall. To cut myself to ribbons on the jagged shards and feel real pain instead of the howling agony that lived permanently in my heart.

“I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the raaaain…” I crooned.

Not bad. Like Fred Astaire if Fred Astaire was a seventeen-year-old guy drowning in booze and self-loathing.

“My parents are going to fucking kill me!” Chance raged. “Someone get over here and help me get this prick off the table.”

He made a swipe for me, but I danced out of reach, never losing a step until River Whitmore emerged from the kitchen. His beautiful face was composed, lips drawn down. Whatever vulnerability I’d seen in the closet had stayed there.

“Show’s over,” River said to me, his voice low and threatening. Masculine and hard and sexy as hell. “Get the fuck off.”

I went down on one knee, one hand over my heart, the other reaching for him. “What a glorious feeling. I’m happy again.”

But River wasn’t playing anymore. His luscious mouth curled in a sneer and he smacked my hand away before making a grab for me. A year spent running away from orderlies at the sanitarium had made me nimble—I evaded River’s grasp and leapt off the table into the void. Like a cat with nine lives (who’d spent a few already), I landed on my feet, vaulted the couch and jumped to the coffee table.

“Just singin’ and dancin’ in the raaaaain…” I finished the song with a flourish, knocking over beer cans and smashing more glass under my boots.

“You’re dead, fucker,” someone snarled behind me.

I whirled around to see Frankie Dowd—his nose sporting a white bandage—had arrived. He was aiming a real goddamn police-issue Taser at a beautiful beast of a man in a black T-shirt with tattoos snaking up his arms. The musician in a beanie stood between them.

Frankie lunged. The huge tatted guy moved with a fighter’s agility and knocked the Taser out of Frankie’s grasp then gripped him by the shirt and drove him through the crowd. They went down in a heap on the carpet beside my impromptu stage.

River and Chance diverted their focus from me to the two guys tearing at each other on the floor. They pried them apart and then Frankie ripped out of Chance’s grip, breathing hard, clothes disheveled.

“Fuck this guy,” Frankie screamed, the white bandages now red with new blood. “You are so dead.” He grabbed a broken beer bottle off my table and leveled it at the tatted guy. “I’m going to kill you, motherfucker!”

River and Chance tried to talk Frankie down, but Frankie kept them at bay with a few swipes of the bottle, then slashed at the big guy. The crowd gasped as he opened a cut on his forearm.

The tatted guy didn’t even flinch. He slowly glanced at the blood leaking down his arm, then back to Frankie. A promise of violence rumbled in his voice. “That was a mistake.”

Tension hung in the air like power lines, connecting everyone in the room to the same humming anticipation. And though Tall, Dark, and Psychotic was certifiably hot, him being stabbed would put a serious damper on the party. Him killing Frankie would be slightly worse.

Neither one of them deserved the imminent violence and danger, but I could take it. In that moment, with the shadows of yesterday’s nightmares coursing through my veins, I wanted it.

I jumped off the table, putting myself between them. I tore open my coat and the shirt beneath, baring my chest to Frankie.

“Right here,” I hissed, tapping the skin over my heart. “Put it right here. Go on. Do it. Do it.”

The crowd froze like a still frame in a movie. Frankie’s eyes were wide with shock as I silently dared him to stab me, curious to know if he’d actually do it.

The musician put a hand on my arm, his voice low and soothing. “Hey, man. Come on. Hey…”

His comforting touch and the soft cadence of his voice infiltrated my racing thoughts. I let him pull me back while River relieved Frankie of the broken bottle.

I guess tonight’s not the night…

Murmurs began all around, and I felt a hundred pairs of eyes on me. Shock mixed with pity as they stared at the crazy guy with a death wish. I pulled my coat closed and reached for a smoke, smiling wide, all sunshine and rainbows. Because fuck them and their pity.

“Anyone got a light?”

Chance’s jaw unhinged stupidly. “What the fuck…? Get out. You three.” He jabbed a finger at me, the musician, and the tattooed beast in black. “Get out of my house.”

I put a hand on my chest and turned to the musician, horribly affronted. “Rude, right?”

He burst out laughing, surprising even himself, and then convulsed harder, pulling me in as if it were contagious.

“Get out!” Chance thundered.

We turned and ran for the door, both laughing like idiots while Frankie screamed impotent threats behind us. We raced down the front steps, and the musician stumbled and crashed hard on the front lawn. I followed, and we lay on our backs, laughing between wheezing breaths.

“I don’t believe we’ve officially met.” I offered my hand. “Holden Parish.”

“Miller Stratton.”

We shook and then a menacing sex-on-a-stick shadow fell over us.

“And who’s the Brute Squad?”

Miller clutched his sides, barely able to speak. “R-Ronan Wentz.”

I thrust my hand straight up. “A pleasure.”

Ronan crossed his arms, one of which had blood smeared down to his wrist. “Crazy bastards.”

“How did you do that?” I asked Miller, wiping my eyes.

“Do what?”

“Play and sing like you did. Like…a fucking miracle.”

He shook his head though I could see my words had touched him. “Nah. Everyone’s heard that song. It’s a million years old.”

“They’ve heard the song, but you put your soul out there. That’s not something people hear every day.”

Chance slammed open the front door. “I said, get the fuck off my property!”

He charged down the stairs toward us, River following after, his expression still hard and carefully composed.

I did that. I sucked his smile away like the vampire I am…

A blonde girl brought Miller’s guitar case to him, and then it was time to go. He and Ronan and I raced for the refuge of James and his mafia-looking sedan.

“Good evening, James,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to remove my friends and me from the immediate area?”

James didn’t ask questions but did as I asked, which is what I loved best about him. That, and he drove like Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction.

“Home, sir?” he asked, calmly weaving the sedan down darkened streets at break-neck speeds.

“Fuck no.” I turned to my new companions. “Thoughts, gentlemen?”

Miller and Ronan exchanged glances, and then the big guy nodded once.

“My place,” Miller said. “The Lighthouse Apartments.”

James navigated tree-lined streets to a poorer neighborhood called the Cliffs. It was a ten-minute drive. He made it in five, then parked the car in a crappy parking lot with cracked pavement and carports made of aluminum siding.

“Cozy,” I said. “After-party at Chez Stratton?”

“Not quite.” Miller jerked his chin at James. “How long will he wait?”

“As long as I need him to.” I lit a clove cigarette and waved away the smoke and their curious stares. “But fear not, James is being well-compensated for his time.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Miller and Ronan led me down and isolated stretch of beach that grew increasingly difficult to navigate. Cliffs loomed over us, and the path became narrow and strewn with rocks. Water lapped at my boots, ruining them with sand and salt.

Maybe they’re going to murder me and dump my body in the ocean.

After the insanity of the party, I wouldn’t have been too surprised.

Eventually, the path led away from the surf and became easier to navigate. After climbing over a particularly large porous rock, we arrived at a small fisherman’s shack, built against a heavy boulder. It had its own stretch of beach and a bonfire pit that faced the ocean, now a safe distance back. Rocks that had spilled down from the cliffside blocked the way farther east, protecting the shack from interlopers.

I peered inside the small space. Not much to see. Moonlight poured in from a window roughly cut into the wall, illuminating a wooden bench and table.

“Not bad. Could use a few upgrades.”

Ronan lit a bonfire while Miller crashed heavily onto one of the three rocks that ringed the firepit like makeshift chairs. He rummaged in his backpack and poured a few gummies into his palm.

“CBD?” I asked. “Sharing is caring, Stratton.”

“Not CBD. Glucose. I have diabetes.”

I sank down on my own rock chair, the news hitting me surprisingly hard. I barely knew the guy but something told me he suffered enough already. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” he said as Ronan got the fire roaring with a bottle of lighter fluid. “What did you do to piss off River Whitmore?”

I put him on the spot, like an asshole.

“I pissed off a lot of people tonight. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The quarterback. When you were playing that Seven Minutes game.”

“Ah, yes,” I said and cast my gaze to the black ocean bearded in white froth as it crashed and retreated. “Don’t remember.”

“You sure?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I was hoping you kicked him in the nuts.”

“Do tell.”

Miller thought about answering for a moment, then shook his head tiredly. “Not tonight.”

“Fair enough,” I said, glad that the subject was dropped.

Ronan went inside the Shack (with a Capital S) and emerged with beer bottles in his hands. I gratefully took one, but Miller passed.

“Still feeling low,” he said and took a bottle of orange juice from his backpack.

Twenty yards away, the ocean crashed and retreated, and the wind was cool and bracing. Calming.

An ocean, I decided, wasn’t like a lake. An ocean was alive and moving—energy flowing through it, rising up and crashing, washing against jagged, broken rock and leaving it smooth.

A lake was sinister. Still. Its cold, black water suffused your every pore, and if it sucked you down, it wouldn’t leave a trace.

I shivered and tried to do what Dr. Lange had always suggested—to ground myself in the present moment where the past couldn’t touch me.

“It’s nice here,” I said. “Really fucking nice. Like I can just…breathe.”

Miller nodded. “Same.”

“Same,” said Ronan from his rock chair on the other side of Miller.

On the drive over, I’d learned that Ronan had recently moved to Santa Cruz from Wisconsin, which meant he and Miller had only known each other for a handful of days and yet were already perfectly at ease. I glanced around at the fire, the Shack, the ocean, and the two friends sitting in companionable silence.

I have all the money in the world, but the things I want most cannot be bought.

“Do you guys hang out here a lot?”

“All the time,” Miller said. “You’re welcome to come here too. Anytime. Mi casa es su casa. Except it’s not a house. How do you say, our shitty shack is your shitty shack in Spanish?”

“Nuestra choza de mierda es tu choza de mierda,” I said quickly to cover the swell of happiness that threatened to turn me into a puddle of goop the way Beatriz tried to do with her lunch.

Miller’s brows rose. “You speak Spanish?”

“And French. Italian. A little Portuguese and some Greek.”

“You some kind of genius?” Ronan asked.

“So they say. My IQ is 153.”

Miller whistled his disbelief.

“Sounds as if it could be helpful, right?”

“Helpful?” He scoffed. “That’s like having the answer key to life.”

“If only,” I said, relishing how easily I fell into conversation with these guys. “As far as I can tell, it just means the nonstop thoughts in my head are more cunning and can torment me in multiple languages.”

A short silence fell, and I held my breath, waiting for ridicule or for them to kick me off their beach.

“So,” Miller said finally. “Do I email you all my homework assignments directly or do you prefer hardcopy?”

Warmth flooded me. “No chance, Stratton.”

“Worth a shot.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty damn perfect, right here,” I said after a few minutes. “Like we’re at the edge of the world and no one can touch us.”

“Yep,” Miller said, and Ronan nodded.

I sucked in a deep breath. Here goes nothing. Or everything.

“I’m gay,” I said. “I just wanted to get that out there. In case it wasn’t obvious. Is that going to be a problem?”

Miller’s brows came together. “No. Why would it?”

“Ask my parents,” I said, hope rising in my chest. I looked to Ronan. “How about you?”

Ronan downed the rest of his beer and threw the bottle aside. “No, I’m not gay.”

Miller and I exchanged glances then and our laughter came roaring back. The kind of laughter that keeps going until you’ve forgotten what was so funny in the first place. The kind that cements friendships instantly. A warm balloon expanded in me, lifting me for a few moments out of the shadows. When I caught my breath and came back to earth, I belonged around this fire, with these guys.

“You’re a crazy motherfucker, you know that?” Miller said to me, still laughing.

“So I’m told.”

“You could have been in with them, you know? The popular kids.”

“Why would I do that when fucking with them is so much more fun?”

“Fun,” Ronan said, his eyes on the roaring flames. “Is that what that shit with Frankie was about? Fun?”

“I did it to throw him off guard,” I lied. “That’s all.”

They wore twin expressions of doubt and concern, but they let it alone and I understood that giving each other space was one of the key tenets of their friendship.

“Where are you from?” Miller asked after a while.

“The Pits of Hell. Seattle,” I clarified. “Not that Seattle is hell, only my parents’ house. I live with my aunt and uncle now. They have a vacation home here in the Seabright neighborhood and are living in it year-round while I finish school.”

“Why even bother with school at all?” Miller asked. “With an IQ like yours, shouldn’t you be curing cancer or building robots at MIT?”

“Medicine takes discipline. I have none.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Be a writer,” I said, rubbing my ink-stained fingers. “Don’t know that I’ll be any good at it.”

“Why not? You’re smart enough.”

“A giant IQ means I have facility with language and words, but it doesn’t guarantee those words will have heart.” I turned to Miller. “Like your music. That was all heart. When I write like you play, my friend, I’ll call myself a writer.”

He seemed stunned by the compliment and didn’t know what to do with it. But I knew the rules here and I didn’t push it.

Like I should’ve done with River.

“You had only one more year of high school,” Miller said finally. “Why leave?”

“Not up to me. After my sophomore year, my father arranged for me to take a little detour into the wilderness.”

“You mean like a camp?”

“Sure,” I said, bitterness flooding my mouth. “A camp. And that camp necessitated that I spend a year in Switzerland. At the Sanitarium du lac Léman. That’s Lake Geneva, to you and me.”

“Sanitarium…?”

“Loony bin. Crazy house. Mental institution. Take your pick.”

He looked away. “Jesus.”

“There was no Jesus as far as I could see,” I said ruefully. “Believe me. I looked.”

Another few moments of silence fell, and I worried I was too much for a night like this. Then Ronan, who’d been quiet for a while, made the fire flare by shooting an arc of lighter fluid at it.

“That must’ve been one helluva wilderness camp.”

I stared as the warmth flooded back, bringing more laughter. “Is this guy for real?”

“One hundred fucking percent.” Miller tapped his juice to my beer. “To you for surviving the camp. And Switzerland.”

I swallowed sudden tears. “To Ronan, you magnificent bastard,” I said gruffly and reached to clink bottles with him. “For being one hundred percent fucking real.”

Ronan dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black device. “To Frankie, the stupid fucker who didn’t notice I swiped his police Taser.”

The earth stood still for a split second and then we laughed. We laughed until I wanted to cry, sure this strange happiness wouldn’t last. Eventually, I’d mess it up. Miller and Ronan would get sick of my shit, or my lack of filter would cross a line, and they’d decide I wasn’t worth knowing.

But in the meantime, I was here, and that was more than I could have hoped for.

It was everything.

Chapter Five

“I’m going to start by giving your summer-addled minds a wake-up call,” Mr. Reynolds said. The congenial math teacher with a bristly mustache and thick glasses drew x and y axes on the white board in blue marker. “We’ll start with a refresher on the connection between differentiability and continuity.”

I sighed with relief. After all the crazy shit that went down at Chance’s party on Saturday, I’d spent the entire weekend trying not to think about my two minutes in the closet with Holden Parish. I already had too many mixed emotions and confusion in my life; I didn’t need more. Math was solid. Exact. It had unbreakable rules.

Until that night, I thought my life did too.

Morning light spilled in through the window as the entire AP Calculus class—only about twelve of us, since it was optional—pulled out their pencils and opened notebooks. As I shook out of my letterman jacket, my pencil rolled off my desk and went behind me. Harris Reed, a thin, wiry guy I knew from last year’s Algebra II, snatched it up and handed it back with a nervous smile.

“Here you go.”

I gave him my friendliest smile in return. “Thanks, man.”

The guys in my group would label Harris a geek or nerd, if they thought about him at all. But I’d vowed never to make anyone feel like shit for no reason. Besides, I probably had more to talk about with Harris than any guy on the football team.

“Oh, and congrats,” Harris added.

“For what?”

He gave a confused smile. “For being made Homecoming King. This morning?”

“Oh right,” I said with laugh. “Thanks.”

Earlier at a pep rally in the gym, Violet McNamara and I had been named Homecoming Queen and King. It was out of my mind ten minutes after the rally ended.

Pencil retrieved, I turned back around and nearly dropped it again. Holden Parish lounged in the doorway.

Goddamn…

He leaned his tall frame against the entry languidly, like he owned the damn place. Despite the warm day, he wore a gray wool coat over a green shirt that was the same color as his eyes. His silvery hair was swept off his face in thick waves.

He was fucking beautiful. Heart-stoppingly, jaw-droppingly hot. There was no way around it. My eyes, mind, and body all came to the same conclusion and I was helpless to deny it.

Holden scanned the classroom intently until his gaze landed on me. As if a current ran from me to him, the connection instantly zipped down my spine to my groin.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Reynolds asked, smiling warmly. “The class has already begun…”

“Every hallway on this godforsaken campus looks the same,” Holden griped and slipped Mr. Reynolds a piece of paper. “I’m transferring.”

Reynolds scanned the paper and frowned. “You’re dropping French to be here? Any particular reason?”

“Cela ne m’apportait plus rien,” he said in a flawless accent. “I doubt this class has anything to teach me either, frankly, but…” His gaze on me softened slightly. “It’s possible I have a few things left to learn.”

“We’re happy to have you.” Reynolds glanced at Holden’s outfit with a perplexed smile. “Take off your coat and stay awhile,” he teased.

“No, thanks.” Holden strode through the class, ignoring the curious stares that followed. Half the desks were empty so, naturally, he sat beside me.

Shit…

I faced forward, intent on the lesson, but my heart was beating too fast. Holden lounged sideways in his seat, making no pretense about staring me down; I could feel his gaze move over my skin, sending icy-hot shivers over my arm and neck.

Finally, I turned to face him. “Can I help you?” I whispered.

“I need to talk to you,” he whispered back.

“You transferred into an advanced calculus class just to talk to me?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I learned this stuff years ago. My intentions are benevolent.”

“Uh huh.” I crossed my arms, fighting my gaze that kept drifting toward his mouth. “You totally ruined the Blaylock’s dining room table. Chance is grounded for two weeks. He was almost banned from playing at the Homecoming game next week.”

Holden rolled his eyes. “A tragedy, I’m sure.”

I tilted my head. “Are you always this much of an asshole to total strangers?”

“I’m never always anything,” he replied. “And don’t get your jockstrap in a twist. Mr. Blaylock phoned my uncle and they had a delightful conversation in which it was agreed that I’d pay for a brand-new table. And not from the local Crate & Barrel, either.”

“So you made a big mess and used your money to clean it up.”

He frowned, confused. “Isn’t that what it’s for?”

A laugh nearly burst out of me. “Does personal responsibility mean anything to you?”

“I’m vaguely familiar with the term,” he said, his angular expression softening. “It’s why I’m here, actually. For you.”

My pulse quickened and I tightened my crossed arms at those words, though I couldn’t tell if I were keeping them out or holding them in. “Say again?”

“I want to talk to you about the night of the party. What I said in the closet—”

“Forget it,” I said and whipped forward, suddenly paranoid that the entire class were listening in.

“But I—”

“I said, forget it. Nothing happened. I was drunk as shit. I don’t remember anything, so just fucking drop it.”

“Mr. Whitmore,” Reynolds called from the whiteboard. “Since you’re so chatty, perhaps you can share with the class. Can you please give me all values of x at which f is continuous but not differentiable?”

Holden leaned back in his chair, an infuriating smile on his lips. I tore my angry glare off him and studied the small graph with its curved and V-shaped tangent lines and worked out a few factors in my notebook. Solid answers that would never change.

“Negative two and zero,” I said.

Mr. Reynolds beamed. “Excellent.”

Many students in the class beamed at me too. The girls appreciatively, the guys worshipful.

“Hail to the King,” Holden muttered. “I’m surprised the class doesn’t break out into applause.”

“They do,” I said. “When I’m on the field.”

Holden arched a brow. “Touché, Whitmore.”

“And Mr. Parish,” Mr. Reynolds said loudly. “What rule do you think helped River arrive at that answer?”

Holden didn’t reply and I didn’t look away. We couldn’t take our eyes off of each other if our lives depended on it, and for a few precious moments, I didn’t care what anyone thought. The self-consciousness fled, and we just observed each other, smiles touching our lips and something foreign unfolding in my heart.

“Mr. Parish?”

Holden’s eyes never left mine. “A continuous function fails to be differentiable at a point in its domain.”

“Very good! We’re off to a great start this year. You two are a dynamic duo.”

I glanced quickly down at my notebook, the self-consciousness swooping back in, constricting my heart and slamming doors that wanted to open.

“Hear that?” Holden mused. “We’re a duo.”

“No,” I said, low and cold. “We’re not.”

Like the calculus formula. We can’t be made into something different.

I said nothing more for the duration of class, half of me feeling like shit for ignoring Holden and the other half denying that I gave a fuck. He trashed my best friend’s house. He was a pompous asshole who thought he knew me. I didn’t owe him anything.

I repeated the thoughts to drown out other unwanted feelings. Like my body’s hyperawareness of Holden’s proximity and the constant urge to look at him. To soak him up. As if he were a classic painting with a thousand details waiting to be discovered under all those layers…

Stop.

When the bell rang, I gathered my stuff and tried to hurry out, wondering how I was going to get through the semester with Holden sitting beside me. There was a bottleneck at the door as Reynolds handed out study guides. Holden lounged in his seat, making no damn effort to conceal who he was watching.

Frustration bit at me. The same flavor of frustration I’d had at the party, where I wanted to grip him by the lapels of his fancy coat and—

Tear it off?

Goddammit, I shouldn’t be having these thoughts or reactions. I didn’t have them until Holden.

Didn’t have them or didn’t hear them?

Not going there.

A couple of students asked me about the Central Capitals chances this year for another championship and if I’d seen the latest season of Ozark. I muttered a few polite answers and wished the damn line would speed up. Holden had risen from his seat and was only a few paces behind me.

“I heard about your mom, River,” Angela Reyes, a shy, quiet girl said in a low voice. “I’m so sorry.”

The punch to the gut was swift and hard. I’d forgotten about my mother and I blamed Holden for that too. He’d infiltrated me, uninvited, and sucked out everything but him.

“Yeah, thanks.”

I snatched the guide out of Reynolds’s hand and pushed out into the brilliant sun. Around a corner, I leaned against the wall, crumpling the paper into a ball.

Holden came around the corner a moment later. “You okay?”

“Sure. Great. Never better.”

“What happened to your mom?” he asked quietly. “If I may.”

I nearly didn’t tell him. Why would I? Why let him get closer?

“Cancer. Stage four. It started in her liver and now it’s in her pancreas and upper intestine.”

Holden’s face went still. “I’m sorry.”

I pushed off the wall. “Yeah, thanks, I gotta go…”

“River, wait—”

I whirled back around. “Jesus, why? What do you want?”

“To apologize. For what I said in the closet.”

I tensed all over. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Holden’s green eyes bored into mine. “Isn’t there?”

Again, it was as if he were seeing straight into my heart and mind, reading every secret I had hidden away…even those buried down so deep, I’d forgotten they were there. Until him.

“Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing but I don’t need this bullshit,” I snapped. “Just leave me alone.”

Holden’s jaw clenched, pain flashing across his eyes. And even though it felt like shutting a door he’d opened, I walked away.

The school day couldn’t end soon enough. I slammed the front door of our house and took the stairs up, hoping for a few minutes alone to mentally put myself back together before football practice.

“River?”

My mother’s voice was weak but enough to reach me from her door that was cracked open.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, stepping inside. She looked so damn small in that big bed.

“I won’t keep you. I just wanted a word.”

“Of course.” I set my bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, trying for a smile. “What’s up?”

“Don’t do that, please,” she said gently.

“Do what?”

“Pretend.” She ran her fingers down my cheek and then tucked them into my hand. “You look frazzled. Or troubled.”

“It was a weird day at school. They voted me Homecoming King.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, honey, I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re not thrilled?”

“You being thrilled makes me thrilled.”

“You’re the sweetest.” Mom hugged me, her body so perilously thin and frail in my arms, I feared I’d break her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you happy?”

I scoffed lightly. “How could I be?”

“I don’t mean about me. I mean everywhere else in your life. Are you happy? It’s your senior year…”

“Yeah, it’s going great. All five days of it so far.”

“Smart-ass.”

“Better than being a dumbass.”

“True.” Mom’s smile softened. “I just worry sometimes. Your father is so earnest and single-minded when it comes to your future—a life in the spotlight few people experience. But it doesn’t mean squat if it’s not what you want.”

“It’s not as simple as that. What I want…”

“Yes?” She leaned forward. “You can tell me anything. Especially now. Not to pull the cancer card, but…”

I snorted a laugh, but it faded quickly. “We’ve both been working toward this for years. If I suddenly wanted something else, it’d break his heart.”

“Do you want something else?”

I thought about how to answer and realized I had no idea how. What would I do if I didn’t play football? Would working at the shop be enough?

“I don’t know,” I said finally.

“What about your heart?”

“What about it?”

She laughed lightly. “You do have one.”

“Not sure what you want me to say,” I said. “It’s…there.”

“That’s just it. It should be more than there. Your heart should be beating and alive and full of all the things that make you happy. More than anything, I just want to see you happy.”

“Don’t know about that right now, Mom. There’s a lot going on.”

“I know. But keep your heart open. That’s all I ask. And please don’t force anything on my behalf. I was just curious if there might be anyone special.”

Holden’s maddeningly, frustratingly perfect face rose up in my mind.

“Violet,” I blurted.

“My Violet? You haven’t mentioned her lately, so I thought—”

“Yeah, and actually, I have some news. I think I heard her car pull up. Hold on.”

I strode to the door quickly, determined to put an end to the turmoil and confusion. To set my life back on the track it’d been on since I could hold a football.

I threw open Mom’s door and nearly crashed into Violet herself. She gave a little cry of surprise.

“Shit, sorry I scared you,” I said, demanding my senses to take in her feminine beauty and make it mean something. Anything.

“It’s fine,” Violet said with a nervous smile. “I can come back if—”

“No, come in. Please.”

“Hello, darling,” Mom said warmly as we joined her bedside.

“Hi, Mrs. Whitmore.”

“Nancy, please. Remember?”

“Right. Okay.”

Mom loves Violet. We can make her happy. What else matters?

I took Violet’s hand that was so small and fragile in mine. “Violet and I are going to the Homecoming dance together after the game on Friday.”

“Is that so? How lovely.”

Violet gave a little laugh. “He’s the King and there was a glitch in the matrix, so I ended up as Queen. I think he’s contractually obligated.”

“Ha, no. I’m happy to,” I said. My palms were getting sweaty. I dropped her hand and quickly lunged for my backpack where I’d left it on the floor. “I gotta get to practice.” I kissed Mom on her silk scarf. “Bye, Mom.”

“Be safe, dear.”

I remembered to spare a glance for my Homecoming Queen. “Call you later?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Great.” I pecked her on the cheek and hurried out.

In my room, I dumped my backpack on the floor and flopped onto my bed.

“So that was awkward,” I muttered to the ceiling. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

Who else knows you’re gay? a voice whispered back.

“Fuck.”

I’d kept Holden’s question out of my thoughts for the entire sleepless weekend. But as my eyes drifted closed for the few minutes of rest I had between school and practice, it snuck in and burrowed down deep, demanding an answer.

He said it as a joke. To mess with the footballer who was stuck in a closet with a guy. It didn’t mean anything.

Except when the words landed, they struck hard. I’d felt it. He’d seen it.

I spat another curse and tore off the bed to get ready for practice. Holden didn’t know what he was asking. There were no openly gay players in the NFL and hardly any at the college level. It just didn’t happen and yet my entire life was geared to one thing and one thing only—go pro.

It wasn’t solid or exact, but that was the only answer I had.

Chapter Six

“You are here,” Coach Braun says, “because your parents want what’s best for you. They want to save you from the mistakes you’ve been making and the false ideas you have about what is natural and what is not. They want to save you from yourself.”

His black eyes find me, and he nods once. “Him.”

Rough hands grab me by the shoulders and drag me across the rocky expanse between the campfire and the lake. Pain scrapes my bare feet and is numbed by the water, an icy ache that crawls up my naked skin and sinks into my bones. Its cold climbs higher, up to my waist, my chest—I can’t breathe—and then I’m dunked under.

I come up sputtering, jaw quivering. Strong hands—like iron claws in my shoulders—drag me back to shore. I kick and scream, thrashing with numb limbs that won’t cooperate.

“Let me go!” I cry out hoarsely, lips hardly forming the words. “Let me go! Let me go…”

Let me go.

Leave me to the water.

I’d rather slip into its frigid depths than believe my parents wanted this for me…

I gasped awake, shivering under a cold sweat, kicking and thrashing at a smothering weight.

“Let me go…”

The Alaskan wilderness faded and my bedroom in the guesthouse materialized around me, my breath wheezing in and out of my lungs. A slant of gold light fell across the wood floors.

“I’m here. Not there. Here.”

My hands made fists in the bedsheets, anchoring myself to the room, to the house. When my heart slowed its panicked pounding, I climbed out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. I made the shower as hot as I could stand, turning my face up to the spray so that my tears were lost in the searing water.

After, I wiped away the fog on the bathroom mirror and my reflection stared back. Hollow and haunted with shining, red-rimmed eyes. Thoughts and memories raced through my head, whispering. Sinister.

They sent you there on purpose. They knew, and they sent you anyway…

The reflection burst into a spiderweb of cracks and I pulled my fist from the center of it. Three knuckles on my left hand dripped red into the white porcelain sink. But that pain was sharp and alive and awake. Not a dream. It was real and it was mine.

My breathing calmed, and I tilted my chin up and set my jaw. The reflection that glared back at me was now hard. Cold. I held my bloody fist up like a promise.

“Never again…”

After dressing in black slacks, black turtleneck, and my thickest long gray coat, I strode out of the guesthouse, past the pool, and to the main house. Mags and Reg were at breakfast, Beatriz in the kitchen at her customary spot at the counter, humming.

“Ah, Holden!” Uncle Reginald said. “Good morning. Just in time for breakfast. Would you like—?”

“The mirror in my bathroom needs to be replaced,” I stated.

“Oh?” Aunt Mags touched her neck. Her gaze dropped to the bandages I’d wrapped around my left hand. “What happened?”

“My fist had an impromptu meeting with the mirror. Seven years bad luck. Or was it seventeen? I can never remember. Não, obrigado,” I said, waving off Beatriz’s sack lunch. I patted my flask in my coat pocket. “I’m on a liquid diet. Ciao.”

I left without looking at Beatriz’s soft, confused gaze or else I’d crumble. I couldn’t look at any of them with their eager, hopeful, “Let’s be a family” expressions.

They didn’t save me then. They can’t save me now.

Outside, I reached for my flask. The first taste burned some of the memory-dream out of me. A second gulp, and I felt confident enough to talk to James without him suspecting I’d been on the verge of falling apart a few short moments ago.

“Mr. Parish,” he said, opening the back door of the sedan for me. “Are you ready, sir?”

“Do I have a choice?” I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. “Another day at the circus.”

My first class of the day was AP English. Ms. Watkins, a thin, mousy-looking woman with puffy brown hair and glasses welcomed us in by reading a passage from Naked by David Sedaris that had the class howling with laughter.

“For this unit,” Ms. Watkins said, “we will be studying the craft of memoir. You will be reading some of the great memoirists—Sedaris, James Baldwin, Ernest Hemingway, Maya Angelou, Joan Didion—and we will be synthesizing the mechanics of writing with the particular artform of the autobiography.”

I sat up a little straighter.

Fine. So there’s one class I might actually survive without gouging out my eyes with a pencil from boredom.

“Your writing assignments will be a mix of essays on the writers we will be studying, and you will have the chance to tell some of your own stories.” Ms. Watkins had a warm smile. “There is no such thing as an ordinary life.”

No matter how much we may want one.

After a promising start with English, it was downhill from there, with the classes being ungodly simple and pointless. I made it through the day without burning the school down—a minor victory. But as I approached my last class—Calculus—my stomach twisted with an unfamiliar sensation.

I am not nervous over a guy. Not me. Not ever.

After all we’d been through together, I couldn’t allow my heart even the slightest injury. That it was still pumping was asking enough. But goddamn, the second I laid eyes on River Whitmore, my pulse kicked up a notch and a little thrill zipped down my spine. Like a tiny reminder of what it meant to be alive.

I took the empty seat beside him again, keeping my bandaged hand in my coat pocket. He refused to talk to me or even look my way, yet I felt his attention on me; his tapping pencil and jouncing leg like Morse code that I was getting under his skin.

I behaved myself for forty-five torturous minutes, basking in River’s nearness. His scent. A woodsy cologne underscored by eau d’gasoline. The combination was a potent, heady mixture that gave me inappropriate thoughts.

More than usual.

Do one good thing. Just one. And maybe the nightmares will leave you alone.

I tossed a small, perfectly geometrically folded piece of paper onto River’s desk.

“What the hell is this?” he whispered.

“Pop quiz,” I said. “Do you like me? Check yes or no.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Relax. It’s my phone number.”

River did not, in fact, relax. His eyes widened and an actual blush crept up his muscled neck.

“What the hell for?” he demanded, though his voice sounded thicker than it had a moment before.

“In case you need tutoring. Say your grades start slipping and you’re in danger of being cut from the team. You call the hot new guy to help you ace the test, just in time for the big game.”

River crunched the paper in a fist, and I thought he might throw it back at me.

“Nice stereotyping. Do you actively try to piss people off or does it come naturally?”

“I’m naturally gifted. Endowed, some might say.”

River was not amused.

I huffed a breath. “Look, I’m obviously bad at this. I want to talk to you. Apologize. But I’m leaving it up to you,” I said quickly when he started to protest. “You have my number so you can call if you feel like hearing what I have to say. Or if you want to…talk. About anything.”

River turned the folded paper over and over in his fingers, his expression stormy.

“Or you can throw it away,” I said. “Or burn it. Or write it on the boys’ bathroom wall under: For a good time, call… Advertising is everything these days.”

River stared at me as if I’d grown a second head, then laughed. “You’re crazy.”

“That’s the word on the street,” I said, his smile making me smile.

The bell rang, clanging through the moment. The class began gathering their things while Mr. Reynolds droned about upcoming homework. River collected his stuff. He didn’t say another word but put on his letterman jacket.

My phone number went into the pocket.

Miller watched me wedge a wing-back chair into the Shack’s doorway with a frown.

“It’ll never fit.”

“That’s what he said,” I replied and angled the huge, white chair until it slipped through the small door. I sat down, beaming at my friends. “Perfect, right?”

Ronan and Miller exchanged looks, both of them sandy and sweaty from spending the better part of that afternoon helping me carry the chair from a side street nearest the beach to the Shack.

“What do you need a chair for anyway?” Ronan asked. “We have the bench.”

“I’m not sitting on a splintered slab of wood that some pirate probably pissed on a hundred years ago.”

Miller rolled his eyes. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

The three of us sized up our little haven. The chair took up quite a lot of real estate in the Shack, but there was still plenty of room, even with the rest of the upgrades I’d been making over the last few days: a heavy-duty camping lantern, a mini fridge with a generator for booze and the snacks Miller needed to keep his blood sugars even, and an old trunk with a padlock.

Miller’s gaze lingered on the trunk the longest. His mom’s new boyfriend was a douchebag with a capital douche, and he feared for his guitar’s safety after he caught Chet messing with it the other day. I’d bought the trunk so Miller could keep the instrument safe and not have to lug it around wherever he went.

He looked to me gratefully. “The chair’s not so bad.”

Warmth flooded me and I looked away. I still wasn’t used to having real friends and had to constantly remind myself not to get too attached. It’d only been a few days. Still plenty early for Miller and Ronan to come to their senses.

“Beer?” Ronan asked, his huge frame bent over the mini fridge.

I tapped the flask in my pocket. “I’m in a vodka mood today.”

“Stratton?”

“Can’t. Have to work,” Miller said. “I’m off at ten.”

He worked at an arcade down at the Boardwalk, and we’d made a habit of meeting up with him and strolling amid the games and rides like the fabulous trio of degenerates we were.

“We’ll meet you,” I said, and Ronan nodded.

Miller’s grateful expression came back as he shouldered his backpack and headed out. I suspected he hadn’t had many friends either. I learned he’d once been homeless, living out of his car with his mother. Kids at school had spent the last four years bullying him for it, Frankie Dowd in particular. Hence the ugly little scene at Chance’s party.

The idea of anyone giving Miller shit made me want to break something. True to form, Ronan had broken something—Frankie’s nose. If I hadn’t already loved the big lug, that did the trick.

“What about you?” I asked, sitting on my rock chair beside the bonfire. “Do you work?”

“I do odd jobs,” Ronan said as he gathered bits of driftwood. The sun was hours away from setting that afternoon, but I’d never say no to a fire and he liked to watch things burn.

“You’re a freelancer,” I said.

“Sure.”

“And you live with your uncle?”

I was treading on thin ice, asking Ronan to actually talk about himself—his least favorite subject. He grunted a response that might’ve been yes, no, or fuck off.

“The reason I ask, is that I also used to live with my parents and now live with my aunt and uncle. We’re twinsies.”

Ronan didn’t crack a smile but drenched the charred wood—remnants of last night’s fire—with lighter fluid and struck a match. The fire roared and then subsided, and he took his seat on his rock.

“Shit happened in Wisconsin,” he said finally. “I had to get out of there.”

I glanced at him without letting on I was observing him, taking in his details like an artist might make a rough sketch. Ronan was eighteen going on nineteen with at least six visible tattoos. He’d packed on muscles like armor, and his gray eyes looked as if they held decades’ worth of bad memories.

“What’s that all about?” he asked as I took a pull from my flask with my bandaged hand.

“Oh, this?” I flexed my aching fingers. “Or are you wondering why today is a vodka day?”

He shrugged. “Seems like every day is a vodka day.”

“True. Today’s been extra special.” I glanced at him. “You want to hear this?”

“If you want to tell it.”

Did I? Dr. Lange was always saying the more you talked about something, the less power it had over you. I found that impossible to believe. I could spend the rest of my life talking about what was done to us in Alaska, and the cold would never leave. Imbedded forever.

I turned my gaze to the ocean, waves crashing against the shore in bursts of white foam, then retreating. Ronan was silent.

“Alcohol keeps me warm because Alaska stole something from me,” I said finally. “It stole something and left me with nightmares—memories—to remind me I’ll never get it back.”

“The camp?”

I nodded. “It fucked me up, and I wasn’t entirely solid to begin with. There were seven of us. It broke us down until we were nearly dead. Or wanted to die.”

Ronan was silent. When I glanced at him, his gray eyes were stormy, his hand balled into a fist, flexing the inked muscles on his forearm.

“Anyway, that’s why most days are vodka days. And why I sometimes put my fist through bathroom mirrors. Or”—I cleared my throat—“why I dare people to stab me in the chest at parties.”

A silence fell and I hunched deeper into my coat.

Welp, if he was on the fence about hanging around with me, that should push him over.

“I don’t live with my parents because they’re dead,” Ronan said suddenly.

I held very still. Ronan offering a piece of himself was like finding a diamond in a pile of coal. But I’d offered a piece of myself and now he was giving in return. Keeping the scales balanced. A feeling expanded in my chest, warm and soft and utterly foreign to me. Unfamiliar.

Acceptance. This is what acceptance feels like.

“What happened?” I asked gently.

“When I was a kid, my father killed my mother. I watched it happen.”

“Holy shit… How old were you?”

“Eight. He went to prison and died there. I went into foster care.”

My heart ached and I couldn’t think of anything to say, except that I hated Ronan carried that kind of pain. I wished I could erase it or carry it for him. I had enough baggage. One more shit-tastic memory wouldn’t kill me.

“I was pretty messed up,” Ronan said, his eyes on the dying fire. “I had to repeat fourth grade and did ten years in foster care. Eventually, social services tracked down my mother’s brother. That’s how I ended up here.”

“I’m so sorry about your mother, Ronan.”

He nodded and a silence fell that should’ve been awkward or uncomfortable, but instead I felt our friendship cement into something more solid with every passing minute. The sun began to sink, the sky bruised yet beautiful. Peaceful.

“Well, aren’t we a jolly pair,” I said after a while. “Tell me something good that happened to you today, Wentz. Anything. Before I throw myself into the ocean.”

He rubbed his stubbled chin, thinking. “I didn’t get suspended.”

“Hey, there you go! A two-day streak.” I offered up a high-five and got a resounding smack on the palm. I hissed a breath and shook my stinging hand. “Easy, tiger.”

Ronan almost smiled. “Your turn. Something good.”

“Hmm, don’t know that it’s good so much as doomed and hopeless but…” I heaved a sigh. “There’s a guy.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t say who, so don’t ask.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Of course, you weren’t,” I said. “That’s one of your most endearing characteristics. Anyway, there’s a guy and I don’t want there to be a guy. Not one that I might…”

“Want to fuck?”

“That’s a given.”

“Care about?”

“Exactly. And I can’t care about anyone. Bad for me, worse for them.” I stared into the flames that clung to ashen wood while the breeze tried to blow them out. “It’s stupid. And too soon. I didn’t come here to immediately have my every waking thought hijacked by someone I’ve only known for a few days.”

Ronan’s eyes widened.

“No, it’s not Miller,” I said, laughing. “And I hate to break your heart, but it’s not you either.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that the guy in question is not my type, to put it mildly. An All-American good boy. Warm, gooey, everyone loves him. He’s the human equivalent of a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“So?”

“So? It doesn’t make sense. And yet I can’t stop thinking about him and feeling guilty, because…I may have said some things I shouldn’t have.”

Ronan took a pull of beer. “I’m shocked.”

“Oh, shut up. But yes, I stirred up some shit for him that I had no business stirring. I even gave him my number in the event he wants to talk. To me. As if I could actually help somehow.” I shook my head with a dry laugh. “It’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“I’m not one hundred percent positive that he and I are on the same page, if you catch my drift. I need to leave it alone. Leave him alone.”

Ronan rolled his eyes and chucked a rock into the fire.

“You disagree?”

“If you care about him—”

“Let’s not go that far.”

“—then tell him.”

“That proves difficult, since he specifically asked that I never speak to him again. And even if by some miracle he were gay, nothing good can come of something with me. Except for sex. I can do meaningless sex.” I glanced at him. “That’s not an offer, by the way.”

Ronan didn’t crack a smile.

I took a sip from my flask, wishing the bite of vodka would kill that soft feeling in my stomach that had been living there since the day I met River.

The fire flared suddenly as Ronan spewed lighter fluid over the charred embers. “Is that what they stole from you in Alaska?”

“What…?”

“You said nothing good could come of you being with that guy. Is that what they taught you? That you’re no good?”

The doctors at the sanitarium had discussed the conversion therapy more than I ever wanted to discuss it, with convoluted terms and jargon and analysis. Ronan cut it down to its most essential element.

“Yes,” I said. “But it began earlier with my parents. And it’s more complicated—”

“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Ronan snapped. “Whoever made you think that, no matter when it started, it’s bullshit.”

He drained his beer and got up for another. He came back with two and stood over me, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. He offered one of the beers to me.

I took it and put the flask away.

The next night, Miller, Ronan, and I strolled the Boardwalk on one of our nightly prowls. The three of us garnered stares—mostly due to my fabulous wardrobe—and I knew whispers and rumors about us filtered back to the school. But none of us gave a shit what anyone thought. Least of all me.

Okay, least of all Ronan.

But I gave a shit about him. That afternoon, Ronan had come to the Shack with bruises peeking out from under his sleeves and a shiner over one eye. When Miller and I asked what happened, he snarled at us to mind our own fucking business.

Later, Miller left us to hang out with Violet and—finally—tell her how he felt about her. Ronan and I went back to the Shack.

“Is it true that Violet has a thing for River?” I asked Ronan with Academy Award-levels of casual.

He shrugged. “They’re going to Homecoming together unless something happens tonight.”

I nodded.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “What?”

I blinked, pure innocence. “What-what?”

“You’re quiet.”

“It happens.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

I laughed. “Can’t a man contemplate the mysteries of the universe in peace?”

Ronan snorted but left it alone. Unconsciously, he rubbed his upper arm where a bruise lay dark against a tattoo of a black and white owl with orange eyes. I was itching to ask him who’d hurt him, but I had to leave that alone too.

A few hours later, Miller came trudging back.

“Well? How did it go?”

The bonfire cast light and shadows over his hardened expression. “About as bad as humanly possible.”

His boss at the arcade had given him three beach chairs to replace our rocks around the fire. Miller sat in his heavily, tossing his guitar case on the sand with more force than I’d ever seen him use.

“What happened?”

“Violet wanted to make a video of me playing,” Miller said, staring into the fire. “To put on YouTube or something. So I sang for her and the moment…it grew big, and I felt things change and go deeper so I kissed her. And she kissed me back.”

“That doesn’t sound terrible,” I offered, glaring at Ronan who was leaving me to handle this conversation solo.

“It all went to shit,” Miller said. “Nothing changed. I kissed her and nothing changed…” He ran his hands through his hair and then held his head, elbows resting on his knees.

“She and River…?”

“Still going to Homecoming together,” Miller said miserably. He sat up and hurled a pebble into the fire. “Screw it. I’ll ask Amber to the dance. Maybe start something with her and try to just…let Violet go.” His heavy glance went to Ronan. “You going to go?”

“No.”

“What about you?” Miller asked me, and I could see he hoped that at least one of us would back him up.

“No,” I said, ideas whirring in my head—one of them possibly a good one. “I have other plans.”

Chapter Seven

Saturday morning, I came down to breakfast to find Mom sitting with Dad and Amelia at the table and Dazia bustling around in the kitchen.

“Heya, River!” Dad said, his voice and smile both strained. “Ready for the big game today? Coach Kimball tells me scouts from three—three—colleges have confirmed and will be there. All elite football schools.”

“Dear, let him have some breakfast first,” Mom reprimanded gently. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her skin was more pallid today than it had been yesterday when she’d said she felt well enough to come to the Homecoming festivities.

“I know, I know. But this is it. The game we’ve been working for.” Dad chucked me on the arm. “I think I’m more excited than he is.”

That’s the damn truth.

“River, darling,” Dazia called from the stove. “Eggs? Bacon? Or boring cold cereal like your sister, the little rebel.”

“Eggs and bacon would be great.”

I took my seat beside Mom, my stomach twisting in knots that had nothing to do with scouts or “the big game.”

“Hey,” I said quietly. “How you doing?”

She managed a small smile. “Hanging in there.”

Dad’s bluster faded and he silently reached over to take her hand. She gave it a squeeze, and I watched an ocean of pain wash over them. Amelia, sitting hunched over her cereal bowl, looked up at me from behind a wall of dark hair. She shook her head slowly, then retreated again.

My stomach clenched, and it felt as if an unseen hand were pressing me between the shoulder blades.

When Mom’s gone, the spokes are going to fly off this wheel and who the hell knows where we’ll land.

Dazia breezed over with her arms laden with plates like a waitress at a diner. “Here we are, Whitmores. Breakfast is served.”

“You’re too good to us,” Dad said brightly but then hesitated over his plate a moment before diving in. Eating his food without tasting it. A job to get done.

I knew how he felt. When Dazia set a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a wedge of cantaloupe in front of me, I could hardly stand the smell. I forced myself for Dazia’s sake.

She set a bowl of oatmeal in front of Mom, and I watched, my heart climbing out of my throat, as Mom closed her eyes and laid her hand on her stomach.

“I’m so sorry, River,” she said faintly. “I wanted to watch you play today so badly. And the parade after. To see all those people cheering for you…” She swallowed hard. “But I think I need to go lie down.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Amelia, come and tell me all about it later.”

“Okay.”

Mom started to rise, and Dad jumped to his feet to help her.

“Finish your breakfast, honey,” Mom said. “Dazia, do you mind…?”

Dad sat back down while Mom spared me a final smile and slowly, leaning heavily on her friend, retreated to her room.

Silence fell where none of us spoke or touched a fork or spoon. Suddenly, a scraping of chair against tile sounded and Amelia hurriedly ran from the room, hair flying, a hand clasped over her mouth.

“Big day,” Dad said, his voice thick. “It’s going to be a great game. The launchpad to your future.”

A future he almost had but was stolen from him. And now his future with Mom was eroding right before our eyes.

“Yeah, Dad,” I said and managed my own smile for him. “It’ll be great.”

“You ready for this?” Donte smashed his fists on my shoulder pads. “We are going to destroy them with our signature Whitmore-to-Weatherly Bomb up the right sideline. Their defense is going to go home questioning their will to live. Am I right?”

“Hell yeah,” I managed. “Accept nothing less.”

“That’s my boy!” He brought his fists down a final time and then stormed around the locker room, psyching up the other players until it was loud with cheers and smack talk.

Chance Blaylock, half-dressed in our blue and gold uniform, shoved his bulky bare chest against my arm. “What’s wrong, Whitmore? You look ready to cry in your Wheaties.”

“Fuck off, Blaylock.” I shoved him roughly under the pretense of pregame testosterone overload. “The only crying happening today is going to be on the Soquel bench.”

“I heard that. But goddamn, we’re lucky I’m here. That asshole, Parish, nearly fucked us big time.”

I bent to tie my laces, concealing a sour grimace.

Even without Chance, I was going to throw for at least two touch downs and two hundred yards. The Soquel Saints had no defense. This was a gimme game against a low-ranked team meant to make us look good. Make me look good in front of the scouts. The whole thing felt wrong. Dishonorable. But nothing else in the world was going to make my dad happy.

“You should see the sweet table Parish’s uncle sent us to replace the other one,” Chance was saying. “My parents should be thanking me that I had that dickhead at the party. Hell, Holden probably picked the table out of the catalogue himself, if you know what I mean.”

I slammed my locker shut, a cold feeling spreading through my gut. “No. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do. He looks like the kind of guy who spends a lot of time flipping through fashion magazines. And what kind of name is Holden?”

“It’s from Catcher in the Rye,” I said instead of something I’d regret. Or beating his ass.

“Huh?”

“It’s a book about an outcast. A guy who feels like the entire world is drowning him in bullshit.”

Chance frowned stupidly. “So?”

“So…that’s who he might be named after.” I turned back to my locker. “Never mind. The book has no pictures in it. You wouldn’t get it.”

He laughed and gave me a good-natured shove that made me want to rip his arm off.

“Oooh, Whitmore, laying the smack down! I keep forgetting you’re practically half nerd yourself. But hey, whatever fires you up, because today is the day we become legends.”

Chance joined the locker room rowdiness, and I sucked in a deep breath to calm the hell down. His jokes about Holden were tame compared to what I’d heard in the past and would only get worse in college. It was as if there were an invisible barrier around the locker room and the guys couldn’t imagine anyone unlike themselves crossing it.

Coach took a knee, and we all huddled around him, me at the periphery, half-listening to his pregame pep talk. After, he pulled Donte and me aside.

“Reps from Auburn, A&M, and Alabama are here to scout the team. But let’s be real, gentlemen. They’re here for the two of you. Show them what you got, and I think you’re going to have your pick of schools next year.”

Donte’s face grew uncharacteristically serious as his dark brown eyes met mine. “Hell yes, Coach. Whitmore’s got my back and I have his. Right?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat and hard. “I won’t let you down.”

I couldn’t. I was propping up too much to let it all fall now. Dad’s hopeful face swam across my thoughts.

I won’t let you down, either.

And I didn’t.

The Soquel Saints put up a fight but by the second half, we were running away with it. I threw for more than three hundred yards and four touchdowns, practically on autopilot. It was as if my arm couldn’t fail and Donte was always where I needed him to be.

At least no one can accuse me of throwing the game.

Neither Donte, the Homecoming Prince, or I were allowed to change before being hustled out onto the field for the parade. We sat above the backseats of fancy convertibles as the cars slowly made their way around the track, the flag team and marching band in front of us.

Donte sat with Evelyn Gonzalez, while I took my spot as King on a cherry red Mustang GT with Violet McNamara. She looked pretty in black velvet, small and delicate next to my bulk in the stinking uniform.

“If you want to move to the front seat, I’ll understand,” I told Violet through a fake smile as we waved for the crowd.

She laughed, waving shyly. “So long as you shower before the dance, I’m good.”

The dance. And dinner with the team before that.

Shit.

The invisible weight pressed harder. The last thing I wanted to do was slog through a team dinner of self-congratulatory bullshit and then Homecoming, where I’d be expected to dance with Violet in front of the entire school.

Most guys would kill to have these problems.

I smiled, waved, and pretended I wasn’t searching the crowd for silver hair and an outfit better suited to a GQ photo spread than the bleachers at a high school football game. Pretended that Violet’s delicate, feminine beauty was enough for me. Pretended that my body didn’t want someone virile and potent and powerful to unleash itself on instead.

But pretending failed. The truth was staring me straight in the face, no longer dodging just out of sight whenever I tried to look at it straight on.

I wasn’t most guys.

And neither was the one I was searching for.

When the parade ended and the crowds dispersed, I helped Violet off the back of the convertible.

“So I have this team dinner I can’t get out of,” I told her. “I don’t know how long it’s going to last, but I think it’ll cut pretty close to the dance. Is it tacky to ask that we meet there?”

Violet grinned. “My parents will be bummed to miss out on the photo op, but I think they’ll survive.”

I smiled. Violet was a cool girl. Smart. Easy-going. Beautiful. And yet my thoughts kept straying to the fact that I’d had Holden Parish’s phone number burning a hole in my letterman jacket pocket.

She joined Evelyn Gonzalez and some other friends while I jogged to the players’ bench where Coach, Donte, and a few men wearing khakis and polo shirts stood talking. My dad was with them. As I approached, Donte shook hands with them all and jogged to the locker room.

“Your turn,” he said, beaming his mega-watt smile.

“Hey there, champ!” Dad said, patting me on the shoulder pads. “Great game! Incredible. I think that’s one for the record books, isn’t it, Frank?”

Coach Kimball laughed and nodded. “Yes, sir. Come on over here, River. I’d like you to meet these gentlemen.”

Dutifully, I shook hands with the scouts and endured their complimentary review of the game. The three of them took turns talking up their schools, ribbing each other good-naturedly, while Dad and Coach looked on, wearing identical proud expressions.

“We think you’ve got something special, River,” the guy from Auburn said. “Must’ve gotten it from your dad, eh? Weren’t you pro, Mr. Whitmore?”

I winced.

“Almost,” Dad said with a frozen smile. “There was talk of a great draft prospect, but then an entire defensive line landed on my knee.”

“It’s a damn shame,” said Coach. “But River here is going to carry on his legacy. Isn’t that right, son?”

I nodded, feeling all eyes on me. Feeling the weight of the word—legacy—adding to the weight pressing between my shoulder blades. “I’ll do my best.”

“And then some,” Dad said. “River has more talent in his right hand than I did in my entire body.”

“Dad…”

“It’s true! They all saw it, didn’t you?”

This sent the scouts into another round of compliments that made my skin itch. Finally, the meeting broke up, and they left to chat with Coach privately.

Dad turned to me. “How about that? Your pick of the litter.”

“Yeah, great. Amelia didn’t come?”

His expression tightened. “She said she wasn’t feeling up to it. I didn’t want to push her.”

Or she might break. Because we’re already falling apart.

“You and Donte both are hot commodities,” Dad said, steering us to brighter topics. “Wouldn’t it be something if you and he attended the same college? Keep that magic going?”

“He doesn’t need me to be a great receiver.”

“Of course, he doesn’t. And your talent doesn’t need propping up either. I just thought that since—”

“I gotta go, Dad,” I said. “I’m already running late and they’re going to leave for the dinner soon.”

“Oh sure, sure. I’m proud of you, River. You were…” He shook his head, glancing down for a moment. “Well, you were something special today. Everyone could see it. I wish your mom could have too.”

I swallowed a jagged lump in my throat. “Tell her all about it for me.”

“Will do.”

He patted my cheek and walked toward the parking lot. Head bowed, hands in his pockets. Alone.

The dinner at a local sports bar and restaurant could not end fast enough—the guys ate their weight in fries, hamburgers, and buffalo wings, talking shit and generally making asses of themselves, still high on the victory.

At home, I stopped in Mom’s room to say hi. I peeked in, but she was sleeping.

She was always sleeping these days.

I was twenty minutes late to meet Violet, but I smelled like grease and barbeque sauce. I took another quick shower in the bathroom down the hall, then wrapped a towel around my waist and hurried back to my room.

My tuxedo’s garment bag hung on a hook on the back of my door. I tore it down and tossed it on my bed, then fell back against the closet with a strangled gasp, nearly losing hold of my towel.

Holden Parish was lounging casually against my dresser. He was dressed all in black but for a long gray tweed coat.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Not quite, but I can see how you’d make that mistake.” He examined his fingernails lazily. “Actually, I take that back. He and I are nothing alike.”

“How did you get in?” I hissed with a quick glance at my bedroom door that—thank God—I remembered to shut.

“I have my ways. Also, your front door was unlocked.” His smile was maddeningly devious as his vivid green eyes brazenly scraped over my naked torso. “Get dressed. I’m all for you wearing nothing but a towel all night, but it’s probably a bit much for our first date.”

“Our first…?” I shook my head. “Did I get sacked really hard? Am I hallucinating? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m rescuing you.”

I snorted a laugh. “Okay, I’ll bite. From?”

“From this day. Tonight is a… What would you call it in football-speak? A timeout.”

“I don’t need rescuing. I’m the fucking Homecoming King. I have a dance to go to, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Have you read all these?” Holden asked, perusing my bookshelf. It was short, only three shelves, but crammed to overflowing, with some books stacked on top of others and more piled on the floor.

“They’re not there for decoration.”

“Mmm. You read. You do not suck at Calculus…impressive.”

“Thanks,” I said absently, my damn brains scrambled.

I couldn’t be in the same room with him dressed only in a towel for one more fucking second. I crossed to my dresser, walking straight into his space, into the thunder cloud of Holden Parish—his scent, his cologne, the bite of cloves and vodka. I fumbled in my drawer for a pair of underwear, clutching the towel around my hips with white knuckles.

He pulled my dog-eared copy of Catch-22 off the stack and flipped it, showing me the cover. “A little too on the nose, don’t you think?”

“What’s too on the nose?” I asked as if it were totally normal to chit-chat with random guys who materialized in my room while I tried to get dressed.

It is normal. It’s just like being in the locker room with the team.

Except being alone with Holden in my bedroom didn’t feel one damn bit like it did with the team. I’d made the locker room a sterile place, devoid of any emotion or reaction on my part. Here, the air felt charged. Thick. Heavy. Electricity crackled around Holden, making the hairs on the back of my arms stand up.

I went into my closet—a small walk-in—and pulled on my underwear. I’d felt the sweep of cotton against my dick a thousand times, but suddenly it provoked the sensitive skin. I clenched my teeth and willed my body to calm the hell down.

“Catch-22 is about paradoxes,” Holden was saying. “Absurdities. A catch-22 is a problem for which the only solution is denied by a circumstance inherent in the problem itself.”

“I know what it means,” I said, quickly yanking on my black dress slacks.

“Your inherent problem is that you don’t want to attend the dance with a girl. The solution is to not go. But you can’t not go because you need to be seen with a girl. Therefore, the girl is both the problem and the solution.” Holden cocked his head, brows raised. “Am I close?”

“Is this your way of apologizing for the closet?” I threw on the white button down, my fingers tearing up the shirt, closing buttons. “Because it doesn’t sound like an apology. It sounds like the same kind of insinuation.”

Holden’s piercing gaze softened as he watched me get dressed. “You don’t have to go.”

“I kind of do. My date is waiting.”

“Your date is my best friend’s one true love. She just doesn’t realize it yet.”

“Not my problem.” I yanked my arms through a black vest.

Holden set my copy of Catch-22 back on its stack and crossed his arms. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Of what?”

“Exchanging one costume for another,” he said with a nod at my tux.

I played stupid, ignoring how close to home his words hit. “I just threw for three hundred yards, so yeah, I’m tired.”

Holden rolled his eyes. “Spare me your stats, Tom Bundy.”

“Brady.”

“Whatever. Do you even enjoy it?”

I ignored him and wrangled a cummerbund around my waist.

“Cummerbund or vest but not both,” Holden said. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Huh? Oh, the store gave me both to try out…” I gave my head a shake and hurled the cummerbund aside. “Jesus, what am I saying? You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“I did.”

“Right. To rescue me.” I rolled my eyes and slipped a tie around my neck. “I don’t need rescuing. I need you to leave.”

“Come with me.”

The words sank in and spread to all parts of me. My head, heart, and cock all wanting to obey. My hands fumbled with the knot on the tie and the two lengths of silk fell apart.

“Where?”

“Somewhere you don’t have to pretend.”

I snorted and tried the tie again. “Stop saying shit like that. You don’t know me.”

Holden cocked his head in that infuriating way of his, his gaze tearing through me as he took a step closer. “Maybe not. Maybe tonight is the night we find out.”

“Find out what?” I asked, conscious that I’ve been doing a lot of that. Asking. Begging for answers.

Why? He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t…

Holden moved to stand in front of me. Up close, the devastation of his looks was almost blinding. I had to take him in pieces; my eyes tracing the line of his perfect face, his full lips, the cleft in his chin, and the small mole high up on his left cheekbone. His silver hair was gelled in a thick, full wave on top, cut short on the sides, exposing the long cords of his neck. Everything about him assaulted my senses, making me stupid.

Holden drew closer and I watched, frozen, aware of every nerve-ending in my body standing at attention, my cock twitching in my pants. His hands—elegant, but masculine and stained with ink—adjusted the knot in my tie.

“It’s a tad crooked.” His breath wafting over my lips—smoke and vodka, fire and ice. “Just like me.”

I swallowed, and Holden’s gaze dropped to my Adam’s apple, watching the movement. Then up to my lips, lingering there, while his own mouth parted, the tip of his tongue venturing out to touch his bottom lip.

Oh fuck…

Lust—pure, unfiltered want—ripped through me like a wildfire. But just as potent were the thousands of emotions swirling in my chest. Instead of feeling constricted, I could breathe. Maybe for the first time in months. Years, even.

Holden read all of it; a lazy, infuriating smile spreading over his lips. He lingered in that thick moment—torturing me with possibilities—then backed off, breaking the spell.

“You’re ready for the ball, Prince Charming. King, I should say.” His gaze raked me up and down in the sleek black tux and pale blue tie. “You look every bit the part.”

I’m tired of playing it.

I sucked in another breath, deep and even, while Holden leaned on my dresser again. He pulled a packet of clove cigarettes, black embossed with gold, from his coat pocket.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

“Of course not. Not here.” He arched a thick but perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Somewhere else?”

Inhale. Exhale.

I can breathe…

“Let’s go.”

Chapter Eight

Holden and I snuck out the front door and hurried down my driveway as twilight turned to night. I felt like a thief who’d robbed his own house.

“Let’s take your truck,” Holden said and waved at a driver leaning against the side of a black Cadillac parked just down the street.

“Why? Where are we going?”

“I don’t want you to accuse me later of kidnapping you.” He shot me a heated glance. “Mostly, I just want to watch you drive.”

Fuck.

Everything this bastard said or did, every look that flashed across his eyes, was sexy as hell.

“As to where we’re going,” he said as we climbed into the cab of my Chevy, “don’t worry about it. I’ll navigate.”

I started up my truck’s engine as the black sedan drove away. “That was your personal driver?”

“He was.” Holden turned to me with a grin. “Tonight, it’s you.”

Fuck, again.

In the falling dark, we left my upper-middle class neighborhood and headed south. The houses grew larger, separated by gates and dense trees that provided privacy. It was a short drive—after only a few minutes, we crested a hill and the ocean spread out before us; deep blue streaked the orange of the setting sun.

“That one.”

Holden pointed at a huge modern house in white with geometric windows framed in black steel. Every window was dark.

I gave a low whistle and started to pull the truck into the drive. “You live here?”

“Park on the side,” he said. “Can’t leave grease marks on the driveway.”

I parked, killed the engine and started to follow him out of the truck’s cab when I came to my damn senses.

“Shit, wait. What am I doing? I completely ditched Violet.” I fished my phone out of my tux pocket. A text from her waited.

I’m here. Coming soon?

“I have to go back. I can’t do this to her.”

“She’ll get over it,” Holden said. “Trust me.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“I told you. She and one of my best friends are soul mates.”

“Didn’t seem that way at the party,” I said, then remembered Miller Stratton’s death glare when I joined Violet in the closet. “Miller’s your friend?”

Holden nodded. “We need to give them a chance.”

“But…she agreed to come with me to the dance. I can’t just ditch her.”

“You can if it’s for a good cause. Which it is.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know…”

“Can you please, for one goddamn second, spare a thought for yourself?” Holden demanded with sudden sharpness. “Is that what you want? To be with Violet? Answer me honestly. If you do, then I’ll get out of this truck and you can drive back to the school and have your dance and wear your crown and carry on, business as usual. Or…”

“Or?”

“Stay with me.”

Goddamn, Holden’s eyes in the light of my cab pierced me, flooded me with possibilities of a life that was closer to what I wanted. Closer to who I was. So close, all I had to do was reach out and touch it. Him…

I swallowed hard and my fingers typed a text to Violet.

I can’t make it. I’m sorry.

“An excellent choice,” Holden said, now all smiles. “Stay quiet. This neighborhood is filled with stuffy busybodies. I don’t need anyone complaining to my aunt and uncle.”

“You don’t live with your parents?”

“They died in a tragic hot air-balloon accident over the Panama Canal.”

“What…?”

“Just kidding. They’re alive and well in Seattle. Unfortunately.”

He kept walking and I had to hurry to follow. Quietly, we went up the house’s immaculate walk. By the light of his gold Zippo, he punched in a security code on a black console. It made a mechanical sound and then the door opened a crack.

I followed Holden inside, my heart pounding in my chest, wondering how far I was going to take this timeout.

The foyer was dark, but Holden didn’t turn on any lights. Photos were black squares on the white wall, the faces indistinguishable. The hall opened on an open-concept space: living room flowing into the kitchen. Sleek, modern furnishings overlooked a backyard of pristine white cement and a glittering infinity pool, its underwater lights glowing. Beyond the pool, the entire Pacific Ocean stretched out under a full moon.

“Pretty sweet digs,” I said.

“I’ll say.” Holden went to the fridge and rummaged around. “Ah, perfect. Beer. You like beer, right? Or maybe something harder?”

“I’m driving. Beer’s fine.”

Whatever was happening tonight, I was not going to get drunk with Holden Parish. I’d already let things go further than imaginable. Losing control was not an option.

I shoved my hands in my tuxedo pants pockets. “You going to turn on a light or what?”

“I like it better in the dark,” Holden said with a wicked grin as he handed me a bottle of beer. He went to the living room where he glanced around in the dimness, searching until he found a minibar. “Ah, here we go. Be a pal and see if there are any olives in the fridge.”

“You don’t know?”

“Do I look like I go grocery shopping?” Holden asked, shaking vodka and ice in a silver mixer.

I found a jar of green olives in the stainless steel fridge. Just as I started to close it, the yellow light fell over a magnetized family photo on the other door. Mom, Dad, two kids, all with dark hair, all with white smiles beaming from brown skin as they posed in front of a golden temple surrounded by a huge pool of water. A little graphic ran across the bottom: Our trip home! Amritsar, India, Summer of 20—

“Fuck me.”

I shut the fridge door and rejoined Holden in the dim living room, sure that at any moment, spotlights were going to blare on us, and police would shout to put our hands up.

I shoved the olives at Holden. “You don’t live here, do you?”

“Never said I did.”

“Jesus Christ, are they home? Upstairs? What the—?”

“Relax,” he said, dropping an olive into his martini. “They’re on vacation for the next two weeks. My Aunt Mags is friends with the Sridhars and offered to water their plants while they’re away.”

“Dude…this is breaking and entering.”

“We’ve only entered. There’s been no breaking.”

“That’s not how that works.”

He took his cocktail to the sliding glass door that opened onto the patio. “Are you coming or not?”

I stood halfway between Holden and the front door. I could end this madness now and salvage the dance with Violet.

And go back to your plastic, pretend life.

I grabbed my beer off the bar counter and joined Holden.

He carefully set his martini on a small table and stretched his long form out on a lounger facing the pool. I sat on the edge of another lounger, still in my tux.

“Gorgeous night, don’t you think?” Holden said.

“Sure. Perfect for committing petty larceny.”

“No one’s losing their shit over a missing beer and a few olives.” He pondered his martini glass, turning it in the moonlight. “Though they might wonder where a few ounces of their Ciroc vodka has run off to. This stuff isn’t cheap but then again, we’re taking excellent care of their plants.”

“Do you break into people’s houses on the regular?”

“On occasion. It’s easier when the owners give you the security code but not as fun as slipping in unannounced. You’d be surprised at how many people leave a window unlocked.” He shot me a look. “Or their front door.”

“Why?”

“The thrill of it, mostly. And because I’ve only ever lived in a house and don’t know what a home looks like. And yours, River, is the homiest home to ever home.”

I sipped my beer to soothe the sudden ache in my throat. “Not for long.”

“How long is not long?” Holden asked softly.

“She’s a fighter so…a few months? Maybe.”

“I’m sorry. But I’m even more glad that I brought you here. You need a timeout. Whatever you want to call it. A break.”

I started to protest but he was right. I was tired. Mentally exhausted. I took another pull from my stolen beer. The tightness coiled in my muscles loosened and I settled into being here. With him.

A few minutes of easy silence passed. The night air was warm, even this close to the ocean. I loosened my tie and shook out of my tux jacket, while Holden seemed perfectly content in his heavy clothes.

“Aren’t you hot?” I asked.

“I thought it was obvious.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. Maybe not now but what about during the day? When it’s pushing eighty.”

“No.”

“Okay, but…why?”

“Why do I dress like it’s winter? Because it always is.”

The words were dramatic but came out on a current of pain, and he drew his thick coat tighter around him.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked after a minute.

“Are you always like this?” he asked, perplexed. “This…nice? I’ve given you no reason to trust me or even like me and here you are.”

I grinned and took another sip of beer. “I’m still waiting on my apology.”

“Do you still need one?”

Or was I right?

I heard his unspoken question and sighed, toying with the label on my bottle. “I don’t know. That’s the story of my life—I Don’t Know.”

“How does it start?” Holden asked quietly.

“You really want to hear this?”

He held out his hands. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

I nodded and picked at the beer label, slowly peeling it off the glass, letting myself just talk.

“I’ve been eating, breathing, and sleeping football since I could get my hands around a ball. My dad was set to go pro, but an injury killed his career before it got started. He was devastated, so he poured all of his broken dreams into me. Pushed me to be the best. From Day One, the NFL was the only goal. Early on, I liked the game. Loved it, even. But it took over everything and I just…got lost.” I glanced up at Holden. “The question you asked me in the closet at Chance’s party?”

He nodded slowly.

“The answer is no one. Not even me.”

I peeled more label, careful not to tear any off from the whole.

“I was thirteen when Dad gave me the sex talk. Mostly warning me that if I got a girl pregnant, it would derail our plans. But he never asked me if I was interested in girls in the first place. It never occurred to him, so I didn’t know it could occur to me.” I hunched over the beer bottle, peeling. “It’s like everyone assumes we’re all built the same way—as if we have a default setting. If you’re different, you start to believe something’s wrong with you.”

Holden nodded. “I know what you mean.”

The twinge in his voice told me there was a story there too—and not a good one. But he was waiting for me to continue. Letting me talk when I’d never talked this much about anything before.

I kept peeling. The label was nearly off.

“Once, when I was fourteen, I was hanging out with a buddy of mine. I found myself watching how he laughed, how his mouth moved when he talked. Whenever he touched me—if our hands brushed or whatever—it went straight through me. Like electricity. But no one had to tell me that you can’t have those kinds of feelings and play football.”

“Football has a default setting,” Holden said.

My eyes shot up to his, relief and gratitude flooding me that someone else got it. That I wasn’t crazy. The solidity of my life cracked a little but refused to break.

“Yeah, and to try to change it is impossible, so I played along. I dated girls a few times but never had those same reactions so I just…shut down. Refused to question it.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m questioning everything. All the time. Which is totally your fault.”

“I’m totally okay with that,” Holden said. “In every possible way.”

The few feet of space between us thickened and grew heavy. His gaze, fiery hot under all that ice, watched me, promising answers. All I had to do was ask…

I tore my eyes off of him and shook my head. “It’s too late.”

“Why?”

“Because my mom is dying.”

The label came off, whole and curling on itself and I tore it to shreds, my heart tearing along with it. “My father turned his dream into my future, and now he’s losing the love of his life. My career is the only thing that makes him happy. It gives back something he lost. If he knew I wanted a different life, it’d destroy him.”

“Quite the predicament,” Holden said, though there was no mocking in his tone. Only a heaviness, as if he felt the weight of it too. “And what does your different life look like?”

“You’ll think it’s dumb. Or cheesy.”

“Try me.”

“In the offseason, I work at our family’s auto body shop. I want to do it full time and eventually take over the business and stay in Santa Cruz. I love this town. I want to have a home and…raise a family. Somehow.”

Holden stared at me for long moments; then he downed the rest of his martini in one go and held the glass against his shirt, eyes closed.

My ears burned. “I told you it was cheesy.”

“It’s not. It’s just…different. My ideal life is lightyears from yours.”

“Oh yeah? Well, it’s your turn now. What’s the title to your life story?”

“Misery,” Holden said. “It. The Dead Zone. Desperation… Goddamn that Stephen King hogged the best ones.”

“What a bastard,” I said with a grin.

Holden peeked open one eye and heaved a sigh. “If I’m going to tell this dark and depressing tragedy, I’m going to need more alcohol. You probably should too.”

“I’m good.”

“You sure? My story is R-rated. Borderline NC-17.”

“And I suppose mine was PG?”

“I’ll give you PG-13.”

I laughed. “Fuck off.”

“Have you ever given a blowjob to a married psychiatrist in a sanitarium?”

I coughed. “Um…no.”

“See? NC-17.”

“I’ll take another beer.”

Holden mixed another martini and then filled a silver flask from his coat pocket with more vodka.

“For backup,” he said.

I wrinkled my brow, watching him pocket the flask. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen in February. But I’m an overachiever in the booze department. Ahead of my class. Vodka Valedictorian…”

“I’m eighteen in February too,” I said. “The fifth. You?”

“The twenty-ninth.”

“No shit? Leap year.”

Holden nodded. “Three years out of four, my birthday doesn’t exist.” He gave me a pointed look. “Make of that what you will.”

“I think it’s kind of cool.”

“I think it’s the universe trying to remedy a cosmic mistake.” His voice lowered. “God knows my parents would agree.”

I started to ask what he meant by that, but he’d been poking at the state-of-the-art sound system next to the minibar. Cage the Elephant’s “Night Running” filled the space, and instead of heading back out to the patio, Holden beckoned me into the dark of the house.

“What…” I cleared my throat. “What are you doing?”

“It’s time to go exploring.”

“At least turn a light on.”

“No lights,” he said with a wicked grin. “Everything’s more fun in the dark.”

We made our way slowly past chairs and couches with only moonlight from the huge windows to guide us.

I bumped an end table and Holden shot me a look over his shoulder.

“Try not to tackle anything out of habit.”

I smirked. “I’m a quarterback. I throw things.”

We passed through a formal living room and dining room for entertaining and into a game room with a pool table. A half dozen balls of an abandoned game were still on the green felt.

“Besides,” I said, “if I chuck a vase out the window, won’t you just replace it like you did the Blaylock’s dining room table?”

Holden drained his martini and set the empty glass on a bookshelf. “Does that offend your noble sensibilities?”

“No. I just don’t like to throw money around.”

“I do.” He picked up a cue stick and bent over the table to line up a shot. The song coming in from hidden speakers sang of secrets and demons.

“Why?” I asked. “Because you have so much of it?”

“That, and because it’s my parents’ money until I graduate. When it’s mine, I’ll take better care of it.”

“Theirs is disposable because…?”

“Because fuck them.”

With smooth power, he drove the stick into the white cue ball. It struck with a clack that shattered the relative quiet. Balls ricocheted around the table, two dropping into pockets.

“They care more about money than they do about my happiness,” Holden said, his perfect face fierce and cold. “I spend it as fast as I can, but there’s always more.”

He sank another ball with precision and offered me the pool cue. I waved it off.

“Not a fan of the game?” he asked.

“I don’t want to leave fingerprints.”

He chuckled and I was glad to see some of the anger drain out of him as we left the game room.

“When you say there’s always more, you mean like…millions?” I asked, feeling slightly tacky, but the beer had loosened my curiosity.

“Billions.” Holden peeked into a guest bathroom and a linen closet before starting up the stairs. “The Parish family is the last of the old money dynasties, like Vanderbilt or Rockefeller. You ever seen Titanic?”

“Sure.”

“My parents are the first-class assholes sitting in lifeboats while the people from steerage freeze to death in the icy water.” Holden’s eyes looked distant for a moment, and then he gave his head a shake and kept walking. “They were born old. I’m positive they fucked only once to create an heir for their legacy—me. Which is ridiculous. Even if I hadn’t failed spectacularly, there is no legacy. They’re not building or making anything worthwhile. They do nothing but sit around being rich.”

“Wait, what do you mean, you failed?”

Holden stopped at the top of the stairs. “They thought being straight was my default setting too.”

A moment of silent commiseration passed between us in the dark. Understanding that heated quickly. For a crazy, heart-pounding second, I had a vision of him grabbing me—or maybe I’d grab him—and we’d crush our mouths together…

I blinked and gave myself a shake. Jesus…

Holden’s green eyes glittered in the dark as if they held the same thoughts, and then he tore his gaze away and continued down the hallway.

I followed him into a bedroom that belonged to a little boy, with a racecar-shaped bed, video game console, and flat screen TV. Holden toyed with a model airplane from the kid’s dresser as if it were a relic from a world he didn’t understand.

“It was clear early on that I wasn’t going to quietly settle down and marry a nice girl to carry on the family line. I was a Tasmanian devil born in a glass factory. They tried to do everything to ‘cure’ me, sending me to psychiatrists, reform school… Threats to disown me, which I never took seriously. Then they got desperate.”

“How?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

“They sent me to conversion therapy in Alaska for six months,” he said, all in one breath.

“Conversion therapy,” I murmured, feeling sick. “That shit still happens?”

He nodded. The song playing through the house sang of living through tidal waves, parishes, and biblical floods.

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Christ.”

Holden carefully set the airplane down. “After the Great Alaskan Experiment, they expected me to make a triumphant return to the world as a straight boy. Instead, I was ready to check out.”

My skin went cold all over. “Check out?”

“I locked myself in my room with my notebooks, pens, and liters of booze, ready to drink myself into oblivion. This wasn’t in Mom and Dad’s plans. I mean, think of the bad press! So they hustled me off to a year’s stay in a Swiss sanitarium.”

My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed a boulder of ice. “The conversion therapy was so bad you needed a year in an institution to recover?”

“In a nutshell.”

He said it lightly, but I remembered how he’d dared Frankie to stab him in the heart at Chance’s party. Holden had laughed it off, but it hadn’t been a game. In that moment it had been real. A crazy desire washed over me to protect him from something that had already happened.

“What the fuck did they do to you in Alaska?”

Holden frowned as if my concern unnerved him. Or confused him. He reached for his flask and took a long pull before answering.

“You don’t want to hear it. Suffice to say, it didn’t work. My already fragile grasp of sanity took a hit, but the conversion therapy failed. Because of course it failed. It’s not possible to change the fundamental being-ness of a person. You can only try to beat it down with shame and guilt. Or try to drown it in cruelty. But I won. Who I am, stayed. Unfortunately, the cold did too.”

“Goddamn.”

Holden frowned again at my reaction and looked away. “But that’s all icy water under the bridge. I survived, schemed my way out of the sanitarium, and here I am.”

There he was. In my school, in my space, in my thoughts. An intruder in my perfectly ordered world of make-believe, sauntering through its imaginary walls to show how flimsy they could be…if I let him.

“How did you scheme your way out of the sanitarium?” I asked as we moved on down the hallway.

“The aforementioned blowjob with a married therapist. It’s funny how blackmailing an institution with a little sex scandal miraculously improves one’s prognosis.”

I laughed despite the crazy absurdity of it all.

“Cheers,” I said. “That’s probably the best—or worst—thing I’ve ever heard.”

We clinked bottle to flask and I drained my beer. We’d come to the master bedroom. Holden flopped onto the king-sized bed. Cage the Elephant asked if we were for real or just pretending. If we’d burn out by morning.

I stood, not knowing what to do with myself.

Holden grinned his sly grin. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you put that empty bottle under someone’s pillow.”

“No chance,” I said, venturing to sit at the edge of the bed while Holden lay sprawled out.

Christ, what am I doing?

But I was tired of asking that question. Tired of the answer being nothing.

“Let me try some of that vodka.”

He arched a brow. “Getting adventurous?”

“I feel like I’ve come this far, sitting in a stranger’s house, drinking their beer…”

“Spilling your guts to another, better looking, stranger?”

“You don’t feel like a stranger anymore.”

Holden’s knowing grin faltered. He offered me his flask. “Then don’t stop now.”

“Ah, shit. I have to drive.”

“I’ll call James to take you home. You can pick your truck up in the morning.”

My old walls and protections battled with the heated recklessness of the night. Of the secrets Holden and I had divulged and the private pain we shared.

It’s not real life. It’s a timeout. Tomorrow, I have to go back, but tonight…

I took the flask and tilted it back. The vodka burned a path down my throat, and I coughed, my eyes watering.

“Smooth,” I croaked, and Holden laughed.

The liquor warmed me from the inside out, loosening my rules and regulations. The part of me I kept shut down was waking up, coming back to life.

Holden Parish sat beside me on the bed, beautiful and dangerous, his green eyes glittering in the moonlight.

Be careful…

I drained the flask and handed it back.

Fuck being careful.

Holden tipped his empty flask upside down and arched a brow at me. “Do you have something to say for yourself, Whitmore?”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “Let’s get wasted.”

Laughing and stumbling into each other, we refilled the flask, this time with the Sridhars’s hundred-year-old whiskey. Holden said it was primo, but it burned just as badly going down as the vodka. Holden messed with the stereo again and Prince’s “When Doves Cry” filtered through the warm night.

We went back to the patio where my discarded tux jacket lay in a heap on the ground. A strange exhilaration flooded me, making me warm all over. Though drunk as shit, I felt awake. More awake than I had in years.

I stood up and tore off my tie, then began unbuttoning my shirt. Holden watched me from his lounger, his eyes widening.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” I took off my shirt and yanked off my pants. “No, fuck that, I do know. I’m going to swim.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

“Good for you,” Holden said. “Better for me.”

I felt his eyes on me as I stripped down to my boxer briefs, and instead of it stopping me, knowing he was watching spurred me on. The sensation of being alive and free intensified. I dove headfirst into the deep end. My lungs constricted at the cold bite of water that mellowed, slipping over my skin like cool silk.

I broke the surface and swam to the edge, rested my arms on the concrete. “You coming in?”

The booze was making me reckless. Holden, in the pool with me, stripped down to his underwear, was a bad idea.

Or maybe it’s the best bad idea ever…

“I don’t swim,” he said.

“You don’t know how?”

“I know how. I choose not to.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t been in so much as a bathtub in years. Not since Alaska.”

My chest ached and the anger at those who’d hurt him returned with a vengeance, sobering me slightly.

“What happened? Don’t give me the PG-rated version. Tell me everything.”

His lips curled in a faint smile. “I like Drunk River. Drunk River is direct.”

“It helped me to tell you my shit. I want to help you.”

“You can’t help me,” he said sadly. “But it’s nice that you want to try.”

“Tell me,” I said gruffly. “If you’re up to it.”

He thought about it and finally nodded. “Fine. But you’re too far away.”

Swaying unsteadily on his feet, Holden got up from the lounger and lay down on his back, his head at the edge of the pool near where I rested my arms.

“In Alaska,” Holden said, staring at the sky, “there is a lake. Copper Lake. The counselors—and I use this word facetiously—would strip us naked and drag us to the water, submerging us for a few seconds, and then drag us back out. We were there late fall through winter. I don’t have to tell you the water was a few degrees above freezing.”

The pool water around me suddenly felt ten degrees cooler. “Fucking hell. Why?”

“Punishment, mostly. For inappropriate behavior. Inappropriate thoughts they suspected us of having. In my case, they suspected right.”

I didn’t smile. Prince sang about being left in a world so cold.

“It was part of our rehabilitation. To drown unwanted urges. To kill our desire. To destroy the want and attraction and love we might one day give to someone who also happened to be a boy.” He turned his head to look at me, pain swimming in the depths of his green eyes. “Instead, they killed any love we had for ourselves. Shame. Guilt… They beat us with it as surely as they beat us with fists and clubs. They drowned us in it with every trip to the water’s edge.”

I clenched my jaw. Beatings. Submersions. Hundreds of miles away from home.

I couldn’t fathom it.

I hated that he’d endured it.

Holden witnessed my reaction and faced the sky again. “I’m ruining your swim.”

“You’re not.”

“And you’re a good person, River Whitmore.” He rolled over onto his stomach, seemingly unconcerned that his expensive clothes were getting dirty and wet. His fingers skimmed the water. “It’s too bad, really. Feels nice.”

Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. I submerged myself to wash them away and resurfaced in front of Holden, our faces inches apart. My heart clanged madly in my chest, but the alcohol broke my thoughts apart, so they couldn’t talk their usual bullshit. Nothing guided me but instinct.

Our gazes locked, my hand came up slowly, like an out-of-body experience, to cup Holden’s jaw. Tentative at first, then my hand slipped further to palm his cheek, leaving a glaze of water on his smooth skin.

“I hate they did that to you,” I said gruffly, my throat thick. “I’d kill them…anyone who tried to do it again…”

The words tumbled out of my drunken mouth. Holden’s eyes widened, that shocked expression coming over him again. As if no one had defended him before, wanting to protect him instead of hurt him.

With my blood thrashing in my ears, my thumb moved over his chin, feeling the curve and cleft, then brushed over his lips wetly. They were soft where his jaw was hard and unyielding, and I wondered what he would taste like.

Holden released a small gasp. It gusted hotly over my thumb that I was now slowly moving back and forth over his full lips. He kissed it and then those lips parted, his tongue venturing out with a soft lick.

I sucked in a breath, and he did it again—a flick of his tongue that sent shards of white heat coursing down my arm, my back, to an intense ache between my legs, and my stiffening cock. Holden’s relentless gaze trapped me as he swirled his tongue around my thumb—wet and soft and warm—before taking it into his mouth with a long, slow suck.

My eyes fell shut and a groan rumbled out of my chest. Touch if you will, my stomach, Prince sang, and beneath the water, my erection was hard as steel and begging for release.

I let go of my white-knuckled grip on the edge of the pool and slipped my hand into my underwear, stroking myself in conjunction with the sucking pull of Holden’s perfect mouth.

He watched my arm’s motion and ground his own hips into the cement once, slowly, his eyes hooded and dark. His teeth grazed my thumb then bit it hard enough that I felt it in my cock that wanted his touch instead of mine. I fought the urge to haul him into the water, to get at his skin under all that clothing and…

Do what?

My eyes flared open and reality slammed into me. I was jacking myself in a pool with my thumb in a guy’s mouth. No caution. No control. Years of discipline falling apart in an instant.

Holden watched the conflict sweep across my face and released me a split second before I pushed back from the wall, surging backward in the water.

“I…shit. I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t…I can’t do this.”

His eyes fell shut in a pained grimace, and then he rolled onto his back, letting his arms and legs go limp. “It’s my fault,” he said softly to the sky. “I shouldn’t have taken it so far. Too far.”

Regret and pain seeped into the cracks between his words, but I was swimming to the other end of the pool. I climbed out in a deluge of water and gathered my tuxedo. A small pool house stood off the right side of the yard. I hurried toward it, holding the bundle of clothes over my erection. Inside, I struggled to get dressed, the clothes sticking to my wet skin.

“Fucking pathetic.”

My dick softened with humiliation as the feeling of freedom fled, revealing the stark, suffocating responsibilities I’d been trying to escape.

I emerged from the pool house to find Holden sitting on the lounger, smoking a clove cigarette.

“Look, man. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it,” he said stiffly. “Things got a little intense. I blame Prince.”

“It was a mistake.” I cringed at the word and Holden flinched when I said it. “I just… I’ve never…”

“I know you haven’t. It’s my fault. I should’ve been more…not me.” Holden stood up from the lounger, moving like an old man, arms tucked and his back hunched. He used his thumb and middle finger to flick the cigarette into the pool. “Let’s go.”

We moved through the huge silent house to the street, where amber cones of light stood at intervals. Unspent need hovered thickly between us, while the intimacy we’d shared all night was on the verge of disintegrating.

“I’ll call James,” Holden said, reaching for his cell.

“No, I’ll walk. I need to clear my head. I’ll get my truck tomorrow.” I glanced up and down the street. “Which is yours?”

He pointed to a huge Craftsman a few doors down. “That one.”

“No bullshitting?”

“No bullshitting.”

I stood with my hands in the pockets of my rumpled, damp tux, the tie slung loosely around my neck. “Okay, so…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Holden said, sounding and looking more deflated than I’d ever seen him. “Just go home. Go back to your life.” He smiled faintly, his green eyes heavy. Sad. “They need you.”

“Yeah, they do.” My gaze danced around from the ground, to the house, then to him. “Okay, so…goodnight, Holden.”

“Goodnight, River.”

I hated how my name sounded in his mouth. Like goodbye. Because it had to be. I was ruining something that could never happen in the first place.

When I didn’t move, annoyance flashed over Holden’s features.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I’m waiting for you to go home.”

“Why?”

“To make sure you get in safe.”

Holden gaped, then he scowled. “Don’t do that. I’m not asking you for anything,” he said, defiant. “I never have, and I never will.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“Fine.”

The silence thickened, waiting for one of us to do or say something that we couldn’t take back.

Finally, with a muttered curse, Holden trudged back down the street, shoulders hunched. The part of me that had been brave and tasted real life wanted him to turn around. A smaller, weaker part was glad he didn’t.

I waited until he was safely inside and went home.

Chapter Nine

I strode through the house, through the yard and past the pool, to my guesthouse. Everything River and I had said and done that night chased me home. My cracked brain ripped through every memory, replaying every one of his concerned expressions as I told my story.

You don’t feel like a stranger anymore.

“Shit.”

I banged into the guesthouse, flopped on my bed, and flung my arm over my eyes. I’d spent the better part of the night attempting to reduce River to the sum of his perfect parts. To keep my attraction to him physical, but he was a damn iceberg. There was more to him than he revealed on the surface. He was smarter than probably anyone knew. Humble and kind. My stupid, shriveled little heart felt like it was reaching for everything he was…and that I was not.

“It was a mistake,” I said, echoing River’s words. They stabbed me in the chest, but he was right. It’d been a mistake to tell him about Alaska. A mistake to let him put his hand on my face and promise pain to anyone who hurt me…

That was a joke, whispered an insidious voice. He doesn’t care about you. Why would he? Why would anyone?

“Why would anyone?” I whispered, nodding.

Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I angrily blinked them away. My hand slipped under the waistband of my pants and I gripped myself, ready to mentally fuck River Whitmore out of my system.

I muted our intimate conversation and concentrated on the vision of him stripping out of that black tux. I recalled every hard muscle, every sleek line of his body contoured by moonlight. I redrew him in my memory—his chiseled jaw, the smooth planes of his chest, his torso packed with abs, and a V that directed my gaze to the impressive bulge in his underwear.

I stroked myself, hard and fast, but the spark never caught fire, and a terrible fear told me that I’d already let him in too deep.

I hate that they did that to you. I’d kill anyone who tried to do it again…

“Goddamn you, River.”

The tears threatened again, and I kept my eyes buried tight in the crook of my elbow. Nothing could happen between us or ever would. I’d been born a wreck; the conversion 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 shock in anyone else. “Whitmore?”

I nodded. “I’d rather not talk about it. Except Amber’s night and mine have some surprising similarities.”

Ronan snorted a laugh and then was quiet for a minute, his eyes as gray as the ocean. “I was thinking about bringing someone here.”

I frowned. “Who do you know besides us? And Vice Principal Chouder doesn’t count.”

Chouder was in charge of student discipline. Ronan spent more time in his office than in an actual classroom.

“Shiloh Barrera.”

“Don’t know her. Or him.”

“Her.”

It was one syllable and yet the hairs on my arms stood up the way his low, rumbling voice infused it with something close to reverence.

“It’s fine by me, but do you need majority approval?”

“I haven’t asked Miller yet,” Ronan said. “I will.”

The fact he asked me first was enough to have me reaching for my flask, but I’d emptied it before the end of the school day.

Ronan turned his head to me slowly. “If you ever want to bring—”

“No,” I said flatly. “Not going to happen. His baggage plus my baggage exceeds maximum limits.”

Ronan nodded. “If anything changes—”

“It won’t.”

“If it does,” he said, his tone hard, “bring him.”

Night’s shadows creeped across the floor of the guesthouse. It wasn’t hot enough for a fire, but I had the fireplace going anyway while I sat at my desk, scribbling in my journal. My hand moved across the page in a blur.

River hadn’t been in class for the last two days.

His empty chair conjured all kinds of terrible metaphors. Absence. Solitude. Isolation. In the immortal words of Miss Britney, my loneliness was killing me, but at least seeing River in class once a day—even if nothing could ever happen between us—was something. Now there wasn’t even that.

A little after one a.m., I stretched my fingers as my phoned chimed a text from an unfamiliar number.

Hey, it’s River. Another text came while I panicked like a dope. Can I call you?

You don’t feel like a stranger anymore.

I jabbed, Yes.

My phone lit up and I played hard-to-get—I let it ring twice before answering.

“It’s late,” I said coldly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

His voice sounded haggard, as if it’d been dragged through the mud, crumbling my defenses instantly.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s my mom. It’s been bad lately. It might… It might be the end. And I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t be calling you. I didn’t know who else… I don’t have anyone else I can talk to. None of the guys get it. It’s too fucking real.”

My throat suddenly felt thick. “Where are you?”

“In the hospital. She has some kind of infection…spiked a fever. I’m in a hallway somewhere. I didn’t know what else to do. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

River’s words tapered to a whisper and I could see him in a cold hospital hallway, maybe leaning against the wall, letting it prop him up.

I hated that he was alone.

He came back on the line, his voice breathy and tight.

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” I said softly, and another image came to me, one of River reaching out in the dark, grasping for something—someone—to hold on to. I scoured my collection of therapy sessions for something that would help him. But none of it helped me because no one asked the one question I’d been begging someone to ask.

“River.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you need?”

I held my breath until I heard him exhale his. When he spoke again, the pain had loosened its grip on him a little.

“I don’t know. Just talk to me. I need to get out of my head for a minute. I’m so fucking scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, and I’m having a thousand terrible thoughts, one right after the other.”

“Pick one.”

“What?”

“Pick one terrible thought. Grab it out of the air.”

“Okay.”

“Now tell me what it is.”

“I…I hate that she’s suffering,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I can’t take it from her. But I would. I’d take all of it…”

And this time he broke. I heard his sobs, muffled and low.

“I’m here,” I said. “I’m here, okay?”

After a few moments, he inhaled deep and let it out on a shaky exhale. “Thanks, that helped. It helped to get some of it out.”

“I’ll have to try it sometime.”

A silence descended and Saturday night at the pool slowly crept in between everything we weren’t saying.

“Holden…”

“Don’t.”

“I want to. To apologize.”

“I told you, I’m not asking anything of you.”

“I know but… I’ve been a dick in class and now I’m calling you up in the middle of the night and dumping my shit in your lap. Things are just so fucked up right now. Like trying to steer a sinking ship. My dad’s kind of falling apart, and my sister barely talks. It’s just not a good time for me to…upheave everything. The other night…that can’t happen again. It won’t. I was drunk…”

I gritted my teeth. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

“But that doesn’t change what I said.”

I’d kill them… Anyone who tried to do it again…

“You said a lot of things. I don’t even remember—”

“Yes, you do.” River’s voice grew deep and solid now. “What they did to you was fucking wrong, and it means something that you told me. I just want you to know that.”

For the first time in years, my whirring, chirping brain had nothing to say. No witty comeback or barb to deflect how his words hit me hard and then sank in softly.

River mistook my silence and gusted a sigh. “Okay. So, that’s all I wanted to say. Thanks for listening and…everything else. That night was just like you said. A timeout. And I needed it.”

“Will you be back at school tomorrow?” I asked and cringed at the pathetic hope in my voice.

“I don’t think so. Just trying to make it through the night.”

“The reason I ask is that you’ve missed a lot of Calculus,” I added quickly. “If you want me to tutor you, just say so. No need for drama.”

He laughed a little. “Glad to hear that offer still stands.”

“Always.”

“Okay well…goodnight, Holden.”

“Goodnight, River.”

The line went quiet and I stared at the phone in my hand for long moments, then climbed into bed.

It can’t happen again.

There it was. The official end to whatever the hell happened on Saturday night. Just another painful moment like every other painful moment in my life; a teetering stack my sanity tap-danced on. One day it would come crashing down.

In the meantime…

I wasn’t a praying person by nature, mostly because when I’d needed help, there was only cold silence. But that night, I prayed to whatever God or gods that might be listening to give River and his mom a little more time. Another day, at least. Let whatever needed to happen, happen when the sun was shining and not in the black, indifferent night.

The next morning, a text was waiting for me.

She made it. They’re even talking about letting her go home this afternoon. This is heavier shit than you need to be dealing with, but it didn’t feel real until I told you. Thank you. –R

I held the phone to my chest, almost hugging it. A knock came at my door a moment later.

“Mr. Holden?” Beatriz called. “Venha comer. Você vai se atrasar para a escola.”

Come eat. You will be late for school.

I squeezed my eyes shut, as a small smile spread across my lips against my will.

“Mr. Holden? Você tá bem?”

Are you okay?

“Tô bem,” I called back. “Today, I am okay.”

Part II

Chapter Ten

December

If I’d known it was going to be the last football game I’d ever play in my life, I still wouldn’t have changed a thing.

The Campbell Coyotes were ranked number two in our league, right behind us. We’d already clinched the championship, but winning that day would make us undefeated, something that had never happened in the history of Santa Cruz Central football.

We were down 18-21 with fourteen seconds left, our ball on their forty-seven. Coach’s play was a short pass up the side to our tight end. His job was to get out of bounds to stop the clock and give our kicker a chance to tie it up.

But none of the guys in the huddle wanted overtime. They wanted the win. It was the last time this team would ever play together. I’d been ready for the end of the season for weeks, but a twinge of nostalgia bit me anyway. They deserved whatever I could give.

“Coach called the play, so we’re running the play,” I said, but shot Donte a fast, knowing glance. He nodded imperceptibly and the huddle broke up.

Our offense lined up against the Coyote defense—a row of scowling faces gunning for me.

“Hut two, hut two!”

Chance hiked me the ball and I dropped back, faked a handoff to Isaiah, and scanned the field.

As planned, their defense anticipated our play and had our tight end and running back double covered. Only one guy on Donte. A mistake.

I dodged a defender who got past my line. He managed to snag my arm, but I tore out of his grasp and sidestepped him as he crashed to the ground. Donte was a running blur up the left side. In fractions of a second, my brain and arm calculated angle and distance. I let fly.

Two defenders sandwiched me just as the ball left my hand. The air pushed out of my lungs with a woosh as we all went to the ground, my head rattling inside my helmet. For a few chaotic seconds my world was churned turf, muttered curses and grunts, and flashes of the red and white jerseys of our opponents piled on top of me

Then cheers filtered through the mob. Thunderous cheers. I smiled into the ground before being hauled to my feet by Chance and Mikey Grimaldi. Chance hooked his fingers in my face mask and bellowed. No words, just a mindless, barbaric scream of triumph.

I looked around to see dejected Coyotes, hands on their hips, shaking their bowed heads. The crowd was a frantic sea of blue and gold as a score now flashed 24-21, two seconds left on the clock.

Donte jogged back from the end zone, the game-winning ball tucked under his arm. We ran at each other, leapt, and crashed chests in midair. Our helmets pressed together, both of us pushing forward in a rush of adrenaline.

“Who did that?” he shouted in my face,

“You did that!” I shouted back. “Who did that?

“You did that!” Donte backed off and rapidly smacked his chest with a fist three times. “Come on! Come on.”

The coaching staff and players on the bench surged the field and our team huddled in a thrumming, jumping mass of triumph. Their energy surged through me too, but on different currents. I disentangled myself from the crowd and looked toward the bleachers. I picked them out instantly—Dad, Amelia…and my mom.

She was bundled head to toe for winter, furiously waving and cheering with the rest of them. She wasn’t supposed to make it to Christmas, but there she was. Not in remission, but the medications she was taking were working to hold the cancer at bay. To give her time. She was there and she got to see me play and witness my dad’s joy and pride.

That was victory.

Back at school a few days later, the guys and I were treated as heroes but the shine was already coming off the win for me. The season was over and I could put more hours in at the shop, though Dad was adamant I keep my rigorous workout schedule so I wouldn’t get “soft” by summer.

In Calculus, some of the kids broke out into applause when I stepped into class.

I felt Holden’s eyes on me as I took my seat. We’d hardly said a handful of words to each other since that night I called him from the hospital, desperate and freaked out. I’d never felt so alone in my life, and he’d been there, pulling me out of the dark pit.

I owe him more than the silent treatment.

Mr. Reynolds came around passing back our midterm exams.

“For the most part, very impressive.” He laid the papers face down on our desks. “A few of you had issues with derivative values, but overall, I’m very happy with your progress.”

At my desk, he put my exam face down with a smile. I felt eyes on me and looked up to see Holden, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

I gave him a lazy smirk and held up my test with its big red A.

He pursed his lips, mildly impressed, then revealed his A+.

Asshole.

I rolled my eyes with a laugh while he shrugged as if his baffling genius were out of his hands. Something tight and awkward between us loosened.

When class was over, I took a chance and followed him outside to a low wall that buffered the Geek Tree, where kids from the upper math classes and band members like to hang out.

“Hey, man.”

“Yesss,” he drawled, spinning on his heel to face me, his coat flaring around him. I was almost glad it was winter. Now his outfits made sense and weren’t a constant reminder of the horrors he’d suffered.

Today he looked goddamn devastating in a slate gray turtleneck sweater, black pants, and a long gray tweed coat. But then he always looked devastating. His very existence was a challenge to my willpower.

“How have you been?” I asked.

“Great. Never better.” He managed a dry smile. “Congrats on the big win.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I jammed my hands in my letterman jacket pockets. “So…have you put in college applications?”

“We’re doing small talk now, are we?”

“I don’t know. Better than not talking at all. Isn’t it?”

He regarded me for a moment and then lounged against the wall. “I’m not going to college.”

“What do you plan on doing after we graduate?”

“Disappear.”

A chill swept through me. “What does that mean?”

“I’m going to travel,” Holden said. “Or not. I haven’t really planned it beyond getting my inheritance from my parents and having nothing to do with them ever again.”

“With your smarts, you could have your pick of colleges. Hell, you probably could’ve had three advanced degrees by now. Or teach somewhere.”

“Can you really see me at the front of a classroom? Grading papers and holding office hours like a regular schmuck?”

I crossed my arms. “Yeah. I can.”

He studied me as if trying to decide if I were kidding or not, then shook his head, his voice low. “It’s not in the cards for me this time around.”

I leaned against the wall beside him but not too close. “Do your parents ever try to contact you?”

“No. Which is preferred. They’ve done enough damage, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think you’re damaged.”

“You don’t know me very well.” His piercing green eyes bored into mine, a challenge. Daring me to recall everything that happened between us that night at the pool.

As if I could forget.

“What about you?” he asked. “Have you decided which lucky university you’ll grace with your presence?”

“Got it narrowed down to a few. Texas A&M or Alabama, probably.”

“That will make Dad proud.”

“Yeah, it will,” I said, giving him a hard stare, daring him to remember how I’d told him things about my life I hadn’t told anyone.

He looked away quickly, the hostile expression softening. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“I made it your business.”

“True. You made a lot of things my business that night,” he said with an arch look and brushed his thumb across his lower lip.

I laughed even as my skin heated. Jesus, I couldn’t stop staring at this guy who looked like a goddamn work of art, his body concealed in expensive clothes, waiting to be unwrapped.

“What will you do with all your free time now that the season’s over?” Holden asked.

“Spend more time at the shop. I was thinking about suggesting to my dad we expand the business to do car restoration.”

“Making old, broken down shit shiny and new?”

“I like to think of it more as bringing them back to life.”

“Sounds like a noble endeavor. Do you think he’ll go for it?”

“Probably not.” Holden started to speak but I cut him off. “Things are good right now. Mom’s better. We all thought this was going to be a very different kind of Christmas. Like, un-fucking-bearable. But it’s…good.”

“And you want to keep it that way.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“So why, River Whitmore, do you keep talking to me?”

“Because…” My jaw worked.

Because I can’t stop thinking about you. While I’m driving. At practice. In class. In my bed at night…

“Because I want us to be friends. Or at least not ignore each other in class.”

Friends was such a weak word to describe the maddening swirl of emotion I felt for Holden Parish. But it’s the best I can do.

“Friends,” Holden said as if the word amused him.

“Look,” I said, lowering my voice. “We said a lot of shit to each other that night. And again when I called you from the hospital. You could’ve just hung up on me and I would’ve deserved it. But you didn’t and that means something, okay? I don’t want to pretend like we don’t know each other after everything we talked about. I can’t do it.”

He considered this for a moment. “You don’t want to be friends with me,” he said finally. “I’m not a nice person.”

“How about you let me worry about that?”

His voice grew sharp. “Is that what you really want? For us to be pals? You going to invite me to hang out with your buddies on Saturday night to talk about girls and football?”

“No, but…” I sighed, ran a hand through my hair.

Holden faced forward again, his jaw tight. The bell clanged through a thick and heavy silence.

“All right, well… I gotta go,” I said, pushing off the wall. “See you around, I guess.”

Except we wouldn’t. Next semester our classes would change, and we wouldn’t have Calculus anymore. This was the end of whatever we were.

“River.”

I turned.

“I’m glad your mom is better.”

Six words in a soft tone and my stupid heart sank deeper into his green eyes.

“Careful, Parish,” I said, smiling like a dope. “That sounded pretty fucking nice to me.”

That night we ordered pizza. Dad, Amelia, and I watched Mom eat two slices without letting on that we noticed, smiling into our plates. Dazia had gone back to Washington DC, ready to fly back in a moment’s notice if we needed her. As much as I appreciated everything she did for us, I was glad it was just the four of us again. It almost felt like real life.

“And then Jared asked Michaela to the Winter Formal, but she said no,” Amelia said animatedly. “He’s been a real jerk lately so a bunch of us are going to go together as a group instead.”

“That sounds like a solid plan,” Mom said. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time at the dance.” She looked to me. “Does the high school have a Winter Formal?”

“No,” I said. “Prom’s the next big one.”

“Yup,” Amelia said with a snicker. “The girls are already lining up, hoping they too have a chance at being stood up by River Whitmore.”

“Here we go again,” I muttered, though I was too glad to see Amelia back to her old smart-ass self to be mad.

“Good one,” Mom said, high-fiving Amelia. “Is that what you call a sick burn?”

I rolled my eyes with a laugh. “I’ve apologized to Violet, like, a hundred times. She’s forgiven me. You all should try it sometime.”

“Of course, we have. It’s just so unlike you.”

“It was months ago, Mom,” I said with a smile. “Everybody’s gotten over it except you.”

Amelia batted her eyelashes at me. “Where were you that night again?”

“Out with a friend,” I said quickly, dumping red pepper flakes on my pepperoni slice.

“Which friend was that?”

“You don’t know him.”

I felt Mom’s eyes on me as if she were scrutinizing that particular pronoun.

“It was just some guy from the team,” I said trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It was a dumb mistake and I regret it and I apologized. Let’s move on.”

Except I couldn’t move on and I didn’t regret it as much as I told myself I did.

“Ladies, stop giving River a hard time,” Dad said with a laugh. Whereas I had forgotten all about the season-ending win, it was still written all over his face. “Boys will be boys, right?”

“Boys will remain boys unless they’re taught to be men,” Mom said, shooting him a pointed look.

He chuckled. “Fair enough. River, you’re grounded.”

Amelia’s eyes widened. “For real?”

“No, I’m teasing your brother.”

I shot my sister a triumphant look. She stuck her tongue out at me.

“But on a serious note, tonight after dinner, River, we have to go over your college applications. You’ve been procrastinating on them long enough.”

“Yeah, okay.” I wiped my mouth on a napkin and balled it between my palms. “Hey, Dad, I was thinking. Remember the ‘74 Camaro Mr. Brewster brought into the shop the other day?”

“I do. A classic. Needed a new carburetor, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, and its grill was shot, the upholstery torn up, and it could use a paint job. But that’s all it would take to make it pretty sweet again.”

Dad grinned. “That’s all, eh?”

“I asked him about it, and he said there was no one local to do the work.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Well…the business is doing pretty well. Maybe it’s time for an expansion.”

“To restoration?”

“Yeah. Mr. Brewster was saying there’re a lot of classic cars in town, but they got to go up to San Jose or San Francisco for any body work.”

Dad sipped from his beer glass. “It’s a completely different ball of wax and a huge undertaking. We’d have to build a new garage, buy the proper tools, develop relationships with parts sellers, hire new people…”

“We can afford to do all that. And I’ll help. I’d love to work on it.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” Mom said, smiling softly.

“I don’t know the first thing about car restoration.” Dad pointed a bread stick at me. “And neither do you.”

“No, but I could study up on it. After school and on weekends.” I swallowed hard. “And…this summer.”

Dad frowned. “This summer, you’re heading to college, to training camp for whichever school you choose. You won’t have time for something like that.”

Holden’s face floated across my mind with Mom’s words whispering beneath.

What about your heart?

I inhaled to try again but it caught in my throat. Was this the moment? Was tonight the night I imploded my life?

“I like the idea but it’s too much to take on,” Dad said. “Your only job is to concentrate on your college applications.”

“Dad—”

“I’m not touching the business, and that’s final. I don’t want to spend more time away on a new venture.” He reached over and took Mom’s hand. “I’m happy with how things are right now. Let’s not rock the boat.”

The light above our kitchen table was gold and warm. Mom’s smiling face had color to it and her hair was coming back. Amelia happily scrolled through her phone, her smile easy, like it had been.

“You’re right.” I forced my own smile. “Sorry I brought it up.”

“Yo, River.”

Chance, Dante, Mike Grimaldi and Isaiah Washington and a couple other guys surrounded me at my locker at school the next day, the last day before winter break.

“A bunch of us are skipping out for lunch,” Chance said. “You wanna come?”

“Nah, I was thinking about checking out the talent show.”

Donte made a face. “The talent show? Is he for real?”

I shrugged. “A guy from my Calculus class is going to play the violin. Last week I told him I’d watch.”

Chance gaped. “You told some math geek that you’d watch him play the violin?” He snorted a laugh. “That’s the gayest thing I ever heard.”

The back of my neck reddened. I slammed the locker. “I said I’d go, so I’m going.”

I gave Chance my best don’t-fuck-with-me glare. He and Donte exchanged looks and then shrugged.

“Whatever floats your boat, dude.”

Donte chucked me on the arm. “Catch you later?”

“Yep.”

I watch them go, wondering how they couldn’t see right through my alpha male bullshit.

Because you’ve been wearing that camouflage for years.

Except Holden had seen through it instantly.

I went to the darkened auditorium where the Winter Talent Show was already in progress. Every chair was taken, standing room only. I got stuck in the back, but at 6’2”, I had a clear view of the stage.

I’d just made it. Harris Reed was playing a classical piece on his violin and slaying it. The music was insanely complicated, and I watched in awe as his bow skidded up and down the strings.

When it was over, I clapped hard and whistled…then tasted smoky cloves and cedar cologne in the air. My pulse pounded as an icy-hot shiver danced down my left side as Holden moved to stand beside me.

“I didn’t realize you were a fan of the arts,” he said, his eyes on the stage. “Another layer to the enigmatic River Whitmore.”

“I came to see Harris, from our class. Is that why you’re here?”

“No, I’m stalking you.” My eyes widened and Holden smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for my friend.”

He jerked his chin toward the stage. Miller Stratton walked out carrying a stool, a guitar looped around his neck. He sat down and adjusted the mic stand while a lone spotlight fell on him, deepening the auditorium’s darkness.

“He was pretty amazing at Chance’s party,” I said.

“He’s fucking brilliant,” Holden said, and the back of his hand brushed the back of mine. A spark shot straight up my arm and made the hairs stand on end. I shifted casually and tucked both hands in the front pockets of my jeans.

On the stage, Miller spoke into the mic in a low, almost shy voice. “Hey, my name is Miller Stratton. I’m going to play a song by Coldplay. It’s called ‘Fix You.’”

I let my gaze slide to Holden, studying the contours of his profile—his chiseled jaw and cheekbones, strong nose, full lips. He swallowed, and I watched the movement of his Adam’s apple. Thoroughly masculine. Nothing feminine about it.

“Can I help you?” he whispered, eyes forward.

“It sucks not talking to you,” I said as Miller strummed the first chords of the song. “I don’t know why. You’re arrogant as fuck.”

“Fair. You’re a grilled cheese sandwich.”

I snorted. “A what?”

“Shh,” Holden said. “Listen. This is our song.”

Our song. Nothing was ours. There was no us. But Miller sang that if you never try, you’ll never know, and the words pierced me like arrows.

I took my hand out of my pocket and let it hang by my side again. Again, my skin brushed Holden’s, sending shards of heat dancing up my arm while Miller sang about lights that ignite your bones.

I looked at Holden and he looked at me.

Without letting myself think, I slipped my fingers around the side of his hand and slid my palm against his. He gasped slightly—a small intake of breath only I heard in the darkened auditorium. Then he let his hand settle into mine. Another heartbeat and our fingers laced together.

“And I will try,” Miller sang, his rich voice hovering in the air in that silent auditorium. “To fix you.”

A short silence fell before the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers unlike anything I’d ever heard. Miller’s version of the song was unlike anything I’d ever heard either, as if he were singing directly to me. To us.

Because it’s our song.

Under the cover of applause, I let go of Holden’s hand and tugged the cuff of his coat. “Let’s go.”

I left without looking back but heard Holden’s footfalls following. Warning bells clanged in my head but were drowned in the thrashing beat of my heart that felt as if it were trying to break free of its prison like it had at the pool. Only this time, I was stone cold sober. No excuses.

I pushed open the door next to the auditorium—a back area of the band room that was for instrument storage. Huge basses loomed in the dimness, and drums of all sizes and styles lined the walls.

Holden followed me in and shut the door behind him. “Hello, friend.”

“I put in my college applications,” I said as he approached me in the darkness. “I’m going away to Texas or maybe Alabama this summer.”

“Establishing the rules, are you?” he drawled, though his voice was thick and tinged with nerves.

I swallowed hard. “Nothing’s changed. Nothing can change.”

“I told you,” Holden said, in front of me now. “I’ll never ask you for anything. I don’t have anything to give. Except this.”

I wanted to tell him that wasn’t true, that I was the one who had nothing to offer. I shouldn’t have led us here. I should walk out, but his goddamn voice, the scent of him, his presence was overwhelming. My hands itched to touch him, to grab him and…

Kiss him?

My first kiss with a guy. It seemed as if I’d been waiting a lifetime for it and yet the moment was rushing at me like a speeding train.

“Stop thinking, River,” Holden whispered. “We’re here. Right now.” He leaned in. “What are you going to do?”

Chapter Eleven

River answered my question by taking hold of the front of my coat and hauling me to him.

Our faces were inches apart, our bodies lined up against one another—hard and tense. We hovered in the moment, heat and electricity crackling between us as my eyes drank him in with desperate thirst. Jesus, his lips were parted, taunting me. I waited for his kiss—his first real kiss. Now that the moment had come, I was desperate for it.

With a sound that was half groan, half grunt, River pulled me tighter to him. Possessively. As if making me his. Then he crushed his mouth to mine.

I thought I was ready.

I’d been kissed a hundred times—wet, mindless mashing of mouths meant to lead to something else. River’s kiss ignited like a flare of light and heat in some cold place in me. His mouth was hard on mine, demanding, but infused with a strange softness that I felt everywhere. I felt him in his kiss, along every cell and sinew in my body that threatened to go limp in his arms.

This is my first kiss too…

River’s tongue was hot and soft but insistent, tasting every corner of my mouth. One of his large hands slipped around my waist and the other over my shoulder, keeping us tight to one another, molding us so that there was no separation. No him and me. Just us.

My head fell back under the onslaught of sensation and emotion, my jaw going slack, letting him take my mouth. River grunted at the surrender and invaded harder. Deeper. Burning with lust but fueled by something more. He grasped and gripped and mauled me and yet I was perfectly safe. Floating in a heated bliss. My broken mind went silent, all thought and memory erased until there was nothing left in the world but him.

Warmth seeped into my bones slowly like syrup—River’s kiss an infusion that brought me back to myself. My mouth fought back against his invasion, sucking and biting, my tongue sliding against his, tasting every inch of him. My hands grasped and roamed over his shoulders, then my fingers sunk into the thick, silken hair at the back of his head.

His warmth became mine, and my coat was suddenly too heavy. There was too much clothing between us. We kissed for delirious minutes that felt like hours, and then River slowed down. His mouth grew soft, soothing the bites and stubble burn. His tongue tasted gently, his lips sucked softly, and then he pulled away.

We stared at each other, my glazed eyes focusing slowly, my breath returning as if I hadn’t breathed once. Hadn’t needed to. River stared, slightly shell-shocked at what he’d done. A small, disbelieving smile touched his lips that were still wet with our kiss. His eyes held mine intently, and there was no regret. Only a quiet exhilaration. Some part of him that had been lost was now restored.

While I was breaking apart.

I shoved out of the protective circle of River’s arms and fell back against a bank of storage lockers with a hollow clang. My pulse pounded. I could feel him all over me—in my mouth and lungs and heart—his kiss a resuscitation.

He pulled me out of the lake and breathed life into me…

Uncertainty flashed over his eyes. “Did I…do something wrong?”

I shook my head mutely, the warmth—his warmth—still flowing through my veins. How could I explain it had never been like that? That it wasn’t supposed to be like that?

No one had ever kissed me like it meant something.

Wordlessly, I fumbled for the door and pushed into the too-bright daylight. The talent show was getting out and I was swept up in a sea of students leaving the auditorium. Too many bodies, too much mindless chatter assaulted my brain. I broke away from the crowd and leaned heavily against a wall, reaching for my flask.

The vodka tasted like gasoline after the perfection of River’s mouth. I took another sip, killing the taste of his kiss from my lips and tongue. But the liquor did nothing to smother the sense memory of how safe I felt with him. As if he’d tried to make good on his promise to never let anyone hurt me again.

“Ridiculous,” I muttered and took a third swig. “It was nothing. A kiss. So fucking what?”

Miller rounded the corner, his guitar slung around his shoulders. He wore jeans, a ratty old jacket and a beanie that made girls lose their shit.

“Oh, hey, Holden. You okay, man?”

“You played like a damn miracle,” I said to deflect his concern. But Miller was annoyingly humble; compliments bounced right off him.

“Thanks. You sure you’re okay?”

“Of course. Why do you ask? Aside from the fact I’m drunk in the middle of the school day.”

Miller didn’t crack a smile. Serious guy, that one.

“Actually,” I said as we walked across the campus, “my mental state is partially your fault.”

He smirked. “How do you figure?”

“That song. More specifically, you singing that song. It had the same effect as ‘Yellow’ back at the party months ago. You could make a fortune destroying people with nothing but Coldplay covers.”

“I’d be happy just to make enough to kick Chet out.”

“Your mom’s boyfriend still hanging around?”

I hated it when people asked questions they already knew the answers to, but I was desperate to keep River out of my thoughts.

“Yeah,” Miller said. “And it’s like my home isn’t mine anymore. We’d been through so much shit, Mom and I, to have a real place. Now we’ve been invaded. Like he’s taken over and it’s his place and we’re allowed to live in it if he says so.”

“What can I do?”

Miller shrugged, but his eyes were filled with gratitude. “Not much anyone can do.”

“If you need money, you can ask—”

“No,” he said and kept walking toward the front of the school. The school day wasn’t over, but we were done. “We’ve discussed this before.”

“And my offer still stands, in perpetuity. I’m sitting on a goddamn mountain of gold and neither you nor Wentz will touch it.”

“I’m not taking your money,” Miller said, his eyes hard like blue topaz. “Whatever I do, I’ll do it on my own.”

I wanted to argue, but Miller’s stubborn pride was immovable. Like a boulder had been lodged in him since his father abandoned him and his mom four years ago, leaving them to homelessness and desperation.

I sighed dramatically. “Having never known a lack of material wealth a day in my life, I can only guess there’s some kind of nobility in needless suffering.”

Miller snorted a laugh. “It builds character. You should try it sometime.”

I gave him a shove and we settled into a peaceful silence…until the memory of River Whitmore’s hard body pressed to me, his mouth devouring mine, infiltrated me all over again.

Goddammit.

“You walking me home, Parish?” Miller asked as we headed down the tree-lined street.

“It would appear that way.”

“What about James?”

“He’s used to my erratic schedule. He’ll come when I call him.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Welp, we just ditched the rest of our last day of school before winter break.”

Miller shrugged. “I have to work. I’m taking more hours over the vacation. What about you? Going anywhere with your aunt and uncle?”

“They’re going to Seattle to visit my parents.”

“You’re not going with them?”

You’re going to be alone on Christmas?

“I will be staying here,” I answered stiffly. “I was invited but I politely declined, saying I’d rather gargle shattered glass and wash it down with dog piss.”

“Subtle,” Miller said. “Well, Christmas at my place is going to be shit. Probably for Ronan, too. We can hang out at the Shack.”

“Maybe.”

Miller stopped walking to face me. “Not maybe. We’re meeting at the Shack on Christmas Day.”

“We’ve never needed to make it official.”

“I’m making it official.”

His worried gaze pinned me down. I could practically see visions of me holed up in my guesthouse, drinking myself into oblivion play across his thoughts.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

“But nothing can stop me from bearing Christmas gifts.”

“No gifts,” Miller said quickly. “I…don’t need anything.”

He meant he couldn’t afford anything. I shifted gears so as not to embarrass him.

“I was talking about food. A feast. That’s allowed, right?”

“That’d be okay, I guess.”

“Thank you.” I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Jesus, so many rules and regulations, Stratton.”

He sniffed a laugh and I made a mental note to pay the heating bill for his and Ronan’s entire apartment complexes through the winter. Anonymously, of course.

No sense in getting those two knuckleheads riled up over nothing.

Drunkenly wandering off campus on the last day of school before the holiday break meant I had no reason or opportunity to see River again.

“Good,” I told myself a few days later as I paced my guesthouse. Alone. It was stupid of me to have indulged in him. I was on a strict diet of no emotional complications, and he was an entire damn buffet. Better to cut myself off before things got worse.

Then I called James and told him we were going Christmas shopping.

We wandered down the quaint streets of downtown Santa Cruz. I bought Beatriz a necklace of colorful glass beads. They weren’t suitable to wear for housework, but that was the point. My aunt and uncle had proudly told me that aside from a Christmas bonus, they’d gotten her a brand-new vacuum cleaner.

Awesome. Wow.

The fact that Beatriz was actually a whole human being with a life outside of our house apparently didn’t occur to them.

I bought James a humidor packed with Cuban cigars. I was going to leave them in the backseat of his car before he left for his vacation, during which I’d have to Uber myself around town like a schmuck.

For Uncle Reg, I bought a new set of golf clubs and for Aunt Mags, a gift certificate to a two-day retreat at a luxury spa up in the redwoods. Sterile, unemotional gifts that were more of a thank-you for putting up with me these last few months than anything else.

They were departing for Seattle the day before Christmas; I planned to leave the gifts in the living room that morning and hightail it out of the house before they could find me and make a scene.

Shopping done, I stood on the street corner. “River.”

“What was that, sir?” James asked, the leather golf club bag strung over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” I said and spied an independent bookstore across the street. “I’m going to have a peek in there. Why don’t you put the bag in the trunk and meet me in twenty?”

“Yes, sir.”

I crossed into the bookstore that was brightly lit, tables spaced out over hardwood floors and huge floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the walls. The place had that clean, fresh paper-and-ink smell that a bookstore should.

My eye was drawn to a section of reference books with colorful photos. One with a 1965 red Ford Falcon Sprint on the cover jumped off the table at me. The book was a glossy collector’s style manual of car restoration. Not a how-to, but a before and after, showing old junkers on their last legs and then the same car, gleaming and healthy.

I shut the book and took it to the register.

“Gift wrap?” the clerk inquired.

I hadn’t worked out how to give River the book except that it had to be done in person. But him tearing open the wrapping paper while I waited would be excruciating.

“No,” I said. “It’s not a gift. It’s just…a thing. Nothing, really.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “That will be eighty-five dollars for nothing, please.”

A smart-ass. I’d have to remember to come back to this store more often.

James met me on time, back on the sidewalk. “Where to next?”

“I have to drop this off,” I said, hefting the bookstore bag. “Won’t take but a second.”

“Whatever you need, sir.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not a big deal. A quick errand and then we’re done.”

James frowned. “Is it unprofessional of me to say that you seem nervous?”

“Yes. Highly unprofessional. How dare you.” I ran my hands through my hair. “Have you ever been in love, James?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s it like?”

“The sweetest agony. A torture from which you never want to escape.”

“Sounds terrible.”

His eyebrows rose questioningly.

“God, no,” I said, waving my hands. “I’m not capable. I just want to know the warning signs. For…science.”

“The warning signs are part of the thrill, sir,” James said as he opened the car door for me. “It’s like skiing down a mountain. You’re scared shitless, dodging moguls, the wind whipping through your hair, and adrenaline coursing through your veins. Before you realize it, you’re at the bottom and you don’t remember the fear. Only the exhilaration.”

I gaped. “Good grief, James… You’re a romantic.”

“I’ve been told, sir.”

“A question: what happens if, while you’re racing down the slope, you hit an ice patch, go veering off course and slam into a tree?”

“In that case, you hope the ride was worth it.”

I directed James back to the Whitmore residence where he’d driven me months ago on Homecoming night. As I did then, I had him park a short distance away to wait for me. I walked toward River’s house under a heavy sky that threatened rain, my nerves lit up like a switchboard.

He might not even be home. Did you think of that? You’re going to leave the book with his dad, perchance? “Hi, Mr. Whitmore. Your son tongue-fucked me at school the other day and now I’m thoroughly ruined. Here’s a car book. Have a nice day.”

Suddenly, I was at the front door and knocking before I could talk myself out of it. River answered.

He had on jeans and a tight-fitting dark green sweater that was smooth over his broad chest and highlighted every muscle in his arms and shoulders. But it was his smile that automatically came over his face when he saw it was me, that was my undoing. I felt it in every damn molecule of my body.

River Whitmore is one big warning sign.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I parroted back.

“You want to come in?”

“Is that wise, given your predicament?”

“My dad and sister are out shopping. Mom’s asleep.”

“Just for a minute. I can’t stay. I have…a lot of stuff to do and…”

Jesus, I was rambling. I never rambled.

River grinned like a bastard and opened the door to let me in, then shut it behind me. We stood in the wide entry, him on one side, me on the other. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, unnerving me with his relentless good looks. The long sleeves of his sweater were pushed up, and a large silver watch was strapped around his wrist, making his forearms obscenely sexy.

“I didn’t know if I was going to see you again,” River said, keeping his voice low. “You bailed fast the other day.”

The other day, he said. Casual and plain, as if it hadn’t upheaved my life in every possible way. And maybe his too. His first kiss with a guy.

And it was with me.

My composure returned on a tide of arrogant pride. “I suddenly remembered an urgent appointment and had to run out.” I held out the bag. “This is for you.”

He pushed off the wall, took it, then retreated, both of us staying in our corners while a sucking pull, like a tide, wanted to crash us together again.

River took the book out and let the bag fall. “Holy shit, this is awesome,” he murmured, flipping through the pages. He raised his eyes to mine. “Thank you.”

I tucked my hands into my coat pockets to give them something to do that wasn’t grabbing him. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” he said and tucked it under his arm. “Hold on a sec.”

He left the hall entry and took the stairs up two at a time. I sagged against the wall and scrubbed my hands over my face.

“Leave,” I whispered. “Leave now. Save yourself…”

River came back holding a rectangular box with Montegrappa embossed in gold.

“I didn’t have time to wrap it,” he said, handing it to me and resuming his lean against the opposite wall.

I wondered if he’d had the same aversion about unwrapping gifts while someone watched. If so, it’d be one of the few things we had in common.

He’s the calm. You’re the storm. This is never going to work…

Quickly, I opened the box to another glossy wood box inside. In that was a Montegrappa fountain pen in deep blue with a gold-plated nib. The pens weren’t cheap—and the idea River had spent a few hundred dollars on me brought back that weak-in-the-knees-my-heart-is-going-to-burst feeling I’d had in the band room.

“Hold this for me, would you?”

I shoved the box into River’s hands, made fists in his sweater and kissed him. I kissed him hard, driving him back against the wall of the entry, silencing my thoughts at the same time.

River froze, dazed under my onslaught as I pillaged his mouth, taking and tasting with wild, deep sweeps of my tongue. Taking charge of my emotions for this fucking beautiful guy and channeling them into lust.

Blindly, River fumbled to put the box on the entry table and then his hands went to my waist, hauling our groins together. My erection sought his through my pants as our mouths mauled with biting, ferocious kisses. His masculine essence was mine; I drank it down, knowing I was the first. Reveling that no one had been here before, not the way he’d always wanted.

“Fuck,” he groaned, sounding pained.

I felt it too. Our impossibility battling with the fiercest want as our hands roamed and grasped, surrendering to the white-hot lust that ripped like a current from me to him and back again.

Finally, River gripped me by the collar, physically prying my mouth from his and holding me inches away, our breaths gasping over wet lips.

“I want to see you tonight,” he growled, his eyes heavy and lidded and dark as they dropped down to my mouth again and again.

I could only nod mutely and flicked out my tongue to lick his lips. He groaned in barely restrained hunger, holding us back from destroying each other in the entry of his family’s house.

“Where?”

“My place,” I said, feeling like I had at Chance’s party. Tempting fate. Stripping my chest bare and daring River to plunge a knife straight into my heart. “I’m in the guesthouse. It’s private.”

River’s eyes filled with thoughts and I wondered if it was too much, too soon for him.

Tell me to fuck off, River. Kick me out of your house, out of your life, once and for all…

He inhaled deep and tilted his chin.

“What time?”

Chapter Twelve

“What are you going to do?” Holden asked. And then I was grabbing him, kissing him. His tongue was in my mouth and mine was in his, and something lost in me came home…

“Hey, Whitmore? You still with us?”

I blinked out of the hazy, heated thoughts and into the glaring white light of the Burger Barn. At 7pm on a Saturday night, the restaurant was loud with the voices of dozens of conversations, and the hiss and spit of meat on a broiler.

Chance, Mikey, Donte, and I took up a booth made for eight, sitting spread out, arms resting on the backs of the seating. Baskets of fries and burgers were strewn between tall milkshake glasses.

“Dude, what’s with the dopey-ass grin?” Donte asked. “You getting some action we don’t know about?”

Chance perked up. “Oh, damn, are you? That’d explain why you’ve been acting so weird lately.”

Shit.

Mikey leaned in eagerly. “Spill it, Whitmore. Who is she?”

“Anyone we know? Give us a clue.”

A clue…

Holden Parish, in the band room, with his lead pipe.

A crazed laugh nearly burst out of me and I covered it with a coughing fit. I reached for my water. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You sure about that?” Donte asked. “You looked about ready to rub one off right here at the table a minute ago.”

“Fuck you,” I said, my laughter dying. I leaned back in my seat, casual as hell, and forced myself to say the words. “There’s no one.”

“I call bullshit,” Chance said loud enough that a mom at a nearby table gave him a warning look. “Something’s going on. And it’s not new, either.”

“Since Homecoming, at least,” Donte said. “Maybe earlier. The party…”

He watched me with sharp dark eyes. He was smarter than the other two boneheads, and I cursed myself for being so careless.

“Yep, Homecoming.” Chance said. “When our King ditched the Queen in front of the whole school. I still can’t get over that shit.”

Mikey nodded. “Epic.”

“For the last fucking time, nothing happened at Homecoming,” I said. “I just wasn’t up to it.”

It would’ve been easy to lie and say my mom hadn’t been feeling well, but I wasn’t going to be a complete scumbag and use her to cover my cowardice.

“You sure you’re not hiding some piece on the side?”

“Christ sake.” I grit my teeth. “There’s no one.”

My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed a stone. My friends’ insinuations were like buckets of cold water, reminding me of what was real life and what were only timeouts.

“Maybe you’ve got blue balls,” Mikey said in a serious tone. “It’s a real medical thing.” His smile turned oily. “That’s what I tell my dates, anyway.”

“And it works?” Chance asked.

“Hell, yes, it works,” Mikey said. “I tell’em all sorts of shit when they’re in my Jeep. I mean, if they’ve gone that far, they’re obviously ready to give up the goods. Most girls just need some incentive.”

Chance looked like he was mentally taking notes. I felt sick.

“You’re a fucking animal, Grimaldi,” Donte said.

Mikey looked to me. “You could’ve had that sweet Violet McNamara. Talk about a cherry ready to be—”

“Fuck off,” I said loudly, earning another death glare from the mom. I lowered my voice. “Don’t talk about Violet like that. She’s cool.”

“Then why’d you bail on her?” His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. “You tap that ass and it was no good?”

“Dude,” Donte said with a short, embarrassed laugh.

“Or are you tapping her now?” Chance asked. “Is she the mystery chick?”

My skin heated and I struggled to keep my tone even. “There is no mystery. I’ve been concentrating on my college apps. Dad’s riding my ass about putting in for early acceptance.”

Chance snorted. “Like the Big Ten aren’t begging for you, Whitmore.”

“They are,” I said, slipping on my King of the World mask. “We want to see who begs hardest.”

Christ, I was sick of my own bullshit, but the others laughed. Mercifully, the conversation moved on to the playoffs and who was going to the Super Bowl that year while I picked at the remnants of my food.

I imagined the looks on my friends’ faces if I told them it was Holden Parish who was making me hard under the table. How they’d laugh at me. At him. How they’d think I was joking. And when they learned I wasn’t—how they’d been sharing a locker room with me for years—they’d pick me apart like a pack of dogs. We had gay kids on campus, of course, but football was an entirely different game and it was too late for me to suddenly change the rules.

It’s impossible.

My gaze swung out to the restaurant. It was packed, every table filled with moms, dads, kids. I tried to imagine my life ten years from now. Working with Dad at the shop, restoring cars and taking my own family to dinner here. I tried to imagine what that family looked like and couldn’t do it. No wife, but no husband either. Just a blank space.

Because that life will never happen.

Whatever scenario I envisioned, the result was the same. Like a math problem, there was only one answer, exact and unchanging.

Impossible.

“Who you going to ask?”

I blinked again. “What?”

“Jesus, Whitmore, you’re a goddamn zombie,” Chance said. “We’re talking Prom.”

“It’s months away.”

“Yeah, but you gotta nail down the hottest chicks fast, or else they start getting uppity and looking at college Freshman,” Mikey said with authority.

“So who you thinking about asking?” Donte asked me.

“Don’t know yet. I’m weighing my options.”

“Thatta boy,” Chance said and slugged me in the shoulder, but Donte watched me through narrowed eyes.

Shit…

The lights in the restaurant were too bright. My jacket was too heavy, and my breath felt tight in my chest. My carefully constructed life was squeezing with a claustrophobic fist, punishing me for my weakness. For taking things too far with Holden.

For starting something that had nowhere to go.

“I gotta go,” I said, climbing out of the booth.

“Where?”

“To see who?” Donte asked, eyebrows raised.

“Your mom,” I muttered. “She hates it when I’m late.”

The others laughed but Donte only shrugged, wearing a small knowing smile I didn’t like. “Tell her I said hi.”

I strode through the restaurant and shoved open a side door to the parking lot, my face on fire as if I had a fever. A storm was brewing off the ocean. The sky was heavy with clouds and chilly wind swirled a red and white candy wrapper around the black asphalt. Against the side wall of the restaurant, I pulled out my phone.

I can’t make it tonight.

The reply came a few long moments later. Sounds ominous.

I let my head fall back against the bricks and hit call. Holden picked up but said nothing.

“Hello…?”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Look…I can’t do this.”

“This.”

“Us. Whatever the fuck we’re doing.”

“Since when?” Holden demanded. “Did something extraordinary happen between now and three hours ago when we were sucking face in your entryway?”

“No, nothing happened,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “Okay, yes. Life happened. My messed-up life. It’s not fair that you should put up with my shit while I try to figure it out. You deserve more than my conflicted ass running hot and cold on you every other damn minute.”

“Shut up.”

I blinked. “What…?”

“I said, shut up,” Holden snapped. “You’re worried about what I deserve? As if you have the monopoly on being fucked up. I have trust issues. I don’t set healthy boundaries. I close down emotionally before people get too close, and I sabotage relationships because I want to be the one who leaves first.”

“That’s… a lot of information.”

“It’s my official resumé. I broke into the head doctor’s office in the sanitarium one night and read my file.”

I snorted a laugh despite myself. This guy… In that moment I sort of felt bad for anyone who didn’t know Holden and proud that I did. Even if he was going to fucking ruin me.

Holden felt me relent and his arrogant tone returned.

“What I’m trying to say is that I don’t mind being your dirty little secret. Emphasis on dirty.”

“You’d be okay with that?”

“Spare me your pity party. I’ll survive if you don’t want to hold my hand in the hallway or make me your Prom Queen. We can keep it casual.”

“Casual.”

“You’re leaving to play football after graduation, and I’m going to jump on a plane and get the hell out of Dodge. What else can there be?”

Nothing was the correct answer. There shouldn’t be anything between us. Not even this. But the sense memory of Holden’s hot mouth on mine and his body pressed against me came roaring in to make its case.

“Friends with benefits,” Holden said in my ear, his voice low and husky. “Secret friends with benefits. Isn’t that what you want?”

No. I want you. All of you.

“Well?”

“I’m on my way.”

I drove up to the huge white Craftsman and parked along the side. Holden had texted me to take the side entrance, so I pushed through the gate and stepped into an immaculate backyard. The grass was cut to military precision and the pool was clean and sparkling with several deck chairs surrounding it.

Just the sight of the pool gave me flashbacks from that first night together. I knocked at the guesthouse, feeling as if the windows in the main house were watching. Holden opened the door and my breath quickened.

Holy hell…

Fresh from the shower, his silver hair was damp and slicked back from his face. He wore a thick maroon bathrobe—untied—over striped pajama pants and a white V-neck shirt. It clung to his chest and torso, hinting at cut abs that tapered to a narrow waist.

A heated push of want and denial, of need and guilt, swept through me.

“Uh oh,” he said, reading my face, stepping aside to let me in. “Second thoughts? Didn’t we just talk about this?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I know, but I’ve never…”

“Been alone with a guy?”

“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe don’t be a dick about it?”

“You’re right. Sorry. I keep forgetting I’m the slut in this relationship. Beer?”

“Sure.”

I heaved a steadying breath and shook out of my jacket while he went to the kitchen. Holden’s place was as big as most apartments. The front room had a couch, chair, and coffee table facing a small gas fireplace that was buffered on both sides by full bookshelves. The fire cast dancing shadows across the walls.

Under a window on the right sat a huge desk with a small desk lamp glowing over a journal and pen. The pen I’d given him for Christmas. On the left side of the fireplace wall was a small, open-concept kitchen with a hallway that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom.

I stopped in front of his bookshelves. Classics shared space with modern stuff I’d never heard of, plus volumes of poetry, Greek plays, Latin dictionaries, and at least three encyclopedia sets.

“You’ve read all these?” I asked. “Even the encyclopedias?”

Holden approached with two IPAs and handed me one. He was standing close to me; I could feel the heat emanating from his skin. I took a deep pull of cold beer.

“You can’t be a writer and not read,” he said. “To put it in automotive terms you might appreciate, writing is driving the car and reading is refilling the tank.”

“Sounds about right. What’s your favorite?”

Holden set his bottle down—I was glad he was drinking just beer tonight—and pulled out a huge, floppy softcover book from the shelf.

“Calvin and Hobbes? Are you kidding?”

“I never kid about Calvin and Hobbes.” Holden flipped through the collection of comics about a young boy and his stuffed tiger. “This isn’t just a comic strip. This is a philosophy manual on human nature. It just so happens to use snowman monsters and imaginary rocket ships to illustrate its point.”

“Okay, what makes it your favorite?”

“Because I like things that seem simple on the surface but are complicated and deep if you examine them up close. Like you. You’re like Superman who never takes off his Clark Kent costume. How many of your so-called meathead friends know you read Joseph Heller? Or that you know how to find derivatives using the chain rule?”

“I don’t go shouting it from the rooftops.” I shot him a dry look. “Or tap dance on dining room tables.”

“Because you don’t need to,” he said. “And don’t get pissy, I’m paying you a compliment. I’d give anything to have a steady mind instead of…” He waved a hand in the general vicinity of his head. “This.”

I sipped my beer, washing down the anger for all the people who’d made him feel less than he was.

He scrutinized my gaze. “Throwing me a pity party? Don’t.”

“I’m not. I feel sorry for your parents. They fucked up. Hard.”

Holden’s pale skin warmed and he looked away, no snappy comeback. Before I could let myself think, I took the beers out of our hands, and I cupped his jaw like I had the night at the pool. Only this time I was deliberate. This was not a stolen timeout from real life where we could blame the heat of the moment.

He let me turn his face to mine and I kissed him. Deeply. Thoroughly. Kissing him just to kiss him because if nothing else happened but that, I’d be happy.

I felt Holden sink into the kiss, leaning against me, letting me prop him up. A groan rumbled out of my chest at how the earth fell into perfect alignment when I was with him.

Holden breathlessly wrenched his mouth from mine. “That’s not keeping it casual.”

He brushed my hand aside and crashed his mouth against mine, igniting the heat that was constantly simmering between us. It exploded in a white-hot blaze that began where our mouths were crushed together and surged through my entire body. We kissed as if we were starved for each other; the hard, biting kisses that he preferred.

Holden lifted my sweater off while I pushed the robe off his shoulders and tore at his shirt, wanting skin. To see and touch him but careful not to lose myself in the moment. To be there with him.

He let me pull his shirt over his head and my breath caught at the sight of so much smooth skin over lean muscle, honed to perfection. Not as big as me, but strong. Strong enough to take whatever I had to give.

And what is that? What is happening…?

“Wait, wait…” I breathed, my forehead leaning against his.

In that small space between us, Holden’s eyes were warm. “We can slow down. I keep forgetting you’re new at this.”

“So do I,” I said. “I don’t want to get carried away and regret it later.”

“Regret for getting carried away is the best kind. But we don’t have to do anything. I think my aunt and uncle left some board games here. We can have a rousing game of Parcheesi—”

I kissed him to shut him up. To slow everything down and let us catch our breaths. I let my mouth move over his gently, while my hands slipped around his back.

“So that’s a no on the Parcheesi…”

“Let’s go to your room.”

Outside, the storm was waking up. Silvery light streaming in between lashes of rain at the windows was the only illumination as we reached for each other in the dark, making our way to the bed. We lay on our sides, kissing and letting our hands roam.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I thought I’d be but I’m not.”

Just the opposite. Every kiss and touch was like reclaiming a piece of myself I’d broken off and given to my fake life.

“What do you want?” Holden whispered hotly against my neck. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

“I don’t want to do whatever I want. We should do what we want. What feels right.”

He pulled back to study my face as if he couldn’t believe I was real. As if no one had said something like that to him before. Worse, as if it had never occurred to him that he deserved to hear it.

“Don’t get all noble on me now.”

“I don’t feel noble,” I said. “I feel like ripping your clothes to shreds with my teeth.”

“Good God, man. What are you waiting for?”

I laughed a little and shook my head. “Not tonight.”

“What’s happening tonight?”

“I don’t know just…stop talking.”

I kissed him, pushing him back and lying over him. We tugged at my jeans and his sleep pants until we were both down to our underwear, our erections brushing and rubbing through the material. I let my gaze wander over him in the dimness and slid my hands over the bare skin of his chest.

Holden lay back, watching me explore him, his abs tightening as my fingers trailed down toward the erection that strained against his boxer briefs. I hesitated but he nodded quickly, his neck tight.

I held my breath, my heart crashing against my ribs, waiting for lightning to strike me dead or shame to engulf me. But I slipped my hands inside, wrapped my fingers around him, and felt only relief and lust. Wanting this for him and for me, and for the years I’d spent denying myself.

Holden released a sound deep in his chest and I groaned. His cock filled my palm, soft skin sliding over hard flesh.

This, a thought whispered in and out of my head. This is what I want…

“I want to make you come,” I said thickly. “And I want to watch.”

Holden groaned. “And here I thought you’d be shy.”

He slipped out of his underwear, my hand still wrapped around him. I increased the pressure on him, squeezing hard through the stroke, then releasing, over and over.

“What about you?” he managed.

I shook my head, my hand working faster. “Just you.”

Again, confusion flashed over his face and I sort of hated anyone who’d been here before me, taking and taking and giving nothing back.

Instinct guiding me, I let my mouth wander down his neck, inhaling the clean warm scent of him, tasting the faint salt of his skin. I dragged my tongue down his chest. The smooth texture changed as I found one small nipple.

“How do you know how to do that?” Holden gasped out as I bit, sucked, and then swirled my tongue over the sensitive nub, all the while my hand worked over his cock.

“Don’t know,” I murmured. “Just want this.”

For you.

Holden’s breath caught, and I knew he was close. My own cock ached as if it were my orgasm ready to explode. I kissed him, a wet lashing of tongues, and then my fingers were in his mouth again. His tongue slid between them while I milked him, driving him higher and faster, until his head fell back, hands clutching the sheets.

“Oh fuck…” he gasped.

I sat up while his hips rose and fell with increased desperation and watched him come. His release spurted hot over his stomach and over my fingers, and I claimed it. It was mine. His every pounding heartbeat and hitched breath and agonized groan, all mine. I coaxed him through the orgasm with long, slow strokes until I was on the verge.

With a groan, I sat on the edge of the bed and yanked off my underwear. I took myself in hand, letting Holden’s release lubricate me. I felt him behind me, his mouth on the slope of muscle between my neck and shoulder. He bit down like the vampire he was, sending tingling electricity down my arm, then reached around to slide his fingers over mine until they were coated too, his release slick and warm over my cock.

“Dirty,” he whispered, and took over.

He curled his hand around me and began to move—a sensation I’d felt a thousand times by myself and that was now completely raw and new and better than anything I’d imagined.

“I need… I need…”

“You need to come,” Holden whispered against my ear. “In my mouth.”

I nodded mutely, mindlessly as Holden gracefully slipped to the floor. He knelt between my knees and took me in his mouth in one slow swallow.

“Fuck,” I hissed. “Oh fuck…”

Holden’s mouth enveloped me in the only wet heat I ever wanted, the grunts in his chest unmistakably masculine and hard. His fingers dug into my thighs with force, the pain adding a layer of sensation I didn’t know I craved. I gripped a handful of his hair and he groaned, working over me like a man possessed.

“I’m coming,” I breathed, one hand planted on the bed, gripping the sheets, the other in his hair, holding myself in that perfect delirium that was Holden.

“Come,” he breathed between deep, long sucks. “Come for me, baby…”

Baby…fuck.

My body obeyed. The cresting wave crashed, and I gritted my teeth, spilling myself into his mouth. He took it all, slowing his sucking strokes, dragging his tongue up and down my length.

“Jesus Christ…” I fell back on the bed, drained and yet alive in a way I’d never felt before.

Holden climbed up and flopped on his back beside me.

“River Whitmore,” he murmured to the ceiling. “There was nothing fucking casual about that.”

Chapter Thirteen

We lay for long minutes in the dark, listening to the rain and our own slowing breaths. My body hummed and I could feel River everywhere he’d touched me. Still taste him on my mouth and on my body that felt warm and safe for the first time.

Too good. It won’t last. It’s too good…

River was first to move, reaching for me, but I quickly went to the bathroom to clean myself up. I washed my hands and studied my reflection. My hair stood on end where River’s hand had grasped and pulled. Redness stained my mouth from his stubble—heated kisses that were fading under an onslaught of icy whispers.

This isn’t real life. It’s only a timeout. It’s not real.

I came back out and slipped on my underwear while River wordlessly took his turn in the bathroom. I sat against the pillows, feeling the cold creep in, and wishing I’d stashed a flask or a fifth in the nightstand drawer.

River returned and I forced myself to uncross my arms and take the grimace off my face. But he felt the sudden tension; he was too damn sensitive. And kind. And considerate…

He drew on his underwear and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to me. “You good?”

“Never better. You?”

“Yeah. I mean… I am if you are.”

God, River…

My heart had been shattered a long time ago but now River was seeping in through the cracks. Alarm bells clanged at the intrusion and my thoughts began to race, one after the other. Like whizzing cars, crushing River’s warmth right out of me.

“You can’t stay,” I blurted.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, the hurt evident in his voice.

He drew on his jeans and shirt while I fought against my own brain, the fight-or-flight mechanism that was triggered when anyone showed me the slightest bit of kindness or care. The silence was unbearable.

“I told you,” I said, pathetic and desperate. “It has to be casual.”

“I remember,” he said, his voice low.

More silence. I wished he’d yell at me. Scream. Tell me I was being an asshole and fucking up this perfect night. But River dressed and then stood for a minute, jaw set, his gaze on the ground.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said finally.

He was calm and still, while I was the storm. I wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep tangled up in him, but the cold had found me. I crossed my arms tighter to keep the trembling from showing.

“What am I doing?” I asked. “I’m not doing anything. It’s late—”

“Holden.”

My mouth fell shut.

“It’s okay,” River said, his blue eyes soft. “I get it. Or…I think I do.”

He didn’t, I thought, tears threatening. River had no idea how good he was, or how his goodness bashed up against everything broken in me.

I’ll just ruin him too…

“But I don’t regret tonight,” he said. “I hope you don’t either.”

“I don’t,” I said, defiant against the cold. “I never will.”

River nodded in the dimness, then turned to go. He stopped at the bedroom door. “You going to be around later?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Call me if…” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Just call me. Or I’ll call you. That’s allowed, right? It’s Christmas.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to. I’ll call you later.”

He hesitated, at war with himself. And then he left. Rain smattered the windows and I let River go. I sent him out into the storm.

It’s better, whispered a cold voice from Alaska. Better for him.

I practically ran to the kitchen. In the freezer was a new bottle of Ducasse—an early Christmas present to myself. I poured a shot, then took the bottle and glass to my desk. I wrote until my hand cramped and drank until the words blurred. Letting my racing thoughts out onto the paper and then drowning them in vodka.

Some hours later, the world tilted me out of my chair. I lay with the hardwood floor digging into my shoulder blades and stared at the spinning ceiling. The rain came down and River’s face floated across my bleary vision.

“What a glorious feeling…” I whispered and then sank into the dark.

The following day, Christmas Eve, Aunt Mags and Uncle Reg had an early flight to Seattle. They knocked on the door to the guesthouse, waking me from my cozy spot in the middle of the floor where I lay shivering and naked in my underwear.

“Holden, my boy,” Uncle Reg called. “We’re setting off now.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself?” Mags chirped.

“Just peachy,” I called and winced as a vicious headache pounded behind my eyes.

“Can you open up?” Reg asked. “Let us give you a proper goodbye?”

“I’d love to Uncle Reg, but I’m super busy right now.”

I crawled on hands and knees to my robe that lay on the floor where River had stripped it off me.

Aunt Mags sounded as if she were wringing her hands. “O-okay, well. There are gifts for you under the tree and our number is on the fridge if you need it.”

Shit. In my drunken stupor I’d forgotten to put out their golf clubs and spa package. I flopped back down onto the floor and pulled the robe over my face.

“If you need anything, just call,” Reg added. “Okay?”

I don’t need anything. I never have and never will.

My mantra that was starting to feel more hollow by the day.

There was some murmured debate—it sounded as if Mags was hesitant to leave me alone. But they did. The guesthouse settled back into quiet with only the soft patter of rain that hadn’t abated all night.

My head thundered and my stomach threatened an upheaval if I wasn’t careful. I was fully prepared to spend the entire day right where I was, but I’d promised Miller and Ronan a feast for Christmas Day. I mustered my remaining shred of dignity and pried myself off the floor. Blearily, I searched around for my phone to summon James, then remembered he was off for the next week.

“Well, doesn’t that suck donkey balls?”

Over the next twenty agonizing minutes, I downloaded Uber, set up my payment details, and called for a ride. After that harrowing ordeal, I had no energy left to get dressed. The car arrived and I greeted the driver in my pajamas and robe. He gave me a look, then shrugged.

Three minutes of wandering a gourmet grocery store with a basket dangling from my hand, I realized the error of my ways.

“Miller and Ronan don’t want jars of artichoke hearts and artisanal cheese,” I muttered, garnering a look from a woman who took in my robe and messy hair that, under normal circumstances, would be styled and gelled to perfection.

Last night wasn’t normal circumstances.

River’s hand found my hair, gripping me hard and sending delicious shivers of pain down my spine while I sucked his huge, beautiful cock…

I blinked and gave my head a shake. Jesus, I was going to give myself a hard-on right there in Aisle 4. I stared at the woman until she scurried away, then strode for the exit, dropping the basket somewhere on the way out.

I called another Uber, which took nine centuries to arrive while I huddled out of the pouring rain. This time, I went to a regular grocery store, grabbed a cart, and filled it with dude food.

The man at the checkout gave me a once-over as I gnawed a piece of beef jerky and flipped through a National Enquirer in my bathrobe.

“How are we doing today, sir?” he asked, scanning six packs of soda, orange juice, bags of chips, pretzels, packages of Twinkies, sandwiches from the deli, hot dogs, a whole carrot cake, and a cheese platter.

“Did you see this?” I flapped the paper. “Big Foot kept a lumberjack as his sex slave. Crazy world, am I right?”

“Uh, yeah,” the guy said. “Crazy.”

That night in the guesthouse, I listened to the storm gather power. Twice, the lights flickered, and thunder shook the house as if a giant were stomping around Santa Cruz. I spent the evening in bed with a bottle of Reg’s one-hundred-year-old Scotch tucked under my arm watching Love Actually and adding my own running commentary.

“Don’t buy that damn necklace, Alan Rickman. You’re going to break Emma’s heart, you Snape.”

I checked my phone. Nothing. Not even a text.

I wondered if they were gathered around Mom’s giant dining room table—the one they only used for formal events. Maybe a bunch of family—cousins, my grandparents, aunts and uncles like Reg and Mags, talking and laughing and bragging about who was better at hiding their money in offshore tax havens.

“Leeches,” I muttered, then shot up. “Goddammit, Rick Grimes, you can’t hit on a married woman like that, ya bastard.”

I swigged the Scotch. Checked my phone. Yelled at the TV.

Not the worst Christmas I’d ever spent, all things considered. Not when you factored in Alaska.

I stared at my silent phone. “Fuck’em.”

The following morning, I woke to rain coming down in biblical proportions and a hangover that felt like the wrath of God itself. A hangover in body and soul. My goddamn heart ached for my parents. For Reg and Mags.

For River.

My phone was just where I left it on the nightstand, quiet and message-free.

I dressed in jeans, shirt, sweater, coat, and boots, wrapped a scarf around my neck and bagged up the food to take to the Shack. The Uber took eight lifetimes to arrive and the bastard didn’t even help me load the groceries into the trunk. I was soaked by the time I dove into the back seat.

“The Lighthouse Cliffs?” he said, reading his phone. “You sure you want to be out in this shit?”

A hundred cutting remarks came to mind. I rested my aching head against the window instead.

We arrived at the side street nearest the path that led to the beach, and I climbed out. The rain was relentless and I, too, questioned the wisdom of such an undertaking. But keeping my promise was literally the only thing I had going for me.

My arms laden with four full grocery bags and rain drenching me to the bone, I took the path down to the beach. The goddamn cold soaked into my sodden clothes and wrapped itself around me, squeezing. I trudged slowly on the rocky path, my shoulders screaming and the plastic bag handles digging into my hands. I stumbled more than once; water lapped at my boots. Lightning crackled in a gray sky over the ocean.

“Just singing and dancing in the rain…” I sang weakly, my teeth chattering, trying to keep my brain occupied.

But Alaska came anyway.

The cold rain and the endless walk awoke memories of forced midnight marches through black forests, the counselors berating us for being worthless while we stumbled half-dead from lack of sleep and cold.

By the time I got to the Shack, tears mingled with the rain on my face. I dumped the bags on the wooden table and lit the lantern with shaking hands. No sign of Ronan or Miller.

Because of course not, dumbass. In this storm?

But Miller said we’d meet, and he kept his promises too. I blew on my fingers, determined to wait it out. But PTSD wracked my body with cold as much as the storm. I couldn’t let them see me like this, sodden and shivering and on the verge of breaking down.

They’re your friends. They’ll want to help.

Even if I believed that, the rain wasn’t letting up. No one in their right mind would make that trek in weather like this.

With fear curling my stomach, I pushed myself out of the shelter of the Shack and back into the storm.

The return trip felt like it took ten times as long with memories of Alaska whipping at me over every step. The Uber I’d called while huddled against a utility building came mercifully quick, the woman driver’s eyes widening with concern as I climbed in, drenching the backseat.

“Honey, what happened?”

I shook my head, my jaw stiff with cold. “Sorry about the water.”

“Don’t be sorry. What do you need, baby? What can I do?”

I hunched tighter, willing the tears back with everything I had.

“Take me home.”

My phone chimed a text just as I stepped inside the guesthouse, dripping water all over the floor. With trembling fingers, I pulled it from my pocket. Miller.

Where are you?

My house.

You dropped the food and then left?

I said I would, I typed.

Why’d you leave?

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a fucking hurricane out there.

The Shack is fine, Miller wrote. Not even a leak. Come back. Or we can come to you?

The urge to go to Miller and Ronan—people I’d lay down my life for—nearly sent me back out. But my reflection in the mirror over the fireplace was a horror show. A drowned rat stared back, haggard, with dark circles around red-rimmed eyes that were lit with fear. I couldn’t go back out into the storm of memories. Not again. And if my friends saw me, they’d want to know why I looked like this. I’d ruin their Christmas with my fucked up past that trailed me wherever I went, reminding me that a normal life was always out of reach.

I’m not feeling up to it, I texted.

Bullshit. Get back here. Or give me your address.

I imagined them lugging all that shit I’d bought through the rain. For me.

Another text came in. You went through all that trouble with the food. Come back.

Another. We didn’t want to spoil it but since you’re being an asshole, we got you a space heater. You’ll be warm. I promise.

I closed my eyes, tears stinging.

Raincheck, I texted. Because…actual rain.

Not funny. Then, Please come, H.

Merry Christmas, Miller, I wrote, my vision blurring.

My phone lit up with his number. I hit decline. He called again. Decline.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered and turned my phone off.

I was just about to take off my dripping coat when a knock came at my door.

River…

It was Beatriz, bundled in a raincoat and scarf over her head. Her warm smile morphed into a stricken expression at the sight of me.

“Mr. Holden? What happened to you?” she asked in Portuguese.

“Nothing,” I replied. “I took a walk.”

“In this storm?”

“A bad idea, looking backward. What are you doing here? Eu pensei…” My Portuguese failed me. “I thought you were with your family?”

“I am. We made biscoitos.” She hefted a basket covered in red cloth.

“For me?”

“Sim.” She pressed the basket in my arms, her face twisted in concern. Lemony-orange scents wafted from the cookies on warm currents. “Are you alone today, Mr. Holden?”

“No,” I whispered and cleared my throat. “No, my friends are coming over. I just got off the phone with them, actually. I should get ready. Take a shower and warm up.”

The cold was making my jaw tremble, and Beatriz’s brown eyes widened in alarm.

“Bim, bim, go. Warm up or you’ll be sick. Your friends…they are coming?”

“Any minute now.”

“Okay, good. That is good.”

“Thank you for the biscoitos, Beatriz. Muito obrigado.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Holden.” Her hand came up and touched my jaw. “Feliz Natal, doce menino.”

Merry Christmas, sweet boy.

She left and I shut the door behind her, then sagged against it, willing back tears.

Like picking at a scab, I wondered what my parents were doing right now. If the family was gathered around the huge tree with hundreds of glittering lights and gifts tastefully wrapped in expensive paper. Mom would be playing her Bing Crosby and Dad would be on the phone with Tokyo or London, arguing about oil futures until someone lured him away with brandy and a cigar.

I set the basket down and turned my phone back on. A string of texts and three missed calls from Miller and Ronan waited. None from Seattle. None from River.

I turned the phone off and left it off.

I took a shower as hot as I could stand to drive out the cold that had settled into my bones, then dressed in pajama pants, a long-sleeved undershirt, another shirt on top of that, and my robe. The fire roared and I turned the thermostat up to eighty.

With Beatriz’s cookies and the rest of Reg’s Scotch, I settled on the couch. A Christmas Story was playing on its endless Christmas Day loop. The storm outside raged harder, rain lashing the windows. Lightning flashed, followed by booming thunder that made the house shake. I ate a little, drank a lot, and time slipped out from under me. The movie played over and over; the scenes shuffling around like a deck of cards. I couldn’t keep straight if I were watching the same movie, or if it had begun again.

Judging by how dark it was outside, night had fallen (#science). At some point, I must’ve gotten up to use the bathroom but didn’t make it back to bed. My old friend, the hardwood floor, welcomed me back.

“This is where I live now,” I said, chuckling. “I live on the floor.”

Thunder shook the house, pounding, as if trying to bang the door down. I thought I heard someone call my name.

“Holden?”

The storm is talking to me.

“Holden, are you there?”

River.

He pounded on the door, hard and insistent. “Holden, open the door.”

“This is a new development,” I murmured, my stupid heart begging me to let him in.

I can’t. I can’t let him in…

The pounding became a slower, more forceful bang. Once, twice, and then the door slammed open, bringing with it the sound of rain and heavy footsteps.

“Jesus, it’s an oven in here,” River muttered, then he was kneeling beside me, his face floating across my blurred vision. Rainwater coursed down his jacket and made his dark hair hang over his forehead.

“You broke the door down?” I asked. “My hero…”

“Are you okay? Christ, I’ve been calling for hours.”

“Why?”

“Why…? Why?” He glanced around, shaking his head. “Because…what the hell are you doing?”

“The room is spinning so I’m holding the floor down.”

River sat heavily beside me with an exasperated sigh. “What are you doing? Drinking yourself stupid on Christmas? Where are your aunt and uncle?”

“Seattle. With my parents.”

“They left you alone?”

“I told them to go.”

His eyes darkened, his voice tinged with anger. “You shouldn’t…do this. You shouldn’t hurt yourself like this. And they shouldn’t have fucking left.”

“There you go again,” I said, chest aching. “Always saying things you have no business saying.”

“Come on.”

His strong arms went around me and hauled me to my feet. I sagged against him and lifted my heavy, alcohol-soaked head. My bleary eyes scanned his face, wanting to preserve every detail.

“You’re really a handsome bastard, you know that?”

“You’re drunk,” he said and hefted me with a sexy grunt.

“It’s not even subjective,” I continued as he half-carried me to the bedroom. “Just fasts. Fats. Facts. No one would ever kick you out of bed.”

He smirked grimly. “You did.”

The floor tilted and I gripped the lapels of River’s letterman jacket. His blue eyes were filled with concern and something deeper. Something I’d never seen before, except that I wanted to live in it.

I smiled sadly and touched his cheek. “I’m going to miss this face.”

“Holden…”

“You said it yourself, but did we listen? Ohhhh, no. Not us. Not me.”

“What did I say? When?”

“At the pool. It’s a mistake. We’re a mistake.”

His frown deepened and he held me tighter. “I was flipping out. I didn’t know what I was saying. I—”

“Yes, you did,” I said softly. “And you were right.”

I pushed out of his embrace and crawled onto the bed, flopping onto my back. I patted the space next to me. “Stay with me a little. Just a little while…until I fall asleep. Won’t take long.”

River hesitated then took off his jacket and sat down on the other side of me.

“I don’t get what happened,” he said. “A few days ago—”

“I lied. My big speech about keeping things casual?” I shook my head. “I can’t do it. Not with you. And you can’t be seen with me.” I sang weakly, off-key, “So let’s call the whole thing off.”

He swallowed hard. “That’s what you want?”

“That’s what I want. It’s best for both of us.” I poked him in the side. “And you know it.”

A silence fell, the only sound was the rain spattering the windows and the thunder, growing more distant.

A grimace hardened River’s handsome face. “I don’t know what to say. Or do.”

“Just stay with me the night, okay? And be gone in the morning.”

He warred with himself and then nodded, and my last flicker of hope went out.

What did you expect? That he’d fight for you? He won’t. He can’t…

I rolled over, onto my side, my back to him. I felt the bed dip and knew he was lying down too.

“I don’t want to leave here unless I know you’re going to be okay,” he said.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Tonight isn’t giving me a whole lot of confidence.”

“It’s what I do. I have like…an episode. A bender. I get it out of my system, and I move on.”

“Don’t you think you need professional help?”

“Why? As far as I know, I’m delightful.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I’ve had year-round, round-the-clock professional help,” I said, pressing the side of my face into my pillow. “This is the best they could do.”

I felt River turn on his side to face me and scoot closer. The warmth of him grew stronger. His head lay close to mine. All I’d have to do was turn over and…

We’d make the same mistake all over again.

“Holden…?”

“Stop worrying,” I said. “I’ll be fine, and our brief affair will become a distant memory. You’ll see me from across the quad at school one day and think to yourself, ‘There goes Holden Parish. Nice fellow. Once put my dick in his mouth.’”

River pressed his forehead between my shoulder blades. “Christ.”

I chuckled and then wanted to cry as he wrapped his arms around me, pulling my back tight 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. “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.

Holden’s the vampire…

The day was warm as we got closer to spring, but he looked coldly flawless in black jeans, white shirt, and a gray tweed coat. Every inch of skin covered but for his head and hands.

But I’ve seen everything.

The thought sent a rush of blood due south. It’d been months and I still couldn’t let him go. No matter how many days slogged by without a word from him or how many nights I spent gripping myself to memories of us, there was always more. More loneliness, more need, more missing him.

I crossed the quad while Holden talked and laughed with his friends, no lingering signs from that horrible Christmas night where I’d found a broken mess on the floor. If he thought about me as often as I did him—every other minute—it didn’t show.

Evelyn Gonzalez approached the Lost Boys and lured Miller away.

Holden cupped his hands to his mouth and called after them. “Did you hear about his magical dick too? How am I the last to know?”

Miller gave him the finger, and Holden cackled, elbowing Ronan. Our gazes intersected, and his sharp features softened. He watched me cross the quad with the same hunger and longing in his eyes I saw reflected in mine every day.

Maybe there’s still something there…

Reality smashed me in the face as I crashed straight into Donte Weatherly.

“Whoa, hey!” he said, laughing, his gaze going between Holden and me. “Watch it, man.”

“Hey, sorry,” I said quickly. “You have Biology next, right? I have Chem. I’ll walk with you.”

“Sure, sure,” Donte said, a casual, easy smile on his lips. “Was it my imagination, or were you eyeballing Parish?”

Fuck.

My throat went dry. “Say what now?”

“You. Parish. It seemed like you two were having a moment.”

Fuck fuck fuck…

“A moment.” I scoffed, my pulse was pounding. “Definitely your imagination.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Mmm, interesting.”

I stopped walking. “You have something you want to say to me?”

Donte’s laughing brown eyes were suddenly hard. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Adrenaline lit up my veins and I felt hot all over.

Shit, here it is. After all this time.

Naked fear gripped me, tinged with relief that the moment had finally arrived. That my pretend life was about to come crashing down over a careless glance. I teetered on the edge, fighting for equilibrium, while part of me hoped Donte would shove me in.

He put his hands in his letterman jacket pockets and rocked back in his Air Jordans. “I’ve just been putting some things together in my mind, you know? You’ve been acting weird for a long time. Like at the Burger Barn awhile back. And when I really start thinking about it, you’ve been shy about your relations with the ladies for years. Almost like…you’ve never had any. And so this weird feeling I’ve been having starts to take shape.”

I forced myself to keep my face blandly neutral. “Yeah, you got me, Weatherly. You found me out. I don’t brag about getting pussy, I don’t share private pics on Insta, and I don’t treat girls like fucking toilet paper the way Grimaldi and Blaylock do so I must be…what?”

Say it, asshole.

“Look, I’m not trying to cause shit for you—”

“No? It sure as hell sounds like it.”

Donte’s hostile demeanor softened, and he dropped his head. “I’m just saying if you have something to say, you’d better say it. Come clean for the team. So we know the score.”

“Since when is there a score? I thought we were friends.”

“We are. But I like to know who my friends are, man. That’s all.” The bell rang. He hesitated, looking as if he regretted his insinuations. “I’ll see you later.”

He walked away, and I stepped back from the edge.

The rest of the day crawled, my nerves lit up and itchy under my skin as if I were a criminal waiting for police that never came. The murmurs and whispers continued, girls mostly huddled together over their phones, giggling. Paranoia told me they were watching me and Holden. Someone had taped us. Or Holden had, and now the video of him sucking me off was circulating through the school like wildfire.

You’re being crazy. Get a grip.

I approached Julia Howard as she scrolled her phone on the way to lunch. “Hey, Julia. Do you know what everyone’s talking about?”

The popular girl, and one of Evelyn Gonzalez’s best friends, showed me her phone. “Miller Stratton. Evelyn put him on her vlog and…well, you can see for yourself. He’s going to be a huge star.”

“Yeah, great.” I turned to go, relief washing over me even while the 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 other who existed as a figment of the other’s imagination. Two figures, one trudging through snow toward a lake, one through rain along a beach. One battled through the physical sickness of PTSD. The other drank himself into a stupor. It ended with both characters finally seeing each other for the first time in the reflection of a bathroom mirror.

Not quite “The Day My Hamster Died” but that’s how I roll.

“In general, I was very pleased with your work,” Ms. Watkins told the class. “All of you proved the notion that there is no such thing as an ordinary life.” She stopped in front of me where I slouched in the last row, corner seat. “I commend your honesty. I’m humbled by it, actually.”

Her gaze met mine softly, her expression unreadable as she dropped my essay on my desk and retreated back up the aisle. I flipped it over. Instead of a letter grade, there was Ms. Watkins’s neat penmanship across the top.

See me after class.

I muttered a curse on principal, but in truth, seeing those words was sort of like opening the door to my guesthouse on Christmas Day and finding Beatriz there. Maybe something good would happen if I let it in.

“Thank you for staying,” Ms. Watkins told me when class ended. She perched on the top of the desk in front of me. “I’d like to talk to you about your essay.”

“You didn’t give me a grade. Did I leave a participle dangling?”

“Not quite.” She picked up the essay to flip through it at random. “His eyes are an alcoholic’s memoir without the wisdom of having hit rock bottom. He’s still falling.” She let the pages rest in her lap. “This is a third person narrative, but it’s still you. Isn’t it?”

“Some names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.”

She smiled gently. “Perhaps you’re assigning the pain to these characters instead of taking it on yourself?”

I shifted in my seat. “Perhaps.”

Ms. Watkins folded her hands in her lap. “Holden, this story is beautiful, sad, and frankly, a little concerning. I need to ask…where are your parents?”

“Seattle. I live with my aunt and uncle. They’re nice. Boring and gullible, but nice.”

“Do you have a counselor? A therapist?”

I rolled my eyes and began gathering my things—mentally shutting the door in her face. Watkins was smart and kind but, in the end, just another adult shuffling me to someone else to deal with.

Like dear old Mom and Dad.

“I have therapy. You’re holding it in your hands.” I held my hand out. “Do I get a grade or not?”

Ms. Watkins sighed and gave the paper back to me. “You’re lightyears above this class, Holden, and probably every other class at this school. But I’m concerned about you. It’s obvious you’ve suffered something extremely traumatic.”

“Gee, whatever gave you that idea?” I muttered, stuffing the paper in my bag. Guilt washed over me at her pained expression. “You don’t have to worry about me, Ms. Watkins. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Does concern for your well-being make you uncomfortable?”

“Did your teaching credential come with a psychology license?”

“I’m sorry, you’re right,” she said. “I’m not a psychologist. But as a teacher, I have a duty of care to my students who are in trouble. Your descriptions of alcohol abuse are too realistic to be fictional.”

“Maybe I just have a very active imagination.”

“Or maybe I recognize the truth in your words because I’ve been there too.”

I stopped in the act of shouldering my bag.

Ms. Watkins waved a hand. “You don’t have to say anything. It was a long time ago, and yet it’s also yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the day after that. That’s the never-ending nature of the struggle.” She smiled gently. “But I had help. I want that for you.”

I stiffened. “People have been trying to fix me my entire life. It doesn’t take.”

“I understand how it can feel that way, but please don’t give up on yourself. Keep trying until you get to the place where you truly understand that you deserve to be happy. Because you do.”

“I will be happy. Once I graduate, cash my inheritance check, and move to Paris. Or Lisbon. Or Madrid…”

The concerned furrow between Ms. Watkins’s eyes deepened. “Isolating yourself even further doesn’t seem to be the healthiest choice. Especially not with large sums of money and an addictive personality.”

“What’s my alternative, Ms. Watkins?” My tone was hard, but my heart was begging to hear an answer it could believe.

“You stay here, close to 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.”

She snorted and swatted my arm. “Not bad. Fica quieto. It’s good.”

“It’s amazing. Thank you, Beatriz.”

Thank you for being here.

She nodded, satisfied, and settled on the couch, taking a handful of pipoca for herself. “I can watch this movie with you? About the sad man and the girl with the rainbow hair?”

“Yes,” I said, my throat thick. “I’d like that.”

We watched the movie in easy companionship, as the characters who’d wiped each other from their memories inevitably came together again. Destined to be together no matter how hard they worked to avoid it.

Toward the end, while Jim and Kate frolicked on a snow-covered beach, Beatriz sighed heavily.

“You’re a romantic, Beatriz?”

“No, I am thinking. You are alone here a lot, Mr. Holden.”

My smile faded. “I am. But Beatriz…just Holden, okay?”

She smiled, the motherly affection intensified. “Do you not have someone, Holden? A girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend. I like boys.”

Beatriz thought about this. I waited with my breath locked in my chest to see how my words would land. If she’d withdraw her warmth and care and leave me alone in the dark.

“Okay, then. Where is your boyfriend?”

I let out the breath. Christ, how many times had I imagined my own mother saying something so simple? So full of acceptance… I swallowed the tears in my throat—they burned all the way down to the yawning black hole inside me.

“I don’t have one.”

She scoffed and took my chin in her hand, giving my face a gentle shake. “Do you go to school with blind people? How can anyone look at this face and not fall in love?”

“I don’t make it easy.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said. “É fácil amar você, meu doce menino. Mas você tem que se deixar ser amado.”

She turned her gaze back to the TV, and I stared for a moment, her words sinking in, reaching dark places that hadn’t seen the light in years. Old pain whispered that Beatriz was secretly laughing at me or that she was only being paid to be nice to me. I ignored them as best I could and slowly, carefully, rested my head against her shoulder. And she let me.

She tilted her head so that it touched mine, and we watched the rest of the movie together in perfect quiet, the voices in my head for once having nothing to say, the cold unable to reach me for a few precious moments. I fell asleep in that warm haze with Beatriz’s words a gentle whisper, like a lullaby.

It’s easy to love you, my sweet boy. But you have to let it in.

Chapter Sixteen

I pushed into our house after another long, pointless day of school, one day closer to the day I had to leave. I shut the door as footsteps thumped toward me. My sister tore down the stairs, hair flying, her bag clutched tight to her chest. She stopped short.

“Oh, hey,” Amelia said, not looking at me.

“School just got out,” I said, hefting my own backpack. “When did you get home?”

“Just now, but I’m…going out with some friends.”

“Until when?”

“Until none of your business,” Amelia snapped, then flinched at her own harsh tone. “Dad took Mom to her doctor’s appointment. They’ve been there all day.”

“So you stayed home from school?”

“Yes, okay? Because I can’t stand the bullshit,” she said, her voice breaking. “How am I supposed to listen to Ms. Sutter drone on about fractions when Mom and Dad are going to come home with bad news? The worst news.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do. I’m going to the movies with Kayla, okay? I just…have to escape for a little bit. And I can’t be here when they get back. I can’t.”

“I know, I get it,” I said. “It’s fine. Go. Have fun.”

“You won’t tell them I ditched, will you?”

“No, but only if you promise you won’t get in trouble. And you don’t do it again.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, sarcasm turning her hard again, but then a small smile broke through. “Thanks, River.”

She bounded past me and out the door while I went to the kitchen for a snack, though I hardly had an appetite. I didn’t want to be here when Mom and Dad came back either. I didn’t want to be anywhere. The urge came over me again, to run out the door and not stop. No destination, just away.

“I’ll still be me wherever I go.”

I sat in the silent kitchen for a few minutes, trying not to think about how its solace and homey warmth was all going to change in a few short months, then headed upstairs. Violet stood in the hallway. She must’ve forgotten Mom had her appointment and didn’t need a PCV today. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t heard her come in.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she whispered. Her hands twisted in front of her and an almost panicked worry flashed over her face.

“You okay? You look a little sad.”

“It’s been a rough couple of days,” she said.

“I hear you. Want to go somewhere and get something to eat? Take your mind off things?”

A key part of my grand plan to keep my world from imploding was to ask her for a second chance and go to Prom with me, but in that moment, she looked like she needed a friend just as much as I did.

Violet’s face fell a little, as if my invitation touched her more than she expected, and then hardened into determination. Her deep blue eyes regarded me, raking me up and down.

I smiled. “It’s a yes or no question—”

The rest of my words were lost as Violet flew at me and smashed her mouth to mine in a hard, flat kiss.

I stumbled back in shock, my lips stiff and closed as her arms went around me. She peppered my face with kisses, like a woodpecker. A wild, desperate thought took hold—I can like guys so long as I like girls more. This was my chance to salvage my life. To stop living every moment as if I were betraying myself.

I kissed Violet back, determined to ignite a fire between us, and she seemed just as bent on making something happen. Every awkward clack of teeth or uninspired touch of tongues only spurred her harder. She plastered her mouth to mine until I had to gasp for breath.

“Violet…?”

“Your room.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. No more talking.”

We made our way to my bedroom in a fumbling dance of awkward, tepid kisses. Violet pushed my jacket off and we tumbled to my bed where she straddled me, her body light and delicate where Holden was solid and hard. I shuddered at memories of that perfect night, where he’d reached around me to take my cock in his hand as if it where his. Using his own release as lubrication, then dropping to his knees…

Heat flared through me, then grew cold again as I came back into my room with Violet.

“I never expected this from you,” I stammered, putting words between our uncoordinated mashing of lips.

“Neither did I.”

She kissed me again and I tried to kick Holden out of the room, but it was useless. Against my will, I compared every touch of hers to his. Violet was too soft against my hard chest. Her small mouth and delicate lips couldn’t take the rawness I wanted in a kiss.

She wasn’t him.

Violet must’ve been forcing a desire she didn’t feel, too. We realized the futility of that at the same time—she rolled off of me and we lay on our backs, rigid with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

“Me too,” I said. “I’m usually better…at that. You just took me by surprise, is all.”

“Okay.”

“That’s why I wasn’t…better.”

Pathetic.

“You said that already,” she said and covered her eyes, her body shaking with silent sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey.” I gently pulled her hands from her eyes. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s me who’s messed up. Believe me.”

She shook her head. “No. You didn’t deserve that. Everything’s been going all wrong. I used to be so organized and on top of things. Now…” She threw her hands up. “Now it’s all falling apart. I’m falling apart. Doing things I’d never do. Being someone I’m not.”

I stared at the ceiling. “Yeah. I know exactly how that is.”

“You do?”

“Definitely.”

She rolled to face me. “How? I mean…seems like everything’s going how it should for you.”

“That’s because I’m really good at making it look like everything’s going as it should.” I handed her a tissue.

“Thank you.” She dabbed her eyes. “Nancy told me you got into Alabama and Texas A&M.”

“I did.”

“You don’t look happy.”

Happy. It felt distant and unreal, the road paved with roadblocks too heavy to ever move.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Swear you won’t tell anyone?”

“Cross my heart.”

I sighed. “I don’t want to play football anymore.”

“What? Really?” Violet propped herself on her elbow, her eyes wide.

“I haven’t wanted to…since forever, actually. It’s been more my dad’s dream than mine. He was a big star in his day and could’ve gone pro until a knee injury took him out.”

“Wow,” Violet breathed. “But you’re so good at it. Like Tom Brady or Peyton Manning.”

“It’s wasteful, right? To want to throw it all away?”

I waited for her to tell me yes. That I needed to get my shit together and do the right thing for my dad and my career. But Violet shook her head, her eyes clear and honest.

“Well, no. Not if it makes you unhappy. What do you really want to do?”

I lay back and stared at the ceiling. “You’ll laugh. Or think I’m a huge dork.”

She smirked. “As someone who dabbled in not being a dork for a short time until Evelyn Gonzalez returned me to the Land of Dorks from whence I came, you have my word.”

We shared a laugh, and I told her my dream of living here, working at the shop, and starting a family, and how my father would be crushed to know I’d give up football in a heartbeat to have it.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” I said. “I don’t know why I even told you, except that I feel comfortable with you.” I grinned. “Just not when we’re kissing.”

She laughed. “Story of my life.”

We both stared at the ceiling, settling into a deeper friendship that already felt more real than anything I had with my other friends. Like Donte. His insinuations rattled in my head, and Holden felt so far away.

“So Violet.”

“So River.”

“Since we’re both secretly dorks in disguise, how about we go to Prom together?”

A laugh burst out of her. “Oh, sure. Why not?” She glanced at me, and her smile fell. “You’re serious?”

“As the plague. We’d just go as friends.”

“Don’t you have a gaggle of girls waiting for you to ask them out?”

I nearly laughed out loud at how Holden would react to that question.

“Ha, no. Honestly, I don’t even want to go—”

“Way to sell it to me, Whitmore.”

I laughed. “Sorry. I mean. I do want to go, for my parents’ sake. Dad keeps asking which girl I’m bringing…and Mom loves you. We should go. It’s our senior year.”

Violet pretended to think. “I seem to remember a certain other dance that you were supposed to take me to and then didn’t.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. But this is how I make it up to you.”

“I suppose,” she said and was quiet for a moment. “I’ll go to the Prom with you. But only as friends.”

Of course, only as friends. Our awkward tumble in my bed made it painfully clear I had nothing else to give, and I wasn’t about to toy with Violet’s heart. My douchebaggery had its limits.

“Just friends.” I grinned and touched a small cut on my lip. “Safer for me that way.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

I nudged her arm. “It’s already forgotten.”

A short, comfortable silence settled between us, and I felt the integrity and honesty of this girl. Violet was smart. Kind. She wanted to be a doctor. You could tell things to a doctor and they couldn’t repeat them. Like a priest. When I told her my football secret, I felt it in my bones that she’d keep it safe.

If I told her about Holden…

“Violet?”

“Yeah?”

“About Homecoming…”

“What about it?”

The words were there, ready to fall. I sighed them out instead. There was nothing left between Holden and me except the constant ache of missing him. Like a low-grade fever that never went away. He’d kicked me out of his life, and mine was on track with iron rails, no way to change course.

“I’m sorry I ditched you, Violet.”

She frowned. “You’ve already apologized a hundred times.”

“I know. I just…I kind of miss you.”

“You do?”

“I know we never talked much but when we did, it was…good. Do you think we could keep talking? Now and then?”

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Me too.”

Chapter Seventeen

Saturday afternoon was so dull and boring, I actually found myself looking up UCSC’s Creative Writing program requirements and application process. The deadlines had all passed but there were summer programs and spring admissions.

The requirements looked easy enough. For shits and giggles, I’d taken the SAT and passed with a 1590. (I shaved a little off the top so the other students wouldn’t feel bad about themselves.) My AP exams were all perfect and I could write the UCSC application essay with my eyes closed.

And if they didn’t like my essay, I could get in the old-fashioned way and donate my way in.

For a moment, I let myself have a different life than the one I was set on. According to one colorful page, the university had a “vibrant LGBTQA+ community.” The page was accompanied by a photo of beautiful, happy queer students, laughing in the bright California sun. I even let my cursor wander to the mental health services department. That’s how bored I was.

You’re going to walk around campus like an average schmuck? You’re going to sit in a stuffy classroom, taking notes, and letting someone with half your IQ judge your writing?

Wow, my ego was bitchy today. I compared the scholastic life in Santa Cruz to my vision of Parisian parties, fountains of champagne, writing in a garret overlooking the Seine, and having meaningless sex until my dick fell off.

In the past, I’d have said no contest, but now…

How about this: You’re going to let amateurs poke and prod at your PTSD until it wakes up and devours you?

I shut the laptop and told myself the small pang in my chest was only my imagination.

I called James and had him take me to the parking lot closest to the Cliffs. I trudged the rocky, unforgiving path to the Shack, hoping Miller or Ronan or both would be there. Miller worked every Saturday, but maybe I’d get lucky and he’d have the day off. Maybe he’d play a song for me and I’d get out of my head for a while.

As I drew close to the Shack, I heard voices. One low and deep, one soft and smooth. I peeked into the window and found Ronan with Shiloh Barrera, Violet’s best friend and more frequent guest at our nightly bonfires. I didn’t know her well, but her sharp tongue and lack of bullshit made me an instant fan.

“Is she okay?” Ronan was asking.

“She’s okay. Miller’s with her now.”

“About time.”

“Agree, but those two are giving me an ulcer. Literally hours before, River Whitmore asked Violet to Prom. As friends. And Violet, the dummy, said yes.”

My heart dropped to the sand as jealousy rampaged through me, green and sour like nausea.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Ronan said. “If Miller’s with Violet now, he won’t let her slip away again.”

“I just wonder what River’s endgame is.”

To be accepted. To not be alone. To have a normal life.

My initial stab of jealousy mellowed to a dull ache. I waited with breath held for Ronan to spill everything I’d told him about River and me in private.

“River asked her to Prom as a friend, right?” Ronan shrugged. “Maybe that’s what he needs. A friend.” He moved close to Shiloh with an intimacy that said this wasn’t the first time they’d been in each other’s space. “And maybe it’s none of our fucking business.”

And that, Ronan Wentz, is why I love you.

Shiloh smiled appreciatively. Seductively. “Good answer.”

I should’ve left them alone, but I’d become mesmerized by the energy tensing between them. A push-and-pull dance I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

Ronan moved closer to Shiloh, his huge body looming over her lithe form. She was beautiful in a loose, flowing white skirt and a tight white T-shirt. Metal bracelets slid down her warm brown skin, and hundreds of tiny box braids fell over her slender shoulders. She held her ground, staring back at Ronan defiantly. The heat that burned between them was strong enough that I felt it from outside the Shack.

“We’re doing this now?” Shiloh asked, her voice hardly more than a breathy whisper.

Ronan nodded. His large hands went to her small waist and he hefted her easily, setting her on the edge of the table. Her fingers trailed up his tattooed arms, tracing the muscles, their gazes locked. Ronan pressed her legs apart and moved in. Shiloh welcomed him, her skirt sliding up her skin, ankles locking behind Ronan’s thighs. She tilted her chin and said something I couldn’t hear. A challenge, maybe.

Whatever she said, it was a spark to Ronan’s constantly burning flame. He made a fist in her braids, hauling her mouth to his. Shiloh took his kiss and gave it back with equal fire, her fingernails raking across his broad back as she lay over the table, pulling him down on top of her.

I wrenched myself from the window and stepped back.

“Congratulations. You can add voyeurism to your long list of depravity,” I muttered as I trudged back the way I’d come. But it wasn’t pervy curiosity that’d kept me there. In those moments, no one had existed for Ronan except Shiloh. The world could have exploded, and he would have seen and felt and known only her. And vice versa. The intensity that burned between them was singular. Powerful.

I had that with River, and I wanted it back.

So do something about it.

James was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the side of the car. He raised a brow as I approached. “That was fast.”

“I was concerned about the sturdiness of a certain table, but my friends are testing its durability as we speak.”

He nodded, unfazed. “Home then, sir?”

“No, downtown. The bookstore,” I said, only a vague idea swimming in my head. “To reference your skiing analogy, I’m going to crash one way or another, James. Might as well try to make it a hell of a ride first.”

He smiled. “Very good, sir.”

Downtown, I went back to the bookstore where I’d bought River the book on car restoration. Another book felt a little redundant, but there was so much more to him than anyone knew beneath his football letterman jacket and casual smile. He’d seen me at my worst and stayed. The least I could do was let him know I saw him as he was, too. That he wasn’t alone.

I scanned the fiction shelves and my gaze snagged on a title.

“Perfect.”

I made my purchase and had James drive me back to River’s house where I sat in the backseat, unmoving, the book clutched in my sweaty hands.

“Sir?”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because… What if he’s not home and someone else answers?”

James frowned in the rearview. He started to speak but I cut him off.

“No, you’re right. Fuck that. It’s not a crime against humanity to drop off a book to a friend. Thank you for the pep talk, James.”

“Anytime, sir.”

I walked up the Whitmore’s front walk and knocked on the door. A young girl around fourteen or fifteen, with the same blue eyes and dark hair as River, answered. She gave me a curious glance, taking in my heavy coat despite the warm-ish afternoon.

“Can I help you?”

“Is River here?”

“He’s at our shop. Whitmore Auto Body? He works there most afternoons now. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of his from school.”

“What’s your name?” she said, practically demanded, curiosity flowing off of her in waves.

“Holden. A friend from school. And you are…?”

“His sister, Amelia.”

“A pleasure.” I held up my bookstore purchase. “I’m returning his book.”

“It looks brand new.”

“I meant, replacing it. River lent me his copy and I spilled…gravy on it.” I inwardly cringed. Gravy? Lord, man. “Anyway, could I just leave this with you?”

“You could,” Amelia said thoughtfully. “Or you could just drop it by the shop.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

Amelia leaned in the doorway and crossed her arms. “I think it’s a very good idea. In fact, I think River could really use a visit from you, Holden. It’s not far, just off Charleston Street, south end of downtown.”

“Right, but—”

“It was nice meeting you,” Amelia said with a strange smile, and then she shut the door, leaving me stranded on the doorstep.

“So that happened.”

I turned and headed back to the car, debating the wisdom of visiting River at his family’s shop. In public. In broad daylight.

Then I envisioned him stripped down to jeans and a sleeveless undershirt, his oiled muscles smudged with grease while he bent over something dirty and mechanical.

“On the other hand…”

I gave James our new destination and had him park around back. I slipped through an alley to the side of the garage, making sure no customers could see me. A window along the shop’s rear wall showed me a small, cramped office.

My fantasy was partially fulfilled: River wasn’t bent over a car but some paperwork, wearing a dark blue, short-sleeved uniform shirt with his name lettered in red on a white patch. Sweat and grease left a sheen on his arms, and he’d smudged himself on the edge of one sharp cheekbone.

My heart jackhammering in my chest, I tapped on the glass.

As he had at school, River’s face lit up to see me and then morphed into wide-eyed fear. He shut his books and disappeared from the room. A few moments later, he came around the side, wiping his hands on a rag.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“If that’s your standard greeting, your customer service needs work.”

“I’m not fucking around, Holden. Why are you here?”

“Your sister said I could find you here so—”

His eyes bulged. “You talked to my sister?”

“Sure did,” I bit out, his reaction hurting and hardening my heart. “I knocked on your door and said, ‘Hello, Amelia, my name is Holden. I gave your brother a blowjob awhile back and I’m quite certain he thoroughly enjoyed it.’”

River’s shoulders slumped, and he carved his hand through his hair. “You know what I mean…”

“Yeah, I do. But newsflash: I’m a human being who is allowed to exist in the world and talk to people. Here. I got this for you.”

“Flowers for Algernon?”

“It’s about an idiot who smartens up for a bit, but it doesn’t last. He goes back to his old narrow, stupid world.”

River’s eyes darkened. “So…what? You bought this to teach me a lesson? To rub it in my face?”

“I don’t know why I bought it. I wanted to get you something and so I did.”

“Why? You’re the one who called shit off, remember?”

“Because I fucking can’t stop thinking about you, okay? Every day, all day, every goddamn night. And I wanted to do something. Instead of just sitting around being miserable. But it was obviously a mistake. Our favorite word.” I turned to go. “Toss the book in the trash for all I care.”

“Holden…”

I whirled back around. “And yes, it’s reckless and stupid to try again, but what if we need each other? Maybe how different we are works. Maybe we fill in the missing parts for each other. Ever think of that?”

“Yeah, I’ve thought of it. Lots of times. But—”

“River?” A man’s voice called. “You back here?”

“Shit.”

River grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and dragged me around the corner. Our eyes locked for half a heartbeat, and then he slammed me up against the wall, his body pressed against me, our faces inches apart.

“How do you keep doing this to me?” he whispered, his eyes dilated and dark. “So I can’t hardly think. Every fucking time…”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I managed weakly, my limbs going slack at being in his space, breathing his air and feeling his hard body after going so long without.

“River?” His dad wasn’t getting closer but not giving up either.

“He’s calling you,” I whispered, then widened my stance to bring River’s groin tighter to mine. Christ, he was hard and huge, and I groaned for missing every part of him.

“Shh.” He covered my mouth with a grease-smudged hand. “Don’t say a word.”

“River,” his dad called. “You down there?”

“Just taking a piss,” River croaked.

I maneuvered my mouth out from under his grasp and bit his finger, tasting the salt of his skin and the sharp bite of turpentine. His nostrils flared and he ground against me, almost against his will, his body responding with mindless need. “Be…right there.”

“Hurry up, though. Ms. Stanlin is waiting for her paperwork.”

We both waited, eyes locked as the footsteps faded. Slowly, reluctantly, River let me go and sagged with his back to the wall beside me.

“Fuck, Holden,” he said, sounding drained. “You can’t be showing up here. Or at my house. My friends…they’re starting to get suspicious. If it gets out about you and me, my football career is over.”

“How very dramatic.”

River shook his head. “It won’t be overt. It won’t be obvious. They’ll just fade me out slowly. Bench me at college and I’ll go undrafted. I wish it weren’t that way, but it is. No one comes out until they’re retired. Not if they want to play.”

“You don’t want to play.”

“I do,” he said. “For my dad, I do. He’s losing Mom. It’s the only thing I can give him.”

A silence fell. My heart felt as if it were breaking and yet strangely full at the same time.

“You’re a good guy, River. Too good for the likes of me.”

I pushed off the wall and started walking. If I looked at him, at his face that was as kind as it was handsome, I’d cry.

“Holden…”

“Go on,” I said without looking back. “Ms. Stanlin needs her paperwork.”

James started to toss his cigarette when he saw me approach. I waved to him not to and pulled out my own Djarums. I lit mine off his and we smoked in silence.

“Welp,” I said finally. “Can’t say I didn’t try. Tell them to put that on my gravestone, James. Hey, at least he tried.”

“Very good, sir,” he said quietly.

He took me back to the guesthouse. I’d hardly been home a minute when a text came in from River.

I shouldn’t have let you walk away.

I let out a shaky breath and sank onto the couch. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed a reply.

That’s a hell of an opener, my friend.

It’s the truth. The first true thing I’ve said in a long time. I’m sorry it took so long to say it.

That’s okay, I typed. I understand.

I don’t want you to understand, River wrote back. I want you to punch me in the face until I stop being so ducking scared all the time.

I sagged against the couch cushions and smiled to myself, imagining River in his mechanic’s uniform, his big football player body hunched over his phone. Hope and happiness rose in my chest, making me stupid.

Ducking? I typed.

There was a short pause and then my phone lit up with River’s number.

“I don’t want to punch you in the face,” I said as I answered. “Firstly, I’m not into that kinky shit—”

“Holden…”

“And secondly—”

“Will you shut up for a minute?”

“Damn, you’re sexy when you’re bossy.”

He sighed that was half laugh. “Why aren’t you pissed off? I was a dick to you. You deserve better.”

I ignored that last part, even as my heart ached to hear it. “I’m not pissed. You’re doing your best.”

“I can do better.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want to see you again.”

I laid my hand on my chest. “I do too. But you still have to go to college and I’m still leaving the country.”

“I know. Does that make this a bad idea? Or wrong?”

“A mistake?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t want to see you like how you were on Christmas. Not ever again. I…don’t want to hurt you.”

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

“So maybe we try again. Take it slow. See what happens. But…oh, Christ,” River said suddenly with a groan. “I asked Violet to Prom.”

I grinned. “Of course, you did.”

“You and I hadn’t spoken in months and—”

“I already knew.”

“How?”

“I told you. Miller and Violet are soul mates.”

River huffed a sigh. “But Holden, as far as I know, we’re still going together. And even if not, I can’t—”

“Be seen with me in public?”

He made a pained sound.

“I’m messing with you,” I said. “I know the deal and besides, it’s not like all my shit has suddenly vanished either. My mental baggage isn’t going to be cured by spending quality time with your huge, perfect dick.”

He coughed. “Jesus, dude.”

“Alaska is still there. I can’t promise it won’t drag me down again like it did that day.”

I waited with my breath held for River to tell me that he’d changed his mind and that my shit was too much to deal with. That I wasn’t worth it.

“Forget what I said about not wanting to see it,” River said. “I want to be there for you and…help you through whatever I can.”

I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “It’s a lot.”

“Let me take it,” he said. “I want to. I don’t know what’s going to happen with my mom, but when it does, it’s going to be bad. If we help carry each other’s shit, maybe it won’t all seem so damn heavy, you know? Maybe we won’t feel so…”

“Alone.”

“Yeah. Okay so…” River cleared his throat. “I guess we’ll talk soon.”

Disappointment bit at me. This is what taking it slow looks like.

“Yep. Goodnight, River.”

“Goodnight, Holden.”

We hung up and I stared at my phone, stifling a smile to keep it from getting too big and dopey.

I want to see you again…

“Patience, grasshopper,” I told myself. “Good things come to those who wait, or some such bullshit.”

Twenty minutes later I’d changed into pajama pants and a V-neck T-shirt and lay on the couch, flipping aimlessly through TV channels when a knock came at my door.

“Beatriz,” I said, hauling myself up with a grin. “Are we going to make Movie Night a thing? Because I am here for it…”

My words died as I opened the door to River. He filled my doorway, still in his uniform and smelling like gasoline and cologne, his eyes raking me up and down.

“You’re not Beatriz.”

“I’m not staying,” he said.

“That’s…disappointing.”

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “I never thanked you for the book.”

“That’s why you’re here? To—”

River surged forward and kissed the rest of the words off of my lips. Drank them down along with my breath and my moan of surprise. His mouth took mine with possessive need that left me sagging against him.

For a few delirious moments, I drowned in River; his scent, his skin, and the taste of him—clean and minty—in my mouth. I came to my senses enough to haul him inside, my hands making fists in his shirt. He kicked the door shut and I pushed him against it, kissing him back, my tongue infiltrating, sucking, tasting every corner, because now that I had him back, I couldn’t get enough of him.

River groaned and ground his hips against mine, his tongue sliding over the roof of my mouth.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he growled.

My body went loose and watery at the raw emotion that surged between his kisses.

“I missed you too.” The words breathed out of me with no bullshit, no snark. Just the truth. I missed the strong solidity of him in my life that often felt so cracked and broken.

River turned us so that it was my back against the door, and then he was stripping me out of my shirt. His hands roamed my chest with brazen audacity. One hand slid down to my erection that strained against my pants and rubbed me over the material.

“Can I?” he asked between our raw, biting kisses.

I nodded, heart pounding. “By all means…”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband and took me in his large grip. Warm, rough skin slid over me and then tightened in a hard squeeze. My head fell back against the door as the blood pulsed in my cock, swelling and filling River’s hand.

“I want to give you more than this,” River said, his eyes soft and dark on mine while he stroked me with agonizing slowness. “Okay?”

I nodded, my heart breaking that he wanted me to have his firsts. Every nerve-ending was raw and awake, wanting his touch that was new to me too. Everything River did and said was a revelation of reverence and consideration.

He sucked my lower lip and then pressed a deep kiss over my mouth before dropping to his knees.

“Oh fuck,” I whimpered as his mouth began a slow journey down my naked torso, leaving hot, wet licks on my skin. “And you’re still in your mechanic uniform. This is how every fantasy starts. Or maybe porn…”

“Stop talking,” River ordered and bit my stomach, causing my hips to buck.

In the next moment, I lost my ability to talk, to think, to breathe as River, with deliberate slowness, took me into his mouth for the first time. My head fell back, my mouth open, sucking at air as his tongue tasted and licked the length of me. He took me deep, then released, over and over, stroking me with one hand, adding layers of sensation on top of sensation. The world receded until there was nothing left but my cock in his wet, hot mouth and the hungry sounds he made deep in his chest as he took me.

“This is to say thanks for a book?” I managed as his tongue licked and swirled. “What happens if I buy you an entire bookstore?”

River’s answer was to take me harder until I clutched at the door, at his shoulders, needing to anchor myself to the earth. I found a handful of his thick, dark hair and held on while he brought me closer and closer to the brink. The heat of his mouth warmed every part of me.

“Ah God,” I groaned. “River…I’m going to come.”

His hand squeezed tighter, and he drew me into his mouth deeper, guiding my release to the back of his throat where he swallowed. The sensation on my tip lit a fuse that burned immediately down the length of me, igniting my release in a white-hot explosion. Starbursts flashed behind my closed lids.

“Jesus Christ…” I breathed but River didn’t stop. He took everything with slow, deliberate sweeps of his tongue and long, deep sucks until I was completely drained.

I slumped against the wall, hardly able to stand, while River put me back in my pants and got to his feet. He grinned a little at my dazed expression, his teeth grazing his lower lip.

“Was it…okay?” he asked, though the cocky bastard already knew the answer.

A thousand lewd jokes rose up in response, but I only nodded and pulled him to me. Kissed him slowly, tasting him and myself. The mixture of both of us on his tongue more potent than any shot of vodka.

He smiled against my lips. “Careful. That wasn’t very casual.”

“That ship has sailed,” I said, searching for signs of regret or shame. “Do we need to talk about what just happened?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Just checking in since you’re new to this. At least, I think you are. Hard to tell.”

“I just did what I thought you’d like,” River said. “But look at you, being considerate.”

“It happens.”

“I know it does. More often than you think.” He smiled softly, almost shyly. Happiness exuded from every facet of his beautiful face. “I have to go. My mom got some good news from the doctor the other day. I told her I’d be home for dinner.”

I nodded, and the enormity of River in that moment overwhelmed me. His innate goodness, his bravery, his ungodly sexiness…all of him coming together.

And he’s mine. For a little while…

“Go,” I said, hauling myself off the door, though I wouldn’t have been surprised if my flesh had melted to the wood. “Enjoy.”

River started to leave, then took me by the nape and pulled me to him for a final kiss. A deep, delving kiss that left no part of my mouth untouched. Then he released me and stepped out into the night.

I shut the door, feeling drunk. The best kind of drunk. River infused me in every pore, his kiss leaving me stupid with happy euphoria.

Leaving me with a piece of himself so that I wasn’t alone.

Part IV

Chapter Eighteen

May

When the bell rang, I left Chemistry and walked casually to the drinking fountain outside the band room. I pretended to take a sip while checking around to make sure no one was paying attention, then slipped inside.

Holden was already there, lounging sideways on a long table. Light filtered in from slats in a lone, high window, glinting in his silvery hair.

“You’re late,” he drawled, swinging around so that both legs hung off the table.

I wasn’t late; Holden was just being Holden, a sexy, infuriating brat I couldn’t get enough of.

My pulse kicked up as the scent of cloves, cologne, and expensive clothing wafted to me.

“New coat?” I asked.

“Just yesterday,” he said as I moved into the V of his legs. I rested my hands on his thighs, squeezing slightly, feeling the muscles beneath. His green eyes dilated in the dimness. “Cop a feel.”

Everything with Holden was a come-on, an insinuation, or a dare. I touched the cuff of his coat—wool and cashmere—that probably cost more than all the clothes in my closet.

“Nice.”

“You like it? It’s made out of boyfriend material.”

I groaned at the bad joke and then groaned again as I kissed him hard. Deeply. It seemed all of our kisses lately were deeper. More intense. Our nights spent in his guesthouse were a delirium of tangled limbs, sweat-soaked sheets, and grasping hands. We hadn’t done everything, but every lust-fueled touch felt imbedded into my skin.

Because our time is almost up.

Holden stiffened and pulled back. He felt it too, the clock ticking down.

“So where are we going tonight?” he asked. “Another car show? Maybe a monster truck rally?”

I rolled my eyes. “We went to one fucking car show.”

“And yet the experience felt so interminable, it scarred me for life.”

I chuckled. “I learned my lesson. There’s a meteor shower happening tonight. I thought we’d go to the top of Hilton Bluff and watch.”

Holden pursed his lips, his sharp eyes filled with thoughts. Over the last few months, it’d grown harder for us to come up with places to go where no one from school or town would see us. Every day, I waited for Holden to get sick of hiding and curse me out. I wondered if this were the day.

“Why not go up to San Francisco?” he said. “James can drive us, and I’ll bribe our way into a gay club in the Castro. We can dance, get stupid, and be with our people.”

“I can’t dance,” I reminded him.

Except for Prom.

I was still going to Prom with Violet McNamara, despite both of us being with other people. But she and Miller Stratton had an agreement and I didn’t question it. It curdled my stomach to admit, but I still needed her.

I waited for Holden to dig at me for that too, but he didn’t.

“I know you can’t dance,” he said. “That’s the point. You trying to dance is what makes it entertaining for me.”

I laughed. “Clubs are not my thing. Too loud. I wouldn’t be able to talk to you.”

“Oh my God.” Holden pressed his face against my chest. “It’s been months, Whitmore. You’ve seen me naked a hundred times. There is no need to keep saying sweet, River-esque things to woo me. You did it. I’ve been wooed.”

I gripped him by the nape of his neck and gently but firmly tilted his mouth to mine. “You talk too much.”

“Says the guy who claims he wants to talk to me.”

“I want to do both. Kiss you and talk to you.”

“Under a glittering meteor shower, no less,” Holden said and our lips brushed. “You’re a softy. A pillow. A grilled cheese sandwich.”

I kissed him silent and the flame that burned between us flared instantly. Holden hauled my hips against his and slid his hand over the erection straining my jeans. He started to undo the button, but I took a step back.

“Can’t. This is a short break. Save it for tonight.”

Our mouths had been everywhere on each other, but my body was getting impatient for more. I knew Holden was too, but he never complained, never pressured, never cracked a joke. But in his bed, I felt the tension under his skin and saw the need in his eyes.

Maybe tonight’s the night.

I didn’t give it more thought than that. I only wanted to do what we were both ready for. That Holden was more experienced didn’t mean anything to me. Whoever he’d been with before didn’t know who they had. But I did.

“Should I have James drive?” he asked.

“Nope, I’ll pick you up at ten.”

We kissed a final time—rough and raw, Holden trying to coerce me with his tongue to stay and let him have his way with my cock. But I broke the kiss and laughed as he snapped at me with his teeth.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

I slipped out of the band room, checking first to make sure the coast was clear. Holden would follow me out a minute later.

It wasn’t our perfect life, but it was the best I could do.

At home that afternoon, I took the stairs up two at a time and knocked on Mom’s door.

“Come in,” she called, her voice soft and breathy.

In March, she’d had good news that her latest cocktail of meds was holding the cancer at bay. But lately she’d been tired a lot and losing weight when she didn’t have weight to lose. Dad was taking her in for more scans in a few days, but a pall hung over the house. She wasn’t supposed to have made it to Christmas. Now, it was nearly a year later but we were all terrified that her extra time had come to an end.

Mom lay against her pillows, swimming in a silky bathrobe. Her hair was short, like a Marine. I liked to tell her she looked like Charlize Theron’s character, Furiosa, in Mad Max: Thunder Road and was just as much of a badass.

Amelia was sitting on the bed with her.

“I can come back,” I said.

“No, it’s fine, join us,” Mom said. “Tell us about your day.”

I met my secret boyfriend in the band room like we’ve been doing for months.

I coughed. “Not much to say. I’m supposed to be at the shop today, but I can stay home if you need me.”

“I’m fine. Dazia will be here literally any minute.”

Mom’s best friend coming had become like a portent of doom; Dazia was an infusion of energy the family desperately needed but only arrived when Mom was at her sickest.

“In that case, I was thinking of seeing a late movie with some guys tonight,” I said. “Might be home late.”

“Again?” Amelia was suddenly curious. “You’ve been staying out late a lot lately, River. What’s that all about?”

I stiffened, not looking at her. She’d been making strange remarks like that for weeks.

“River’s eighteen,” Mom said. “He’s a man now, going out and doing manly things.”

I choked out a nervous laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re an adult, about to graduate. As long as you live under this roof, there are rules of course, but—”

“Are you saying he doesn’t have a curfew anymore?” Amelia demanded. “Because that is so unfair.”

“He has a curfew,” Mom said, shooting me a wink. “It’s to come home one minute before his parents start to worry.”

Amelia huffed and crossed her arms. “Oh my God, that is sexism at work. He leaves the house when I have to go to bed.”

“When you’re eighteen, things will be different for you.” Mom tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe not. Your father might make your curfew six p.m. to keep the boys away.”

Amelia wouldn’t be eighteen for another three and a half years. God knew what our family would be like then, without Mom, and Dad trying to raise a teenage daughter alone.

The room grew quiet and Amelia muttered something about needing to do homework. She kissed our mother on her wan cheek and hurried out.

“I shouldn’t have joked about it. It’s hard for her and will get harder.” Mom raised her tired blue eyes to mine. “I want you to do me a favor, River.”

I braced myself. Whatever she asked me to do, I’d do it. “Anything.”

“You’re the rock in the family.”

“Pretty sure that’s you, Mom.”

“No…but if so, I’m passing it down to you. You’re solid and clear-headed and so very smart. You take care of everyone, and I know that’s what you’re going to do when I’m not here anymore.”

“I’ll do my best. I swear it.”

“That’s not the favor I’m asking, that’s a prediction.” Mom smiled gently. “I know you, my sweet boy. I know you will do whatever it takes to make sure the family stays together. Your dad and sister are strong. They’re going to be okay. You are going to be okay. I feel it in my heart. But when the tough moments come—”

“There’re going to be a lot of those,” I said, my eyes filling. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re kind of a big deal.”

Mom touched my cheek. “I know you’ll do your best to hold everyone together. What I’m asking is that you don’t forget about you. That you take time for yourself. Remember to breathe. To cry if you have to.”

My tears spilled over as my chest hitched. I felt her hand in mine give me a frail squeeze.

“Promise me, River.”

I nodded and held my breath to keep the sobs from pouring out. I clenched my teeth and wiped my eyes on the shoulder of my shirt.

When I looked up, Mom was lying heavily against the pillows. “It’s the hardest thing. Not dying. That’s easy because it’s inevitable. The hardest thing is feeling like I’m leaving you behind.”

“Then how about you don’t?” I teased weakly. Brokenly.

“I won’t,” Mom said. “I’ll still be with you. Always.”

From the downstairs entry, the front door slammed. “Hellooo, Whitmores! Aunty Dazia is here.”

“Go,” Mom said. “Have fun with your friends. Who did you say you were hanging out with? I haven’t heard you mention Chance or Donte or any of the guys in a while.”

“I hung out with them last weekend.”

Cursory time spent with the guys to keep up appearances. Donte was hot and heavy with a new girlfriend, taking the pressure off me. But eating at the Burger Barn or walking the Boardwalk, listening to their inane talk instead of being with Holden was torture.

“No one special yet?” She smiled softly. “No pressure. I’m just…hopeful.”

I swallowed a lump and took a breath. Now was the time to tell her about Holden. What other time could there be?

“Well…”

“Hello, my loves!” Dazia said, breezing in. Her smile only faltered a little at the sight of Mom looking pale and wasted in the bed. I quickly stood up, and she took my face in both hands, kissed both my cheeks.

“River, you get more handsome every minute. The girls must be falling over themselves for you.”

I managed a smile. “Good to see you, Dazia. Thanks for coming.”

“You can’t keep me away.” She sat on the bed and touched Mom’s cheek. “How are we feeling, love. Not so hot?”

“Bye, Mom,” I said.

“Bye, honey,” Mom said. “Have fun tonight.”

I went out and sagged against the wall outside the bedroom door. Keeping Mom’s promise felt impossible. My own grief was a chasm that if I fell into it, I’d keep falling and never come back out. I had to be strong. Not just for my dad and sister, but for myself. So I didn’t break apart into a million pieces.

At ten p.m., I drove to the Seabright neighborhood and parked alongside the Parish’s huge Craftsman. I came around to the side gate, then froze to see an elderly woman leaving the guesthouse. The woman patted Holden’s cheek, then turned and went back to the main house. Holden watched her go, then touched his fingers where her hand had been.

My heart swelled at the sight. Whoever that woman was, I loved her already.

Holden caught sight of me and waved. A few minutes later, he met me at my truck.

“Who was that?” I asked as he climbed into the cab. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

He gave me a pointed look. “Is this you being cute?”

“Yes,” I said with a small laugh and kissed him. “But for real, who was she?”

“Beatriz Alves. She’s my aunt and uncle’s caretaker, but…”

“She’s your friend.”

He nodded. “On the nights you ditch me to hang out with the Neanderthal Squad, we have movie night.”

“Does she know about me?”

“Yes.” Holden glanced at me with rare vulnerability in his eyes. “Sometimes, things are so good with you, it starts to feel surreal. I had to tell someone to make it more solid. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” I said quietly.

Our secrecy was wearing on him. Because of course it was. It was wearing on me too, breaking me down slowly, like the ocean taking more and more of the shore with every receding wave.

“Well?” Holden said, recovering his sarcastic tone. “Are we going to see a bunch of rocks fall from the sky or what?”

I drove up through the Pogonip Forest, up a winding road, higher and higher until the tree line broke. We parked at a clearing and I breathed thanks that no one else had the idea to come up here.

I set out a blanket on the bed of my truck, and Holden and I lay on our backs under a dark blue sky, glittering with stars. It took only a few minutes before the first meteor streaked across the sky, a silver ball leaving a trail of sparks until it burned out.

“Not bad, right?” I asked.

“It’s better than watching a bunch of old guys ogle old cars.”

I started to retort but the meteors were shooting above us, one after the other. We both shut up and just watched as the universe threw its own fireworks show, raining light across the black backdrop. From our vantage, with no one around, it was easy to imagine that they were just for Holden and me.

I turned to look at him and watched the lights flare in his eyes, his sharp exterior soft with the beauty of it.

“Can I ask you something?”

Holden raised his brows. “Sounds serious.”

“What was your first time like?” I shifted on the blanket. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me. If you don’t want to.”

“I don’t mind. It wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, and yet it was completely earth-shattering, all things considered.”

I tried to ignore the jealousy that bit at me. “What do you mean?”

“It was at prep school. I was fifteen. He was seventeen. The act itself wasn’t anything to write home about. Rougher than I’d have preferred.” He quickly shook his head at my hissed intake of breath. “That was due to our inexperience more than anything else. Though truthfully, I wasn’t in a healthy headspace to ask for anything different, and I wasn’t going to stop anyway. The ultimate rebellion against my parents. But the joke was on me.”

“What happened?”

“My partner—we’ll call him Blake because that’s his name—thought it would be fun to film it. Being the dumbass that I was, I agreed and thought nothing more about it. But since that first sexual experience was less than satisfying, I branched out. Saw other people. And by see, I mean I fucked my way through the gay population at that school and a few students who were on the fence, to boot. Blake became upset and showed our video to some friends. They showed their friends…” Holden rolled a finger in the air. “It went viral, jumping from one phone to another until our entire floor was infected.”

My teeth ground together. My hand found Holden’s and held on while the meteors streaked across the black sky.

“The director of the school got wind of it. He hauled us to his office, and both sets of parents were there. The biggest scandal in the school’s one hundred and thirty-years. I doubted that, but my parents certainly agreed. Charles and Estelle Parish handled it in true rich-person fashion—threatening to sue the school into oblivion if word got out. They confiscated every phone, made everyone sign NDAs, paid off anyone who’d seen it, and pulled me out of the school. For a few precious days, it was the greatest thing to ever happen to me.”

My brows furrowed. “How?”

Holden smiled sadly. “For the first time, my parents were on my side, protecting me.” He turned his gaze back to the sky. “But in the end, they didn’t give a shit about me at all. They were protecting their reputation. We flew home and eight days later, I was in Alaska.”

“Christ.”

“So that was the romantic tale of my first time, available for your viewing pleasure at the click of a link.”

My eyes flared. “The video is still out there?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t looked, but this is the digital age. God knows how many times my lover shared the video before he got caught.”

“Fuck.” Anger burned at the back of my throat.

Holden rolled on his side. “Not much I can do about it now.” He reached out and brushed a lock of hair off my forehead. “Not every guy is as good as you, River.”

The moment caught and held. Nothing casual in it. Holden quickly withdrew his hand and nudged my shoulder. “Your turn. You ever gone all the way? Video evidence optional.”

He needed me to change the subject, so I did. “I never got far with any girl. Complete lack of interest.”

“Didn’t you wonder why? Especially during those early, horny years?”

“Sure, but I didn’t let myself dwell on it or ask any questions. I shelved it away with everything else. I’d watch straight porn and focus entirely on the guy.” I smirked. “I told myself it was because I was studying what to do.”

Holden snorted. A low chuckle that built steam until he was cackling, holding his sides.

“So glad this is funny to you,” I said, biting back my own smile.

“I’m picturing you watching some housewife bent over a table getting drilled by the plumber…and you’re there with paper and pencil, taking notes.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

I let the dummy have his moment and finally Holden sighed out his last laugh.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke about your sexual identity crisis. Forgive me?”

“No,” I said, pushing him to his back and settling on top of him. “I’m devastated. I’ll never recover.”

He shifted beneath me, tilting his groin up against mine. “How can I ever make it up to you?”

Above us, the meteors flared, streaked, and burned out. None of them lasting.

“There’s nothing to make up. But…let’s go back to your place.”

Holden’s eyes widened, reading my every intention. I’d kept a mask on my face for years, but Holden had always been able to see right through it. From the very beginning.

“You sure?”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

I was sure that the night had arrived for me; that there was never going to be anyone else I’d want this with but Holden. And even if I were a fumbling mess, he’d never doubt I wanted it to be good for him. Safe. I couldn’t erase what had happened to him but maybe I could paint over it with new memories.

We drove back down the hill in silence. I parked at the curb and followed Holden inside. I took off my jacket and he took off his coat, and then we were rushing at each other, grasping and gripping. Kissing with hard, deep sweeps of our tongues.

But these kisses were different. Every touch was different, taking us closer to the moment I’d been waiting for my entire life—the culmination of who I was and who I wanted.

Only Holden…

We stumbled into his bedroom, stripping down to our underwear, and falling into his bed.

“I want you inside me,” Holden breathed against my lips, his hands roaming my naked skin.

Fuck…

Lust and relief flooded me; I wanted to be inside him too, more than my next breath.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said, my heart pounding in my throat. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You won’t,” he said. “Do you remember the night I introduced you to your prostate?”

“Um, yeah.”

As if I’d forget. Holden had lubed two fingers and breached me, pressing a spot inside me. A deep ache of pleasure had woken, turning me inside out. I’d never come so hard in my life.

“You start there,” Holden said. “With me.”

Christ, his words, his mouth, his hands on me… I was losing myself in him and fought for control.

“I never asked you if you were sure,” I managed.

“I am. I’ve wanted this for a long time.” He kissed me slowly, uncharacteristically serious. “With you.”

I kissed him back, and we stripped off our underwear. Our bodies touched everywhere, our erections rubbed against each other, the friction maddening and not enough. What I felt for Holden was locked in my chest, the enormity of it too big for me to put into words. Nothing was going to be enough but to be inside him. But my every cell and molecule were vibrating, making me tremble.

“River,” Holden said against my lips. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” I said quickly. “I want to so badly, I can hardly think. But…”

“Slow,” he said. “We go slow. And we stop at any time. I don’t care when or what we’re doing—”

“Same goes for you,” I said, my gaze holding his intently, my jumping nerves calming. “Any time. No matter what.”

Holden sighed. “Your kindness is sexy, River, and I’ve never…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

He’s never been treated the way he deserves to be treated. Never asked for it for himself.

We kissed until the low-burning flame that had been simmering flared to life. I planted kisses down his warm skin, moving lower and lower, then taking the hard length of him in my mouth. I sucked him deep and pumped with one hand until he shook his head, gasping.

“Wait, wait. Not yet. I want you inside me when I come.”

Oh Christ…

A full body shiver wracked me, like a meteor flaring and then fading out, taking the last of my nervousness with it. I’d never let myself wonder what it would be like to be with a guy. Now that the moment had come, I realized I was right where I was supposed to be. With Holden.

He reached into his nightstand drawer for a condom and a small bottle of lube. I took them from him and lay over him, our chests sealed, hearts pounding, our hips grinding and our mouths sharing each other’s air.

I braced myself on one arm, still kissing him. Always kissing him. With my other hand, I opened the bottle and dripped lube over Holden’s erect cock. I stroked him slowly, coating my fingers at the same time.

“Prudent,” Holden said and then hissed a breath as I moved my fingers lower, to his entrance. “Ah fuck, River…”

He clutched my shoulders, digging painfully, as I slowly worked one finger inside him, breaching the tight ring of muscle.

“Christ, how do you make it feel like that?” he breathed.

“Is it okay?”

He nodded quickly, his neck taut. “It’s so good. It’s never been this good.”

I kissed him hard, a surge of emotion rushing through me. I wasn’t the first here, but goddamn, I wanted to be the one that he remembered. My first and his too.

Christ, he was tight, and my cock swelled at the thought of being there with that impossible pressure around me. Just the idea had me on the verge of coming. I concentrated on him, always him, as I added a second finger to join the first. Holden’s chest constricted against mine and his kiss turned biting, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Vampire…

I smiled and worked my fingers gently inside him, pressing that bundle of nerve-endings. Holden arched his back under me, sucking in a breath.

“Oh fuck… Fuck, yes…”

I pressed the spot again and again, and watched the reaction in Holden, reveling in it. How his abs contracted, how his beautiful face became a grimace of pained pleasure. I could have done nothing else all night, but Holden shook his head.

“No more,” he panted. “Now… I need you now.”

He felt for the condom on the bed, tore open the wrapper, and reached between us to roll it down over me. Then he lay back on the pillow and swallowed hard, his green eyes bright and glassy.

“River…” he breathed.

I nodded, my own breath trapped in my throat. I used more lube, coating my cock. But holy God, I was too big. I started to use my fingers again, but Holden brushed them away.

“Is it enough?” I asked.

“It’s enough,” he said. “Fuck me, River and it’ll be okay, I promise. God, more than okay.”

I braced myself over him again as he hitched his knees up, his eyes intent on mine, trust and something deeper in their green depths. Something I was going to fall into if I wasn’t careful.

I gripped my cock, stroking it until it was slick with lube, then aligned myself. Breath held, I pressed in. Slowly. So slowly as he took me into a tightness I could hardly comprehend.

Holden’s breath was coming in harsh, short pants. He lifted his head off the pillow to watch me, his expression a kind of ecstasy I’d never seen him wear. Inch by inch, I eased myself inside him.

“Okay?” I managed. “Holden…is this okay?”

He nodded, his abs cut in stark relief at the strain of taking me. “Don’t stop. God, River, please don’t stop.”

I pushed in deeper, the tightness around me unlike anything I’d ever known. Pulling at me, drawing me into him, until finally our hips met.

“Oh fuck,” I breathed, my forehead falling against his. I braced myself with both forearms now, holding myself still. Afraid if I moved, I’d break him. Or me. “Holden…?”

“So good,” he whispered brokenly into the dark, heated space between us where there existed no one but him and me. “God, you feel so good.”

I kissed him and slowly drew my hips back. A groan escaped me at the same time Holden hissed out a yes. The tightness gave just a little, enough that I pressed back in. Again. And again. A little faster now.

“Yes,” Holden managed, his sweaty forehead still pressed to mine, his hands gripping my arms. “Just like that.”

In and out, I moved in him, his body taking all of me and releasing me just enough, never letting go, until we found a rhythm. Sensations unlike anything I’d ever known wrapped around me with every movement. I lost contact with myself and became us, moving faster, taking us both higher.

I made fists in the sheets and pushed up, back arched, my hips now driving into him. Holden gripped my forearms, mindless words falling out of his mouth. Yes and more and my name. With a strangled sound, he took himself in hand. Only a few strokes and he came, his release spurting over his stomach, dripping over his fingers.

“Give it to me,” I breathed, shocked at the words coming out of my mouth. At the raw need that had my body in a feverish clench as I drove into him again and again.

Holden’s eyes flared. He brought his fingers to my mouth and pushed them inside. My eyes shut and I groaned at the salty taste of him on my tongue. My hips pounded against him, flesh slapping flesh.

“That’s it,” Holden coaxed, tracing his fingers over my lips. “Come, River. Come hard in me. Now.”

A strangled sound erupted from my throat as the ecstasy that had been building snapped, the fever breaking, releasing a flood of sensations—an orgasm that ripped from me into him. I gave him everything and he took it, his hands on my hips now, pulling me in tight and pushing me back, guiding me through every slow moment until there was nothing left.

I collapsed over him, and his arms went around me, clutching me tight.

“Holy shit,” I breathed into the crook of his neck. Safe, as the last ribbons of the orgasm shuddered through me. I sank into perfect bliss, into him. I could have slept for a million years, wrapped in him.

Holden’s hand found my hair at the back of my head and the soft sensation broke me out of my stupor. I jerked my head up and searched his eyes.

“Are you…? Are you okay?”

To my shock, Holden was blinking away tears.

“Perfect,” he said thickly and sniffed. “It was perfect, you bastard.”

A small laugh burst out of both of us. Carefully, I pulled out of him with a small grunt, and we lay for a few minutes more, his fingers tangling lazily in my hair.

I started to drift off to sleep, but in all the months we’d been together, I’d never spent the night. An unspoken rule of our arrangement. A futile effort to keep things casual.

I forced myself to leave the bed and went to the bathroom. I cleaned myself up, disposed of the condom, then ran warm water over a washcloth. I came back and Holden was lying on his side, watching me. I wiped the cloth over Holden’s skin, his penis, and gently drew it between his legs.

He closed his eyes, a pained expression drawing his brows in tight. As sure as I knew my own name, I knew no one had done this for him before.

Anger burned hot. I tossed the washcloth aside and curled up behind Holden, wrapped my arms around him, and drew him tight to me. His back to my chest, his hands locked in mine.

“You don’t have to be home?” he asked warily.

I tensed. “Not yet. Unless—?”

“Good.” He pressed himself closer to me and in moments, he was asleep.

I lay awake for a long time, feeling the rise and fall of his chest in my arms, his heart beating under my hand.

Mine…

But Holden wasn’t mine. I wasn’t his. In a few short weeks, we’d both be gone.

I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking the thought from this perfect night. I slept.

Sometime later, I woke still wrapped around Holden. Protectively. The clock on the nightstand read four a.m.

I planted a kiss between his shoulder blades and carefully disentangled myself. Cold air swooped in wherever we no longer touched. I tucked the covers around him, making sure he would be warm, then dressed quickly and crept out.

Back home, I came in through the garage door that led to the kitchen. A pool of yellow light fell over the round table. My dad sat there, my college acceptance letters fanned out in front of him.

“Hey,” I said cautiously. “Sorry I’m late. Lost track of time…”

“It’s okay, my boy. Couldn’t sleep. Your mom…” He swallowed hard. “I guess I’m just thinking too hard tonight.”

I nodded and sat down with him.

“What have you been up to?” he asked with a forced smile. “Not too much trouble, I hope.”

My heart cracked a little. For his pain and for me that I couldn’t talk to him, father and son, about the milestones in my life.

I lost my virginity tonight, I wanted to say. With a guy. And it was fucking perfect.

“Not much.” I glanced at the letters. “What’s all this?”

“You haven’t answered any of them,” he said.

I blinked. “I haven’t? Yes, I have. Alabama…?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. The deadline has passed.”

The earth seemed to tilt on its axis and a great gust of relief swept through me, then died the next second.

“The gal from Admissions called today, asking for you. I told her we just lost track of the deadline and she said she’d make an exception.” His smile widened slightly. “That’s how much they want you, son. I’m so proud.”

I swallowed. “So what happens next?”

“You accept and then in a few short weeks, we pack you up. Training camp starts the first week in July—”

“Dad,” I said, my hand on his. “How can I leave her?”

He shook his head slowly. “River…she’s going to leave us first.”

“Maybe not,” I said, trying to make myself believe it.

“She will, son,” Dad said, tears shining in his eyes. “And if not…we take everything one day at a time. That’s all we can do. That’s all anyone can do, right?”

His voice broke and he covered his eyes with one hand, shoulders shaking. Wood scraped linoleum as I pushed out of my chair and stood over him. I put my arm around him, giving him whatever I had to give.

And even as I held my sobbing father, part of me wondered if he could smell Holden on me or if his scent had already faded away.

Chapter Nineteen

I peeked into my English class. Ms. Watkins was grading papers at her desk, a half-eaten macaroni salad in a plastic to-go container beside her. I sucked in a breath and knocked.

She smiled brightly as she waved me in. I slid into a desk in the front row directly in front of her and slouched over, resting my chin on my fist on the wood. Someone had scratched Martin Blasely sux cock onto the surface.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Ms. Watkins was watching me. “Something on your mind, Holden?”

River Whitmore was on my mind. I could still feel him everywhere on me. Inside me. Christ, I’d considered myself somewhat experienced on the sexual front, but River had obliterated everyone that came before him and probably everyone who’d come after.

I was already ruined, and he ruined me all over again. In the best way.

Ms. Watkins delicately cleared her throat.

“Right, yes, the business at hand.” I leaned back, all casual laziness. “So let’s say—hypothetically, mind you—that someone was curious about the application process for UCSC’s MFA writing program?”

She set down the Red Pen of Death she used for grading papers and folded her hands on her desk. “This person is interested in skipping the BA program altogether?”

“Indeed. The boredom would kill him if he had to attend classes like Commas and Margins 101.” I examined my nails. “This person is something of a prodigy in the brains department.”

“I see.” Ms. Watkins looked like she was holding back her smile.

“Not that it’s relevant,” I added, my throat suddenly thick, “but this person has also not had a drop of booze in months. Except for beer, but we all know that doesn’t count.”

“That’s debatable, but…” Ms. Watkins touched a hand to her heart. “That’s wonderful, Holden.”

“So…what do you think?”

“I think if this person were serious, some meetings could be arranged with the English Department at the university. Is he serious?”

I drummed my fingers on the desk, thinking, cautioning myself like I had been all weekend not to let post-sex glow go straight to my head. And heart.

Just because River fucks as if he loves me…

I hauled myself out of the desk and toward the door. “He’ll get back to you.”

Ms. Watkins smiled into her work as she picked up her Red Pen of Death. “I sincerely hope he does.”

Outside, I lounged against the brick wall and lit a clove cigarette to calm my nerves. It was reckless and stupid to let one night change things. Except it wasn’t one night. It’d been months of nights with River, each kiss and 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, like some Groundhog Day nightmare.”

River’s mouth was a grim line. “You’re upset.”

“Why would I be upset?” I demanded, my voice trembling. “What in the hell is there to be upset about?”

River carved a hand through his hair. “I accepted Alabama. Officially.” He sounded as if he were passing on his own death sentence. “You can’t… I mean…”

The last of my hope trickled out.

“Come with you?” I asked, my voice sounding frail and pathetic. “Who the fuck said I wanted to? I told you I’d never ask you for anything. Ever.”

We told you, the voices said, rising up again. We told you we told you we told you…

“Holden…” River sounded agonized. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

What else am I supposed to do?

He started to speak but I cut him off. “The longer we stay in here, the greater the chance Evelyn Gonzalez is going to pop in, and the next thing you know, we’re on TMZ.”

“Holden—”

“So we’d better make this quick. Before we run out of time.”

I rushed at him and kissed him. I met a brick wall, and then River’s stiff lips relented with a frustrated growl. He let me in, kissing me back. Roughly. Desperately. We grasped and grappled, waging an invisible war. Lust and pain mingled as we crashed ourselves together while circumstance ripped us apart.

It doesn’t have to. He can change everything with one word.

But River was trapped in an impossible situation, and as much as it fucking killed me, it wasn’t up to me if he changed its course.

I knew that rationally, but the pain howled inside me anyway. Like a storm gathering power with every passing second, transforming into reckless, manic energy that churned like a tornado to keep the cold away. My kisses turned brutal. Biting. My hand slid lower over his shirt, down, coaxing his cock to an erection that strained against his jeans, just because I knew I could.

River groaned and brushed my hand away, even as he hauled me closer, clutching at me as if he didn’t want to let go.

But he will.

I untucked his shirt so I could get my hand inside the waistband of his jeans, to grip him and torture him. Punish him.

He caught my wrist.

“Holden…”

His words turned into a hiss of pain as I bit down into the hard rope of muscle between his neck and shoulder. He cursed and shoved me back.

“What the hell…?” He put his fingers to the indentation I’d left with my teeth and glared at me in a mix of hurt and disbelief.

I stared back, breathing hard, a mirthless smile curling my lips. They whispered behind my back that I was a vampire and now I’d marked River as mine. Except the bruise on his neck would eventually fade and no one would know I’d been there.

River’s anger melted and he moved toward me. “Holden…”

I stepped out of reach. “We’ve been here too long. It’s time to go.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out into the too-bright sun. Violet McNamara was walking toward us and froze, the phone going slack in her hand to see me with River following after.

Good, I thought cruelly. Let him deal with his fucking pretend bullshit life.

I smiled smugly and tipped an imaginary hat at her. “Lady Violet.”

I heard her and River’s low voices as I walked away but drove every thought out of my head except how to get my hands on some liquor as fast as humanly possible. The cold was closing in, and no college application, no sleepy town, no fruitless feelings for River Whitmore were going to keep it away. It was my constant.

Stupid to ever hope otherwise.

A few days later, Ronan, Shiloh, Violet and I gathered at the Shack to say goodbye to Miller. Evelyn’s videos of him on her vlog had caught the attention of a bigwig at Gold Line Records. Miller was flying down to Los Angeles that evening.

He was going to get signed, I was sure of it. Everyone was sure of it except for Miller. I added how much I was going to miss him to my teetering stack of pain and took another pull from the flask I’d been sucking on all day.

Ronan and Shiloh were already there. Ronan was building a fire, stopping in his work to gently touch her face. The sight of them made me want to puke.

“You’re doing it wrong,” I snapped, making my way across thick sand to the firepit. “Those pieces are too wet. They’ll never catch.”

Both Ronan and Shiloh gave me perplexed looks. I ignored them and started throwing pieces of driftwood out of the pit.

Ronan stared. “The hell…?”

“Your solution to everything is to drown it in lighter fluid and set it on fire,” I said, falling more than sitting down in my foldout chair. “Try building something with your own two hands for a goddamn change.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ronan’s hard gaze narrowed on me. “Are you okay?”

Before I could answer, Violet and Miller emerged from the Shack. My stomach clenched to see bloody abrasions on Miller’s cheek and bruises in the shape of fingerprints darkening on his neck.

I shot to my feet, fear and worry making me sober.

Miller held up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. My mom’s boyfriend is a dick. Let’s leave it at that.”

I shook my head. “But fucking hell, Miller…”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll deal with him when I get back.”

Ronan’s hands balled into fists as he drew close to Miller, his voice low and hard as he spoke. “When you get back, we’re going to handle it. Okay?”

Miller’s eyes swam. He nodded. “Okay.”

“Good.” Ronan gripped his shoulder for a moment, then looked to me, questioningly. I nodded to show I’d heard him and understanding passed between us. We’d burn it all down for Miller.

For a few hours, I forgot about my own heartache and concentrated on cheering Miller up. While Ronan cooked us up some hotdogs, I regaled them all with tales of my incarceration at the sanitarium.

The group laughed as I spoke, but Violet, who was on a path to be a doctor, watched me with a clinician’s gentle concern. The following night was Prom. Since Miller would be in LA, she was still going with River. I tried to hate her and couldn’t.

The sun sank and it was time for Miller to go. It should have been the most exciting time of his life, but Miller’s hope was struggling under the worry that the executives at Gold Line would take one look at him—poor, bruised, and beaten—and take a pass.

I rose unsteadily and planted my hands on his shoulders, giving him my hardest, this-is-fucking-serious look.

“Listen to me. If you get to this meeting and start to panic or freak the fuck out, I have a sure-fire solution that I use when I get in tough spots.”

“What’s that?” Miller asked skeptically.

“I ask myself one question and one question only… What would Jeff Goldblum do?”

Miller smirked. “Thank you, that’s super helpful.”

My gaze dropped down to those bruises, purple and stark, on his skin. I unwound my knit scarf and slipped it loosely around his neck.

“You don’t have to explain anything to them, okay? Not a goddamn thing.”

“Dammit, Parish.” He blinked hard and pulled me in for a hug. “Thanks, man.”

I held on tight, eyes squeezed shut.

Thank you, Miller. For giving me a place in the world for a little while.

At home, my aunt and uncle were sitting at the patio table, clearly waiting for me. They jumped to their feet to intercept me before I could slip into the guesthouse.

“Holden, my boy,” Uncle Reg said, jogging up to me with a short chuckle. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of these days.”

“We’ve been wanting to talk to you about graduation,” Mags said with a bright, nervous smile.

“What about it?”

“We’d like to attend the ceremony. Beatriz too. To celebrate you.”

“It’s a major milestone,” Reg added. “Not to mention the tradition of it, turning of the tassel… All the fun stuff.”

“I won’t be walking,” I said. “I’m getting my diploma and getting the hell out of town. You’ll be rid of me.”

They exchanged glances.

“It’s been nice having you, Holden,” Mags said slowly. “We’ve been talking and if you’re thinking you have to leave because the year is up, well…”

“Plans can change,” Reg finished. “For instance, if you wanted to stay—”

“I don’t,” I heard myself say, my voice like ice, even as part of my stupid heart still reached for them. “There isn’t anything for me here.”

Chapter Twenty

Talk to me. Please.

I hit send on the text. Like every other text I’d sent to Holden over the last few days, it went unanswered. Calls went to voicemail.

I slumped on my bed. My tux for Prom that night hung on a hanger on the back of my door as it had on Homecoming at the beginning of the year. I closed my eyes, a stupid hope that when I opened them, Holden would be lounging against my dresser with that irritatingly smug look on his face I loved so much.

He wasn’t there, and his absence was like a hole that had opened in me, empty and cold.

Flowers for Algernon lay open on my bed. I hadn’t read it until a few days ago, after the incident under the bleachers. That night, I’d picked it up and finished it within hours. Charlie, a man with a clinically low IQ, participates in an experiment to enhance his intelligence. His genius skyrockets, but the experiment slowly fails, and Charlie eventually sinks back into his old life.

“And he loses the love of his life.”

Holden had neglected to mention that when he gave me the book.

I sighed heavily and set it aside. My phone was silent. I’d have to pick up Violet in a few short hours, take pictures with her parents, then drive us here and do it again with Mom and Dad. I’d put my arm around Violet and smile as if we were a happy couple.

Outside my room, I heard Mom and Dad’s bedroom door close softly, followed by a muffled sob. I tore off the bed and found Amelia in the hallway, one hand pressed to her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“Hey,” I said, moving toward her.

She shook her head but let me wrap my arms around her. I held her as she sobbed quietly into my shirt. Mom’s scans had come back. Dad could hardly speak when he sat Amelia and me down at the kitchen table a few nights ago. The road was coming to an end. A few weeks at most. And this time, there wouldn’t be a miracle.

“Come on,” I said, leading Amelia into her room, next to mine. We sat on her bed surrounded by posters of BTS and Riverdale. Russian nesting dolls lined every windowsill and bookshelf.

“Mom’s napping.” Amelia sniffed. “Again. I went to talk to her, and she was already tired.” She lifted her tear-streaked face to me. “But she’s been sleeping all day. All day, River.”

“I know.”

There was nothing more to say. No words of comfort I could give her that I wasn’t begging for myself. We sat side by side, our hands in our laps, reality creeping toward us like shadows across the carpet as the sun set.

Finally, Amelia peered up at me. “Are you really going to Prom tonight?”

“You think I shouldn’t? You think I should stay with Mom?”

She shook her head, her dark hair falling in tangles around her shoulders. “I meant, you’re going with Violet?”

“Well…yes.”

Amelia huffed a breath and wiped her nose. “Do you know what I wanted to talk to Mom about?”

“No.”

“Everything. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted a hundred conversations with her…all the ones we’re not going to have. I wanted to keep talking until we’d said everything there was to say in a lifetime so that I could… I could….” Tears choked her throat.

Say goodbye.

I started to put my arm around my sister, but she pushed it away.

“So what are you doing?” she demanded.

“I don’t understand.”

“Why are you bringing Violet over here and parading her in front of Mom instead of Holden?”

My stomach clenched as if my sister had gut-punched me. “How did you…?”

“I’ve known forever. Or suspected. Since that first dance you were supposed to go to. I saw you leave with Holden. With the silver hair? I didn’t think much of it at first, but then he came over that one day to drop off a book.”

“Flowers for Algernon,” I murmured.

Amelia nodded. “I knew then. The way he said your name… He tried to sound all casual, but he couldn’t do it. It was like he was glowing.”

“Glowing? No…”

“Yes,” Amelia said. “Not literally, duh. But I’ve seen you with your bonehead friends enough to know what regular friendship looks like. You and Holden?” She shook her head. “No chance.”

A thousand denials rose to my lips, but I swallowed them all down, suddenly on the verge of my own goddamn tears.

Amelia scooted closer to me on the bed. “Is he who you’ve been seeing all those late nights?”

I nodded.

Her small hand patted my arm. “Do you love him?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. But what can I do? I’m going to college.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Violet,” I said with a harsh laugh. “Irony of ironies.”

“The same Violet you ditched at Homecoming and are going to Prom with this actual night?” Amelia made a face. “Wow. That is one understanding girl.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You should tell Mom about it,” Amelia said, her voice cracking again. “Tell her everything. She’s not going to care that you’re…gay? Bi?” She waved a hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. But if you care about Holden, you should tell her. She wants to know that stuff. She wants you to be happy.”

“It’s not that simple,” I said heavily. “You know how Dad is about football. It would change everything.”

“Is that so bad?”

I sighed and my eyes fell on a set of her Russian dolls lined up in a row, painted in brilliant reds, blues, and yellows, each one growing successively smaller.

“It’s like this,” I said and picked up the smallest doll, about the size of a peanut in its shell. “This is me. The real me.” I put the peanut doll into the next largest doll, and then both into the next largest, on and on until there was only one big doll left, heavy with all the others locked inside it.

To my surprise, Amelia nodded, understanding in her eyes. “There’s a guy in my class. He came out to his family last month and now he lives in Pittsburgh with his grandma. Dad would never be as bad as that, but…I get it.” She slipped her small hand in mine and rested her cheek against my shoulder. “You can trust me, River. I won’t say anything until you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Amelia. And you can trust me too. When things get bad, you come to me, okay? Don’t disappear on me.”

“I’ll try not to. But you’ll be halfway across the country.” Tears were starting. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Story of my life.

The front sign at the Pogonip Country Club was changed to read: Tonight—Central High Senior Prom! Garlands of lights were strung along the front walk and couples—girl with boy—strolled in.

Inside, the room was dim and round tables were set up in a semi-circle bordering the dance floor. A DJ spun at one end, and tables with appetizers and non-alcoholic beverages were set up like a wedding reception.

My gaze found Chance and Donte standing in a small group.

“Let’s head over,” I said.

I lead Violet, looking beautiful in deep blue, to my friends as if she were a goddamn shield against suspicion, another layer concealing who I truly was. They grinned as I approached, Donte giving me an approving look and wink. I should’ve been relieved.

I felt sick. I was a fraud. Not because of what my so-called friends knew or didn’t know about me, but because of what I knew. What I felt. A thousand emotions boiled up in me, every one of them for Holden.

I can’t do this anymore.

My narrow, shallow world was suffocating the life out of me. If I kept up the charade another minute I was going to implode. If my mother died never knowing who I was…

Elation mixed with fear surged through me—the kind of feeling you only get when you do the right thing, no matter how hard. The urge to run out the door and drive straight to Holden gripped me, but I had to restrain myself. I couldn’t ditch Violet. Not again. Not on her Prom night.

A few hours more. Then it’s over.

By the end of the night, my pretend world was going to end because I was going to tear it down, brick by brick, layer by layer, until I was free.

I checked my phone for a message from Holden. Nothing. But the exhilaration and relief were still there, and before my old fears and doubts returned to crush them, I had to make it real. Put it in writing.

Stay in Santa Cruz, I typed. With me.

No answer.

The night dragged but I did everything I could to give Violet the best Prom. I brought her drinks, talked and laughed, and danced with her. Not for show or to prove anything but because she deserved a perfect night.

When it’s over, I’ll have my perfect night too.

The time came to announce Prom King and Queen. Violet leaned over the table to me. “Do you have your speech planned?”

I thought about Donte’s suspicion and how I’d basically checked out of my social life at Central to be with Holden these last few months. “I don’t think it’s gonna be me.”

“Who else would it be?”

“Guess we’re about to find out.”

Vice Principal Chouder and the Prom Committee Chair, Layla Calderon, took the stage and read the nominees for Queen.

Layla motioned for quiet. “Your Santa Cruz Central High Prom Queen is…”

The DJ played an electric version of a drum roll.

“Evelyn Gonzalez!”

The crowd erupted in cheer as Evelyn received her crown and sash, kissing Layla on both cheeks.

I leaned into Violet. “It’s like a beauty pageant my little sister watches on TLC. Toddlers and Tiaras?”

She giggled under her hand. “Careful now. You’re up next.”

Layla took the mic. “And now, I am beyond excited to announce your Central High Prom King…Miller Stratton!”

The ballroom exploded with sound, the girls screaming and clutching at each other as if the Prom had suddenly morphed into a One Direction concert.

I waited for the disappointment to hit me that I wasn’t King. It never did. Not even a twinge.

“Well, that’s something,” I said, laughing, another piece of my fake life rotting off and falling away. “Did you know that was going to happen?”

Violet shook her head, looking a little dazed. “I had no idea.”

Evelyn announced that Miller wasn’t there because he was in LA being signed by Gold Line, and Violet’s face paled further.

“Guess I’ll be playing your King’s own jams at the next party,” the DJ boomed into his mic. “Give it up for your King and Queen, Miller Stratton and Evelyn Gonzalez!”

The crowd cheered louder, and Evelyn soaked it in. Violet looked ill.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine.” She managed a small smile. “It’s just been a crazy couple of days.”

“Yeah, no kidding. But for real, you look like you need some air. Or maybe a drink?”

“Water would be great.”

“On it.”

I rose to my feet and my gaze snagged on a tall figure in black and a flash of silver. Holden leaned against a wall in his own version of formal wear—black pants, black shirt, and a long coat that nearly brushed the ground. His silvery hair was a disheveled mess, and he peered around with bleary, red-rimmed eyes.

My heart tried to climb out of my throat, the elation and relief expanding until I could hardly breathe.

Because I love him. Holy shit, I’m in love with him.

The truth was bright and vivid in my heart, no layers of lies or bullshit to cover it up. I was in love with him and for a crazy moment, I had a vision of me going to him, taking him by the hand and leading him to the dance floor. Letting the whole world see and proving to Holden that he deserved to be loved in broad daylight, not in secret rooms or hidden away in his guesthouse.

But he was drunk and sipping from his flask; I hadn’t seen it in his hand in months. His gaze wandered until he found me.

“Hi,” I mouthed from across the room.

He answered with a strange smile that sent a sliver of fear down my back. The same kind of wild smile I’d seen him wear at Chance’s party all those months ago when he dared Frankie Dowd to stab him in the heart.

His eyes still on me, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and suddenly hurled the steel flask at the nearest drink table. It struck a row of sparkling cider bottles, shattering one. Shocked cries rang out as teachers and students looked around for the source. Holden shoved open a side door and was gone.

Violet’s hand touched mine. “River…?”

“I told him I was going to Alabama,” I said, pain ripping through me. “And that he couldn’t come with me.”

I stabbed him in the heart. Every day I hid us, another stab…

“Go,” Violet said.

I blinked and stared down at her. “What? No…”

“Go to him.”

“That’ll make me two-for-two in ditching you at a dance.”

She smiled. “Strike three and you’re out.”

“Violet…”

“I don’t feel so well, anyway. I’m going to go.”

I felt like I was tearing down the middle. “Will you be okay? No, fuck that. I can’t leave you.”

“I’ll be fine. Go.” Violet squeezed my hand, calming me. “Don’t lose him, River.”

“I think it’s too late,” I said, Holden’s heartbroken face floating across my vision. “But thank you.”

I kissed her on the cheek and strode for the door. Then I ran.

Outside in the parking lot, I searched frantically in the falling light. Tires squealed, and I looked to see a black sedan—James’s sedan—tearing down Country Club Drive. It fish-tailed slightly and then sped like a bullet down the darkened road. Holden was behind the wheel.

“Shit, God, no…”

My pulse thundered, fear and adrenaline coursing through me like fire as I raced toward my truck. I threw it in gear and tore out of the parking lot. On the Drive, I hit the gas, desperate to keep up.

The sedan wove unsteadily on empty roads, thank God. Holden took the road that curved west along the coast, away from Santa Cruz. I chased him down the deserted highway, the ocean crashing out of the window on my left.

I flashed my brights at him, but he didn’t slow, and my pulse was a pounding beat in my chest as he sped faster.

The scenery in the dark around us gave way to farmland, and I wondered just how far Holden was going to go. But with another squeal of tires, the sedan took a hairpin left, rear wheels skidding, then righting itself again, tearing down a side road that led to the ocean.

“Fuck,” I swore as I overshot the turn. I hit the brakes and swung my truck back the way we’d come. I slowed down, feeling seconds slip out from under me, searching in the lightless dark for the same turn Holden had taken.

I found it—a small, winding road—and took it as fast as I dared. But there was nowhere to go except straight into the sea.

No fucking way…

Fear choked me, and I forced myself to calm down. The road ended in a small, dirt clearing. The sedan was parked askew, as if Holden had skidded into the spot. The door was open, lights on, engine still running. Holden was a black shape with silvery hair, striding unevenly toward the water.

“Oh shit.”

I parked the truck and raced after him, my dress shoes clapping on asphalt and then sinking into sand. Twenty yards ahead of me, Holden was stripping out of his black coat, leaving it to flap darkly on the deserted beach.

I screamed his name under the sound of the crashing ocean and the wind that whipped the black water into sprays of white foam.

Holden didn’t stop but took long strides into the water. Waves crashed against him, wetting his clothes to the waist. He was soaked up to his chest when I hit the shore. I sucked in a breath and bit out a curse as the cold bit me with sharp teeth.

He stopped, letting the waves buffet him, and stood very still…then dropped into the water as if his legs had given out.

“Holden!” I screamed, struggling through the waves that lapped at my thighs and the sand that pulled at my shoes.

For a few horrifying seconds, I thought I’d lost him. I couldn’t reach him. The tide pushed at me, keeping me from him. Then he came back up and stood still and calm but for the shivers that wracked his body. I closed the distance between us, reached out, and gripped his shoulder to turn him to face me.

“Holden…” I said brokenly. “What are you doing?”

“What they told us to do,” he said. His face was pale, a horrible, sad smile on his lips that were blue and trembling. “When you have unwanted thoughts and feelings…you go into the water.”

A strangled cry broke loose in my chest, and I pulled him to me, wrapping my arms around him. His arms hung by his sides, and he sagged against me. Tears burned hotly down my cheeks to the cold skin of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Holden shook his head against my shoulder. “Nothing to be sorry for. It’s what I do. It’s all I know how to do.”

I pulled back and gripped him around the neck and jaw with both hands. “Listen to me. I’m going to tell them. My dad and…everyone. I’m not going to Alabama. I’m not going to play football.” I swallowed. “I’m not leaving you. I don’t want to leave you. I can’t.”

Holden’s face crumpled and he shook his head. “No. Don’t say that. Please…don’t.”

“I’m saying it,” I said, shouting over the ocean to be heard. To make him hear me and believe. “I should have said it a long time ago.”

“River…you don’t want this. I’m a fucking mess. I—”

“Who isn’t? Some people just hide it better. I’ve been hiding my whole life.” I gripped him tighter, holding his face in my hands. “You’re strong. You survived something terrible but you’re still here.” My voice cracked. “You’re fucking brave, Holden. You are yourself, always. I wish I were half as brave as you. But I’m going to try. Please let me try.”

Holden shook his head, his tears spilling over his cheeks and down to my fingers. “Don’t give everything up. Not for me.”

“I’m giving it up for me. I can’t live like this anymore. And I’m giving it up for you too.” I smiled through my tears. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that? But it turns out, I can’t fucking live without you.”

Holden stared. The hope struggling to take root in his eyes broke my heart. His hands came up, clutching my arms weakly, as if afraid to hold on too tightly.

“Is this real?” he asked.

I nodded, pressing my forehead to his. “It’s real,” I said, our lips brushing with each word. “Finally, I know what’s real.” I inhaled sharply against the swell of emotion rising in me. “I love you, Holden. That’s real. It’s the most fucking real thing I’ll ever know.”

Chapter Twenty-One

I love you, Holden…

River’s voice was flooded with emotion, his eyes full of me. He kissed me, his lips cold but his mouth warm. Another resuscitation after my own terrible baptism of shame. I clung to him, my own lips trembling against his.

“You’re freezing,” River said. “Let’s get you warm.”

He hooked his arm around me, and we staggered to the shore, my clothes sticking to my skin and wrapping me in the cold. River’s tux was ruined. Water dampened his pants to the waist and his jacket was dusted with sand.

“I wrecked another dance,” I said as we trudged up the sand to where I’d dropped my coat.

“Maybe not.” His smile was sheepish, almost shy, as he took off his tux jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “Back at the Club, I had this vision of you and I dancing together. It’s kind of dumb but…kind of not.”

My eyes fell shut as he wrapped my coat around me too, the enormity of this night chipping away at the cold, little by little.

“You wanted to dance with me? In front of the whole school?”

“I told you. I’m done hiding.” His shy grin came back. “And yeah, I wouldn’t mind dancing with you. I’d suck at it but… I still want to. But we have to warm you up.”

We made it to the parking lot where River reached into James’s sedan that I’d stolen. River shut off the lights, then killed the engine. “We’ll come back for it in the morning.”

“River, what about your dad?”

He straightened, his face grim.

“It’s a matter of a few weeks with Mom. Dad’s going to need me to be there more than he needs me to win football games. He just doesn’t know it yet, but I can see it. Amelia too. There’s no way I can be hundreds of miles from home when…”

He blinked hard and looked away. I didn’t know what to say, how to comfort him. I couldn’t grasp each monumental moment as they led, like stepping-stones, to a future I’d never imagined for myself.

River loves you…

I walked with him to his truck, my own confession locked in my throat. Shame was creeping in, whispering how pathetic I was—driven by old demons to nearly drown myself. Someone who needed to be rescued and watched and taken care of.

“Hey,” River said at his truck, seeing the dark thoughts in my eyes. “Don’t do that. Whatever happens…we just take it one day at a time. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

I nodded and climbed into his cab, my ruined clothes getting sand all over the floor and dampening the seat. River got behind the wheel and put the heater on high. The warm air blasted over me as he pulled back onto the winding, darkened road to get us home.

The heat from the vents slowly made its way through my sodden clothes, and my dunk in the ocean had sobered me. Or maybe it was just River. I glanced at his profile—so fucking beautiful, his eyes on the road, a small smile playing over his lips. He looked as if he’d finally set down a heavy burden he’d been carrying for years.

Maybe this is real. Maybe I can have a different kind of life. With him…

Slowly, hesitantly, I reached over and took his hand, warm and strong, and held on. He turned to me, his smile widening, his fingers twining with mine. I’d never seen anyone look at me like he did in that moment, and the sudden warmth that flooded me had nothing to do with the truck’s heater. It flowed between the broken pieces of me, melting them down so maybe they’d have a chance to come back together.

Love. This is love. I’m in love with him.

I swallowed hard, the words on my lips for the first time in my life. “River, I…” Out of my peripheral, I saw a dark shape in the road ten yards ahead. “Look out!”

River dropped my hand and gripped the wheel. “Oh shit,” he bit out and slammed on the brakes, swerving hard right as the headlights illuminated a deer bounding in front of the truck.

I saw the deer’s eyes, wide and black, and then the truck was spinning, sliding off the side of the road. My world tilted sickly. Turned upside down. The sounds of shattering glass, denting metal and my own blood roared in my ears.

The truck hovered in a frozen moment that lasted forever, then slammed down on its four wheels. The impact reverberated in my skull. In my bones. I saw nothing but black and then the sudden white of an inflating air bag exploding in my face.

Silence. The only sound was the truck settling and the hissing of my breath. I waited for the pain to find me, but shock cocooned me in a bubble, and alcohol had made me limp and loose.

Slowly, I turned my head and another agonized sound—born in my heart—fell out of my mouth.

River sat slumped forward, tethered by his seatbelt. Blood streaked darkly across the white of the deflating airbag. With trembling fingers, I reached up and flipped on the cab light and another strangled sound burbled out of my throat. River’s face was deathly pale, his chin resting on his chest that rose and fell in almost imperceptible breaths.

“River!”

My voice was tattered, torn to shreds with fear, my hands shaking as I fumbled at my seatbelt, then the door handle. The door gave and I tumbled out onto the pine-needle covered ground. My body bent in half and vomit spewed out of me in an acid fountain of vodka and sour bile.

When I could stand, I made my way around the truck, legs buckling every other step. The roof of the car was dented, and River’s side crushed.

We rolled. Holy fuck…

With strangled moans, I made it to the driver’s side door. The window was smashed in; safety glass glittered over River’s black pants like diamonds. By the lone light of the cab, River looked asleep but for the blood staining his shirt. A gash had been torn into the left side of his temple and his breath hitched shallowly. A fresh shockwave of terror bolted through me to see blood trickling from his ear.

“River, no…”

I yanked at the handle, but the metal was warped, the sidemirror gone. Sagging against the door, I reached inside the broken window and took River’s hand in mine. He was limp, unmoving.

“Please…wake up. River, wake up…”

Tears blurred my vision as I fumbled my other hand in my coat pocket for my phone. The screen was cracked but it still worked. With a trembling thumb, I dialed 9-1-1 and put it to my ear. Taking off my coat with my phone in it before I walked into the fucking ocean was the only thing I’d done right the whole night.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“There’s been an accident. It’s bad. Hurry, please.”

“Where are you?”

I fell back against the door, staring around the darkened forest and the ocean beyond, hopeless panic rising as I struggled to remember a road sign…anything.

This is my fault. And he’s going to die…

“I don’t know… On the 1, eastbound.” Then a flash of memory cut across the dark night. “We passed a sign… Wilder Ranch.”

“Okay, stay on the line with me. I’m sending emergency response to your location. Is anyone injured?”

I gripped River’s hand tighter. “Yes. He won’t wake up. Please, hurry… Please.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Barely. I can’t open the door.”

“He’s trapped in the vehicle?”

“Yes…” Tears slipped down my cheeks in burning tracks of heat, and I watched River’s chest rise and fall. I let go of his hand long enough to feel for his pulse. Faint and erratic, but it was there. But the blood coming from his ear…

“Please, fucking hurry…”

“Okay, help is on the way, sir. Stay on the line with me.”

The phone dropped back into my pocket from nerveless fingers. There was nothing she could tell me. River was trapped inside, and I was locked outside and all I could do was hold his hand and beg him not to leave me.

After what felt like hours, sirens broke through the quiet. Firetrucks, police, and an ambulance arrived. The night sky was painted in syrupy blues and reds. White light flooded the cab of the truck, making the trickle of blood coming out of River’s ear look black against his pale skin.

Officers and EMTs surrounded me, and I was forced to let go of his hand. A police officer led me away, shining a flashlight in my face.

“Have you been drinking, son?”

“Me, but not him. There was a deer…”

“Uh huh. Come over here with me.”

He took hold of my upper arm and gently guided me to the side of the road where I sat down hard, hands dangling from my knees. My eyes drifted again and again to the team working to pry the door open and get to River. The cold was surging back in, making me numb.

If he dies…

A small pained sound escaped me, my body wracked with shivers.

“What happened tonight?” the officer asked. He had a kind but serious face. His nametag said Tran.

Another officer with a nametag reading Dowd, loomed over me, a sneer curling his lips. “Why are your clothes wet?”

“I took a swim,” I said, my teeth chattering.

“A swim?” Dowd asked. He snorted. “You trying to kill yourself?”

Officer Tran shot him a look. “Easy.”

I shook my head. “I did what they taught me to do.”

My gaze drifted back to the mangled wreck of the truck and the EMTs who were putting River’s motionless body on a stretcher. His neck was in a brace, an oxygen mask covering his mouth.

“My fault,” I whispered. “It’s all my fault.”

“You hurt anywhere?” Officer Tran asked gently.

“No,” I muttered with a harsh, rasping laugh. “What a joke. A sick fucking joke.”

Aside from minor burns on my cheek from the airbag, there wasn’t a scratch on me. But River was being loaded into an ambulance. Unconscious. Maybe brain damaged. Or paralyzed. He might be dead already while I was breathing and walking and alive.

This is wrong. All wrong. It should be me…

The cops asked me more questions, my name and age, and then the ambulance was pulling away…

“Wait.” I scrambled to my feet. “Wait, I have to go with him. Please…”

Dowd held out an arm and shoved me back down. “You’re not going anywhere.” He grimaced. “You look mighty broken up. That your boyfriend, son?”

I peered up at him. Dowd. “Frankie Dowd.”

“That’s my boy, yeah. You got something you want to say about him?”

Officer Tran joined us with an EMT. He knelt in front of me. “We’re going to take you to the hospital too, okay? But first let’s get you checked out. Then you can be with your friend.”

An EMT sat with me and gave me what I presumed was a concussion test. I passed with flying colors and they shuffled me into the front seat of Tran’s squad car. We tore down the road, the ambulance ahead of us, sirens screaming and red lights flashing.

When we arrived at UCSC Medical Center, River had already been wheeled inside and whisked away to God knew where. Officer Tran took my arm and led me into a waiting area. He and a few other cops conferred, trying to figure out what to do with me.

“Is there someone we can call for you?” he asked.

“No. But River… We have to tell his dad. Oh, Christ…” I bent over, my head between my knees as dizziness assaulted me.

“We have his ID,” Officer Tran said gently. “His parents have been notified.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “What about you, son? How about getting you some warm clothes—?”

I shook out of his touch and stood up. “I need to use the restroom.”

He nodded at the hallway in the bustling hospital.

“I’ll be waiting out here.”

Just arrest me already, I wanted to scream. I might’ve murdered a man tonight.

I crossed to the bathroom and shoved open the door that weighed a thousand pounds. My face under the garish fluorescents was unrecognizable. Pale green eyes in a paler face, marred only by a dash of red on my left cheek bone. I looked like what they called me—a vampire, gaunt and chiseled out of white porcelain. Lifeless.

My clothes were still damp and covered in sand. River’s tux jacket peeked out from under my coat, and a sob tore out of my throat. I hugged myself, as if I could hold onto some piece of him.

When there was nothing left in me, I dabbed my face with a paper towel, tossed it in the trash, and walked out to find Jerry Whitmore talking to Officer Tran.

He looked frantic and just out of bed in sweatpants, shoes without socks, and a windbreaker. They spoke for a few moments and then both turned to me. Officer Tran said something else and Jerry’s expression changed. He approached me, and I closed my eyes, waiting for the punch to the mouth to come out of the dark.

“Holden, right?”

“Mr. Whitmore…” I managed and then fell silent as Jerry took my hand in his and shook it.

“We don’t know what’s happening yet with my son,” he said, his voice gruff. “But they tell me he would’ve died if you hadn’t been there.”

I stared.

“Just tell me,” he said, swallowing hard and jamming his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Was he drinking?”

I shook my head. “He wasn’t. He never would do something like that. Not him…”

Jerry blew out a small, tight sigh of relief. “I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t jeopardize his standing with the university.”

Fuck me, I can’t…

A doctor rounded the corner. Tall and handsome with the same intelligent gravitas as Denzel Washington. “Whitmore family?”

Jerry’s face paled and he raised his hand. “I’m his dad.”

He and the doctor conferred for a moment out of ear shot. I stood immobile, watching their faces for a sign. Any second now, Jerry was going to collapse in the doctor’s arms, wailing for his boy…

But River’s dad nodded eagerly, soaking in every word the doctor said with a desperate, hopeful smile. Then he shook the doctor’s hand, almost frantically, and thanked him again and again.

Relief rocked me, nearly knocking me off my feet. Jerry was motioning for me to join them. Feeling like I was in a dream, I crossed the waiting room, Officers Tran and Dowd following.

“River’s okay,” Jerry said, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“He’s in stable condition,” the doctor corrected gently. His badge read Stansfield. “He’s sustained a severe concussion, resulting in a brain bleed which, so far, appears small and the swelling minimal.”

“Brain bleed,” I murmured.

Holy fuck, River…

“He’s also sustained fractures to his left arm and clavicle. But monitoring his concussion is our first priority.” The doctor turned to me. “I understand you were in the truck with River?”

I nodded. “It flipped. He was trying not to hit a deer, and the truck flipped.”

He wouldn’t have been on the road at all if not for me.

“You’re both very lucky, all things considered.”

I could’ve laughed. Or cried.

Dr. Stansfield touched my shoulder. “Are you all right, son? Has someone checked you out?”

I moved out from under his touch. “I’m fine.”

“Can we see him?” Jerry asked.

“We’re taking River for an MRI to determine the extent of the bleed, any damage and swelling. That will help determine any long-term effects or issues. I’ll take you to the ICU waiting area. When the tests are over, you can see him.”

“Thank you.” Jerry turned to me. “Coming, Holden?”

“Now hold on,” Dowd said. He was even uglier in the light of the hospital; bulky, with flat eyes. “This guy’s been doing some underage drinking. That’s not nothing.”

Tran held up a hand. “Do you have toxicology on River?” he asked Stansfield.

“Negative for narcotics and blood alcohol was 0.0.”

Tran nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin line, thinking. “Seems like you’ve had a pretty rough night,” he said to me. “I’m going to let you off with a warning. Take better care of yourself, okay?”

I nodded and wordlessly followed Jerry and the doctor. I had to see for myself that River was alive. Somewhere behind me, Dowd was arguing with Tran, but the elevator shut, cutting him off.

I hung back while they talked, wondering when Jerry was going to whirl around, grip me by the throat, and demand to know what I’d done to his son.

In the ICU waiting room, Jerry sat on one side and I sat across from him. He called someone named Dazia.

“No news yet. They’re doing an MRI. We’ll know soon. How is Nancy?”

I shut my eyes, hugging myself tight, and dozed.

“Holden?”

I jerked my eyes open. Jerry was smiling at me. “You must be tired. I was just asking how you know River. Not football?” he said, taking in my silver hair and my ruined—but expensive—boots.

“Not football.” I closed my coat to conceal I was wearing River’s tuxedo jacket. “I know him from…Calculus.”

Jerry nodded and then a thought struck him. He frowned. “In all the commotion, I wasn’t thinking but… River went to Prom with Violet. Why was he out on that road and not with her?”

“He was saving my life.”

Jerry sat back in his chair, confusion coloring his expression. “Well…that sounds like my River. He’s probably told you, but his mom is sick. Very sick. She doesn’t have much time, to be honest. And this…” He shook his head, pressed his lips together for a moment. “Losing her is hard enough. But if something happens to River…”

If something happens to River, it’s all my fault.

Mercifully, Jerry stopped trying to talk to me and flipped through magazines. Hours that felt like years passed, and finally Dr. Stanfield returned.

“Good news,” he said. “The MRI shows that River’s brain bleed is contained. The swelling is minimal. We have to continue to monitor his situation but for now, it would appear that he doesn’t require surgery.”

I clutched the edge of the seat, tears of relief and remorse stinging my eyes. I’m sorry, River. So sorry…

Jerry’s face crumpled and he put a hand to his chest. “Oh my God…oh thank God. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“We haven’t ruled out every danger to come. Certainly headaches, dizziness, perhaps numbness or impairment on one side.”

Jerry’s eyes widened. “He’s a football player. A quarterback. One of the best. He’s going to the University of Alabama this fall…”

Dr. Stansfield held up a hand. “It’s too soon to know the extent of his injuries, but the MRI has me optimistic.”

“I want to see my son.”

The doctor nodded. “We prefer family only, but if it’s okay with you, Mr. Whitmore, you both can visit for a few minutes.”

Jerry patted my arm. “It’s okay with me.”

Inside the ICU, Stansfield led us into a horseshoe-shaped ward. Nurses’ stations were set up in the center while rooms ringed the perimeter. We stepped inside Room 3. River was lying motionless on a bed. Machines that monitored his pulse and oxygen levels beeped on the walls. IVs trailed out of his right arm; his left was wrapped from hand to elbow and held in a sling. The gash on his brow had been sewn up and covered with white gauze, and a nasal cannula fed oxygen to his nose.

Jerry sucked in a small breath, and Dr. Stansfield smiled gently.

“I’ll give you a few minutes.”

He left and Jerry approached his son slowly, carefully, as if he were afraid of moving or speaking too loudly. I staggered backward until my legs hit a bench built into a window. I sat down hard, while dawn’s first rays lightened the sky behind me.

“Hey, River. How you doing, son?” He took River’s slack right hand in his. “You’re going to be okay. I know it. You’re so strong…” He lowered his head to River’s hand and sobbed. “Oh, my boy…”

My stomach heaved; I would’ve thrown up had there been anything left.

Jerry sat with River for a few minutes, then pulled himself together. He wiped his eyes and turned to me. “I have to call a family friend who’s staying with us. I need to let her know that he’s going to be okay. His mom will be so worried. Will you stay with him while I step out? So he’s not alone?”

I nodded and my heart broke into smaller pieces as the man smiled at me. And that brave, kind smile was the same as River’s.

Jerry patted his son’s hand and got up. At the doorway, he pressed his cell to his ear.

The beeping of machines filled the room. I peeled myself off the bench and moved to River’s side. His pale face was unmoving, his features more still than in sleep. I would know. I’d seen him sleep a hundred times. His face on my pillow…

“You have to survive this, River,” I whispered, wanting to take his hand but not letting myself. I didn’t deserve to touch him. “You have to pull through and live a full, real life. You can’t let me do this to you, do you hear me?”

At the door, Jerry had wrapped up his call and was conferring with the doctors again. The mood was lighter; smiles came easier. The worst danger was over.

Time to go.

I stood up and leaned into River. Beneath the smells of the hospital, of antiseptic and gauze, was him. Warm and clean. “River… I—”

Jerry returned and I jumped back from the bed as if he’d shocked me.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Oh, okay. Well, thank you again—”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. If he thanked me one more time, I was going to scream. “I’m so sorry. Tell him…when he wakes up, tell him I’m sorry.”

I backed away from Jerry’s confused expression, maneuvering toward the door, through the waiting room, out of the hospital and into the early morning light that was gray and flat.

My phone chimed a text from Miller. Let’s roll.

He was back from Los Angeles and needed Ronan and me to kick his mom’s abusive boyfriend out of their apartment. The night was over. Done. I had to push it all down and be there for my friend. I could help him. Be of use. Do this one last thing, and then I could do what I should’ve done sooner.

Disappear.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I gasped, air filling my lungs on a harsh inhale. My eyes flew open and saw a field of white, and then Dad was there, his face floating over me. His hand gave me a squeeze, the sensation bringing me into the room. A hospital. My left arm was heavy and immobile. My head ached.

“What happened?”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Dad said. “There was an accident, but you’re okay. The doctors say you’re going to be just fine.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You have a pretty bad concussion and a broken arm. But good news! It’s not your throwing arm. And you don’t need surgery. They’re running a few more tests. If those look good—which they will—you’ll be out of here in a few days.”

I sank deeper against the pillows, my thoughts slipping out of my grasp. My stomach twisted as if I’d forgotten something earth-shattering.

I bolted up and winced as pain battered my head. “How’s Mom? Is she…?”

“Easy, son. She’s okay. Worried about you, of course. She wants to be here so badly. Would’ve driven herself if Dazia hadn’t talked her out of it. You can FaceTime later today.”

“No, I have to get out of here. Something’s not right. I shouldn’t be away from her.”

“Just a few days—”

“She only has days, Dad,” I said, but it wasn’t only my mom. There was something else… “Tell me about the accident. What happened?”

Concern furrowed Dad’s brow. “They said some temporary memory loss for around the time of the accident was typical. What’s the last thing you remember?”

I closed my eyes. Headlights racing down a street. An ocean at night. Holden striding toward the sea…

“Holden!” My eyes flew open, panic ripping through me. A machine on the wall began to beep faster. “Where is he? Where’s Holden?”

“Easy, easy,” Dad said. “He’s fine, son. He’s okay.”

I sank back, my body going slack with relief and heavy exhaustion. “He’s okay? Where is he? What happened?”

“You two were on Highway 1. Holden said you swerved to avoid a deer. The truck went down a small ravine and rolled. You’re so lucky—”

“And he’s okay? You’re sure?”

“Not a scratch.” Dad shifted on his chair. “River…you were supposed to be at Prom with Violet. Who is Holden?”

Before I could answer, a tall doctor, around fifty years old with the name Stansfield on his badge, entered. He smiled kindly.

“Ah, he’s awake. Good to see it. How’re you doing, River?”

“Tired. Head hurts.”

Dr. Stansfield pulled a chair to my bedside. “That’s to be expected. You’ve had a pretty rough knock to the temple.”

He took out a pen light and checked my eyes, then asked a few questions about my pain levels and what I remembered from the accident, which wasn’t much.

Dr. Stansfield nodded. “I have some news.”

Dad’s face went pale. “What is it?”

“We have a few more test results in. My initial assessment stands—you have a small brain bleed, River, that doesn’t require surgery. Our neurology team has agreed that it will resolve on its own.”

Dad clutched his chest with a laugh. “That’s great. Jeez, you scared me there, doc…”

Dr. Stansfield pursed his lips.

“What?”

“I called what happened to River a ‘rough knock’ to the head, but that’s a gentler way of saying Traumatic Brain Injury. I understand you play football?”

“Yeah, but—”

“He’s going to University of Alabama and then the NFL,” Dad said. “He’s a once-in-a-lifetime talent.”

“I’m afraid this accident makes that precarious,” Dr. Stansfield said. “Football is a concussive sport. For River to have suffered this level of TBI sets the stage for further detrimental effects should he continue to play. Most specifically Second Impact Syndrome.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“SIS is acute brain swelling that occurs when a second concussion is sustained before there’s been a complete recovery from a previous concussion. A repeat injury can cause increased intracranial pressure, which may be difficult or impossible to control. It is, in some instances, fatal.” Dr. Stansfield folded his hands. “I understand you’re meant to start spring training in a month or so?”

I nodded while Dad’s eyes widened.

“Now, hold on. What are you saying?”

“I’m trying to give you a complete picture of your son’s TBI and its possible risks. Even if this concussion resolves, further blows to the head—as are common in sports like football—can lead to long-term problems. If you follow football, you may have heard recent studies of players developing chronic traumatic encephalopathy.”

“I know what CTE is,” Dad said. “But that’s from repeated injuries to the head. A lifetime’s worth…”

“I’m speaking of your son’s overall brain health, Mr. Whitmore. It has been compromised. My professional recommendation would be that River not play anymore football.”

I would’ve laughed if Dad hadn’t been so heartbroken.

“You don’t understand, doctor. He’s not any ordinary player. River has a gift. He’s going to—”

“Dad.” I shook my head at him. “Can you give us a minute alone, Dr. Stansfield?”

“Of course.” He got to his feet. “I’ll be back to check in on you again in a few hours.”

He left and Dad glowered after him, then put on a bright smile for me. “Doctors have to say stuff like that. They give you the worst-case scenario so you don’t sue them—”

“I’m done playing football.”

A weight lifted off me as if an elephant had been sitting on my chest and finally got up and lumbered away.

“Now, hold on. Don’t let him scare you. We can get a second opinion. There’s hope.”

“No, there isn’t,” I said gently. “Because accident or no accident, I’m quitting football. This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you but…” I shook my head. “I should’ve told you years ago.”

“Years ago? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to go to Alabama. I don’t want to try for the NFL. I don’t want to play football.”

Dad rubbed his lips with his hand, a thousand thoughts behind his eyes. “This is nuts. Is this the head injury?” He laughed weakly. “Should we call the nurse in here? Hey, nurse…?”

Tears stung to watch his hope die right before my eyes. “Dad. It’s real. I’m so sorry. I know you wanted this so bad for me, but I don’t want it for me.”

He looked almost as dazed as if he’d been the one hit on the head. “Well…Christ, River. What do you want?”

I sucked in a deep breath, my heart pounding, but I was more exhilarated than scared.

“Holden.”

Dad blinked. “What about him?”

“I love him.”

“I’m sure you do. He’s a great friend to you. I’m glad he was there—”

“No, Dad. I love him. I’m in love with him.”

My father’s face went blank. “I…I don’t understand.”

“It’s so easy and yet I’ve been making it so complicated my whole life. Boxing up how I felt and shoving it away. But I can’t do it anymore. I want to stay in Santa Cruz. I want to work in our shop, Dad, and expand it. It’s ready for that. I want to be here for you and Amelia. And Mom. Every hour she has left.” I swallowed hard. “And I want to be with Holden.”

Dad stared as if seeing me for the first time. Which I supposed was true. The first day of the life I was always meant to live.

My father stood up and paced the bedside, rubbing his lips with his hand. “I just…I don’t… You’re gay? Is that what you’re telling me? How is that possible?”

“You think it’s impossible? You think a jock can’t be gay?” I shook my head. “No one should be labeled and shoved in a box, Dad. And I can’t do it to myself. So yes, that’s what I’m telling you,” I said, feeling a hundred feet tall, even lying in a hospital bed. “I’m gay.”

A stunned silence fell, and I’d never felt so close to Holden than in that moment. He’d braved this experience with his own parents and had nearly died for it. I would’ve given anything for him to be here, holding my hand, helping me through these tense seconds in which I waited to hear if my father was still my father.

“Are you…okay?” I said, tears burning behind my eyes. “I really would love to hear that you’re okay with it, Dad. Because nothing’s changed. I’m still me.”

“I don’t know how I feel,” Dad said. “Except…I love you. I know that. I hate seeing you in here. I was scared to death. I thought I’d lose you. Can we start there?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “We can start there.”

My father put his arms around me and then a sob that had been locked inside me for years burst free. The guilt and shame pouring out, breaking down the walls of my plastic life and letting the air in.

I clung to him, burying my face in his chest, my tears rolling over the nylon of his jacket. “I’m sorry I can’t give you that life. I wanted to. So badly.”

Dad stroked my hair. “Oh, River, my boy. You’re still here. There’s nothing more important than that.”

I was released from the hospital a few days later with my broken wrist in a cast and a sling to support my fractured clavicle. They gave me a prescription for pain meds and warned me that I could have headaches, dizziness, insomnia, and a host of other residual symptoms from the concussion.

I spent three days with Mom instead of school, making up for the time I was away from her. Because it was even more clear when I came back, that days were all she had left.

I sat with her, and when she slept—which was often—I called or texted Holden. No answer. Every day that went by without hearing from him scared me more. I knew him. I knew he blamed himself for my accident. Dad had told me how pale and terrified he’d been that night.

Don’t do this, I texted him. I’m okay. Please talk to me.

I wondered if he was drinking himself into oblivion.

I wondered if he’d already disappeared

With only one week of school left, Mom insisted I go back and enjoy the “last days of school” energy and spend time with my friends before college pulled everyone apart.

I agreed to one day and walked in to find the entire school whispering about me and Holden.

They’d watched me chase after him on Prom night, and then Frankie Dowd’s dad had been called to the scene of the accident. He’d given Frankie all the details, making sure to note how “distraught” Holden had been over me.

“Crying and puking, he was so scared,” Frankie said, snickering with some friends as I passed by that day at school. “Tsk tsk.” He shook his head at me. “You’re so mean to make your boyfriend worry like that, Whitmore.”

“Shut up, Frankie!” Violet McNamara shouted as she fell in step beside me, linking her arm in mine. “He’s an asshole. Ignore him.”

Violet had been the only person to visit me while I was in the hospital, despite her own pending heartbreak. Miller Stratton’s record deal was moving fast, and they wanted him in the studio recording. Their separation was days away too.

She looked up at me with her dark blue eyes. “How are you?”

“Since the last time you asked?” I said, smiling fondly.

“I’m going to be a doctor. I need to get my practice in.”

“I’m good. Any word on Holden?”

“Since the last time you asked?” she countered gently. “He hasn’t been at school, and he hasn’t been hanging with Miller or Ronan at the Shack. Not since the day after the accident.”

“The Shack?”

“It’s this beach hangout the guys found. We—Shiloh and I—sometimes hang out with them there.”

Holden never told me about it. Never took me, to protect my privacy.

We passed another cluster of whispering students who were doing a very bad job of hiding that they were talking about me.

“Ignore them too,” Violet said. “Though it’s not every day the big, hunky quarterback of the football team comes out as gay. Half the school is in shock; the other half thinks you’re even sexier than you were before.”

“No…”

“I only speak the truth.”

Harris Reed from Calculus class approached, his violin case banging at his thigh. “Hey, Violet. Hey, River.”

“Told you,” Violet murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

I grinned. “Hey, Harris. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to let you know that I heard about your accident. I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

His eyes went to my arm in its sling. “No more football?”

“Nope, but for different reasons.” I smiled. “It’s a long story but I’m good. Really good.”

And that was the truth. The rumors and curious glances bounced right off me. Including those of Chance and Donte and the guys. It stung a little that they pretended I didn’t exist, but if my coming out dissolved our friendship, then they weren’t important.

We chatted with Harris for a bit and then I noticed Ronan Wentz leaning against a wall where he and the other Lost Boys hung out. He was alone that day and strode toward us when he saw me.

“Uh oh,” I said to Violet, nodding my chin. “Think he’s coming to kick my ass?”

“He’s a big teddy bear once you get to know him.” Then her smile tilted. “Although, I wouldn’t rule it out…”

I snorted a laugh, taking in the tattoos inked up Ronan’s arms.

“Hey,” Ronan said with a nod at Violet. “I need to talk to Whitmore. Alone.”

“Sure.” Violet kissed my cheek. “See you soon, River. And tell your mom I’m thinking of her. Always.”

“I will,” I said gruffly, then turned to Ronan. “What’s happening?”

“It’s Holden.”

“I figured. What about him? Is he okay?”

“He’s a mess. He’d already be in Paris or fucking who-knows-where except he’s waiting on some cash. Then he’s gone.”

“Just like that? No saying goodbye?” I clenched my jaw to keep from showing how much it hurt.

“He told me he said goodbye to you at the hospital.”

“That doesn’t fucking count.”

Ronan leaned in closer. “Look. I know him. He needs…help. Or I don’t know what. He needs you.”

I swallowed hard. “I need him too. Just as much.”

“Show him.”

“How? He won’t talk to me. He won’t answer my calls and my mom is sick. I can’t be camping out on Holden’s goddamn porch for hours…” I ran my hand through my hair, my voice grating with frustration. “I want to do whatever he needs but…fuck. My life’s about to have a bomb dropped on it.”

Ronan rubbed his stubbled cheek, thinking. “There’s a parking lot near the Cliffs. Not much to it. A utility shed at the west end. Go there today. Four o’clock and keep out of sight.”

“Dude, I don’t have time for some cloak and dagger bullshit—”

“Do you want to see him or not?” Ronan demanded. “Be there. I’ll handle the rest.”

The hours crawled toward the last bell. There were six more days of school, but I was done. No chance I was going to spend my time in classes that didn’t matter anymore instead of with Mom.

Her parents had died when she was little, but family was trickling in from out of town—aunts and uncles and cousins. They came in and out of the house—grocery shopping, doing the cooking and cleaning, or just sitting and visiting.

When I arrived home that day, only Amelia and Dad were with Mom while Dazia hovered over everyone. The master bedroom had become the center of the house, all things drawn to it—my books, Amelia’s dolls, Dad’s newspapers he still insisted on reading. Mom was the sun with the rest of us revolving around her as long as we could before she burned out.

Her nightstand table was littered with meds and tissues. A humidifier churned quietly in the corner and her oxygen tank sat by her bed, feeding a nasal cannula. Her doctor said she could stay at home so long as she was comfortable. Hospice nurses came in shifts—that was new since I’d been in the hospital.

But Mom looked better that day. A little stronger. Talking and laughing more easily. And I knew there was no other time. No other day than this one.

“I have to step out for a bit,” I said, bending to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

Since my truck was still in the shop from its roll down a hill, I drove my Dad’s old pick-up to the parking lot Ronan had told me about. I parked behind the utility shed and waited.

Right on time, James’s black sedan arrived, and Holden stepped out. My chest ached to see him. It had only been days and yet it felt like years since that night on the beach when I held him and kissed him and told him the truth. That he owned me, body and soul.

He looked like hell—messy hair and shadowed eyes—and yet completely perfect at the same time, wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a long gray tweed coat.

“Wait here, would you?” I heard him say to James. “I won’t be long.”

“Of course, sir.”

As Holden started for a small path that led down to the beach, I stepped from around the shed.

“Hey.”

He stopped short. “Ronan, you fucker,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes searched me, jumping from injury to injury—the bandage on my temple, my left arm in a sling, my wrist in a cast. Pain washed over his features. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m good, actually.”

“Your head?”

“They say I shouldn’t play football anymore. But it doesn’t matter. I meant what I said that night at the beach. I told my dad. I told him everything.”

“You told him about me?”

“I sure as hell did.”

“How’d he take it?” Holden forced a smile. “He didn’t book you a ticket to Alaska, did he?”

“No,” I said gruffly. “But I wish you’d been there. I wanted you by my side when I told him that I loved you.”

Holden winced and shook his head. “Christ, don’t say that, River.”

“Why? Because there was an accident? I know you think it was your fault—”

“Wasn’t it? You wouldn’t have been on that road if it hadn’t been for me.”

“I wouldn’t have a lot of what I have now if it weren’t for you. But I know you don’t believe me, and I don’t have time to stand here arguing with you about it. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Just come.”

“River—”

I moved close to him, as close as I dared. “Do this for me. I know you want to take off and…disappear. Don’t. Not yet.”

Holden held my gaze, longing burning deep in his green eyes. “Okay.”

We drove back to my house, Holden following behind in the sedan. I waited for him in the driveway as he walked up slowly, glancing around.

“What are we doing?” he asked as I led him into my house.

I took his hand in mine. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

He stopped, pulled back. “River, no…”

“Please,” I said, tears blurring my vision. “Please.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw and he nodded.

We took the stairs up to the master bedroom. Holden gripped my hand tightly as I opened the door. Dazia was there with Mom. They both looked up as we came in, their eyes widening.

“Hey, Daz,” I said. “Where are Dad and Amelia?”

“Getting pizza for dinner. They needed a drive. Aaaand I just remembered I have to make a call.”

She smiled gently and went out. The two people I loved most in the world were finally in the same room.

“Hey, Mom, this is Holden Parish.”

She smiled, something like recognition lighting her eyes though she’d never seen him before. Her gaze went to our clasped hands, then back to us, and her smile widened.

“Hello, Holden. It is so very lovely to meet you. At long last.”

“You too, Mrs. Whitmore,” Holden said gruffly.

“Nancy, please.”

“Holden is my boyfriend,” I said. “We’ve been seeing each other since…well…?”

“Homecoming?” Mom asked with a sly smile. She appraised the two of us and shook her head. “Gee, River,” she teased. “You couldn’t find someone the least bit handsome? Not even a little?”

Holden dropped his head, a laugh or a cry hitching in his throat.

I swallowed and held Holden’s hand tighter in mine. “You once asked me about my heart, Mom. How you wanted it to be beating and alive and full. Now it is. With him. And no matter what happens, I’ve been happy.” I looked to Holden. “I have.”

Holden shook his head at me, his eyes full.

The room was thick with love and pain, grief and hope.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Mom said gently.

I nudged him. “She’s talking to you.”

He blinked, surprised, and I hated how long he’d gone without knowing the love of a mother that he couldn’t recognize it when he heard it.

She’ll love him too. Always.

Holden approached my mother and she took his hand that had been in mine.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I haven’t done anything…” His voice was thick.

“You make my son happy. That’s a gift. The greatest gift I’ll ever receive.”

Holden shook his head, shoulders trembling.

“Oh, honey.”

Mom extended her thin arms to him, and to my shock, Holden bent and put his around her. She held him, and I saw her eyes close against his shoulder.

After a few moments, he stood up stiffly. “My apologies. I usually have more personality than this.” He wiped his eyes and smoothed his coat. “It was extraordinary to meet you, Nancy, but if you’ll excuse me…”

He strode out, shooting me a tear-filled look as he passed.

“He’s beautiful,” Mom said.

“He’s a handful,” I said. “But I love him. I wish I’d told you sooner.”

“You told me. That’s all that matters.” She held her arms to me and I hugged her carefully, inhaling her, begging my cells to remember what this felt like. “I love you, River.”

“Love you, Mom.” Tears choked my throat and burned my eyes.

She took me by the shoulders, mindful of my injury. “Go. He’s waiting for you.”

“He might not stay. I’m losing both of you.”

“You aren’t losing me, honey. Please don’t forget that.” Then she smiled, so beautiful in her happiness. “And he’s not gone yet. There’s always hope.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

I paced the hallway outside the Whitmore’s bedroom until River came out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

I whirled on him. “Why did you do that?”

“You know why.”

I stared, the Alaskan cold chewing up and spitting out the warmth I’d had from being in Nancy Whitmore’s presence for only a few minutes.

“Jesus, River, you bring me into that room? With your mom? It’s…”

“Sacred?” he shot back. “Yeah, it is. That’s the point. I shared some of her last moments with you because I love you, you moron. Don’t you get it?”

I love you, too. I love you so much…

I wanted to scream it so loud that the whispering voices were drowned in it. But they were louder and their breath so damn cold.

You can’t have him. You’ll ruin him like you do everything else. You almost did already…

“If I hadn’t shown up at the dance, you wouldn’t have followed me,” I said, choking back tears. “I nearly killed you.”

“I was already killing myself. Suffocating. I chased you down because you’re it for me. You’re what I want. I’d do it a thousand times over again if I had to. And I brought you here because…” Tears filled his eyes. “I needed my mom to know that I knew what love was. That I’d felt it too.”

I shook my head. “I ruin everything I touch. You can’t love me—”

“I can and I do.” River’s jaw clenched. “Please don’t go.”

He didn’t know what he was saying. He was flying high after coming out to his dad and thinking he could conquer the world, my demons included. But in a very short time, his family was going to suffer unspeakable loss. He couldn’t hold them together and clean up the mess that was me too.

River read my face and his heart broke. His stupid, misguided heart that I’d tricked into loving me cracked in front of my eyes.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…

“Selfish,” River ground out, his face a grimace.

“No,” I said, my voice trembling. “It’s the least selfish thing I can do. You just can’t see it yet. But you would. Staying is selfish.”

He started to speak but the front door opened, and his father and sister stepped into the entry below, carrying boxes of pizza and drinks. They stopped when they saw us, Amelia surprised but smiling while Mr. Whitmore’s brow furrowed as if he hadn’t yet worked out his feelings about his son’s revelation.

I turned to River.

He shook his head. “Stay…”

I could stay. They’d let me sit at their table and share their pizza dinner and I’d be part of a real family for the first time in my life. I could sit with Nancy a few minutes more and soak up her motherly love until her light went out. I could be there for River through the worst pain. But then what? The vision of him slouched in the banged-up cab of his truck with blood trickling from his ear was a warning that Alaska wasn’t done with me. It never would be.

I smiled tremulously. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Holden—”

He reached out to grab me; I felt his fingers snag my coat—so close—but I evaded his grasp and took the stairs down, past his family staring after me and out of the house, into the sallow twilight.

James was waiting for me at the car, leaning against the door, smoking.

“Get in,” I said and tore open the back door. I hurled myself inside, hiding like the coward I was. “Drive.”

James knew when to not ask questions.

He drove us through the quiet streets, the rows of perfect houses. Homes with green lawns and fences and families inside getting ready to sit down to their dinners.

Just a few more days, I told myself, hunched in my coat, shivering like a lunatic. I’ll have my money and can disappear…

But how long would that take? A few days was too long.

“No, wait,” I barked at James. “Not home. Take me to Central High.”

“Yes, sir.”

James swung a hard U-turn and took us to the school where I ordered him to park in the faculty lot.

“Wait here.”

It was early evening; the campus quiet, but the Admin building was bustling with teachers and counselors finalizing graduation requirements and paperwork.

I stormed to the Records Office and threw open the door. “I need my diploma. Now.”

Ms. Reed, the records secretary, peered at me through half-moon glasses. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want my diploma. Or whatever record that proves I’ve graduated.” I smiled showing all my teeth. “Please.”

“Name?”

“Holden Parish.”

“Well, Mr. Parish, I hate to disappoint you, but we mail those out the week after the ceremony—”

“I’m not walking in the ceremony. I’m leaving town.”

“We will mail them to you. That is standard.”

I clenched my teeth. “I won’t have an address. I’ll be…backpacking across Europe.”

I heard that was something normal people did. And I wasn’t lying about being in Europe, so I had that going for me.

Ms. Reed arched a dubious brow. “I can’t release these records to you, but if you’re going to be at a different address than what we currently have on file, give it to me and I will make sure it’s sent there as fast as possible.”

“Fine.” I fished in my coat pocket for my wallet. I pulled out the card of my family’s lawyer, Albert Bernard, and wrote my name on the back. “This is who you send it to. His office in Paris.”

Ms. Reed took the card and peered at it.

“You got that? Albert Bernard. Paris.”

“I can read, dear,” Ms. Reed said, then smiled thinly. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

“Thank you. You’ve been a huge help,” I muttered bitterly and stormed out.

I was nearly free when Ms. Watkins’s voice sounded from behind me.

“Holden? Holden wait—”

I walked faster but the woman was persistent; her heels clopped on the sidewalk as I strode back to the parking lot.

“Holden, please…”

I ground out a curse and whirled around. “What is it? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“I never heard back from you about the MFA program at the university.”

“Something else has come up.”

“You mean you’re running away.” She cocked her head, concern painted all over her face. “Are you really going to leave the country? By yourself?”

“Safer for all involved.”

Ms. Watkins’s face was irritatingly sweet in its concern. “I disagree. I’m worried about you. I don’t think it’s healthy. You need stability. Community—”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me. It’s been tried. It failed. You’re a teacher. A great teacher, Ms. W.” I walked backward toward the car. “The best I’ve ever had.”

“Holden, wait—”

“But let’s not make our relationship more than what it is,” I said with a cold sneer, because she was still trying, goddamn it. “That’s all you are to me. A high school English teacher.”

She stopped short, the hurt coming over her face like a slap.

“Bye, Ms. Watkins.”

I climbed in the car and shut the door. The self-loathing burrowed a little deeper as we drove away, leaving her standing on the curb.

So what? Let her be the savior for someone worth saving.

James took me home and I dove headfirst into my stash of vodka and didn’t come up for three days. The money still wasn’t there, but River was. Just down the street. I could walk down the hill anytime I wanted, bang on the door, fall at his feet and beg him to forgive me.

Then the accident would screech into my thoughts with screaming tires and shattering glass. His blood, black on the white airbag…

How would I love you sound coming out of my mouth then? Tainted. Bloodstained.

“It’s too late,” I muttered. “The damage has been done.”

And it was irreversible.

Late one night, the vodka told me it would be a good idea to stumble out of my house and wander the darkened, quiet neighborhood. I obeyed and nearly crashed into a “For Sale” sign in front of a huge house a few doors down from Mags and Reg. A peek in the window showed that it was vacant, waiting for a family to move in.

I went around back and found an unlocked window. I climbed in with no small amount of noise and roamed the empty house while an imaginary real estate agent took me from room to room.

And here is the pool where you’ll be able to swim without fear.

And here is the garage where he’ll tinker with old junkers, happy and safe.

And here is the kitchen where he’ll cook or you’ll call for takeout.

And here is the dining room where you’ll sit and eat together and talk about your day.

And here is your office where you’ll write.

And here is your bedroom where you’ll spend your nights, tangled and sweaty, his arms around you to keep the cold away.

A strangled laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob erupted out of me.

“It’s perfect,” I whispered to the empty house. “I’ll take it.”

A week later, it was time to say goodbye to Miller.

We met him at the Shack—Violet, Shiloh, Ronan, and myself—under a cold gray sky, no one saying much but all of them shouting volumes at me with their eyes. Pity, mostly, I thought as I sipped from my flask that had become glued to my hand. Pity that I’d never been able to bring River to the bonfires and sit in front of the flames with his arms around me the way they all did.

The way they did that day.

Violet cuddled against Miller. Shiloh sat with her back to Ronan, his tatted arms draped around her protectively. I sat alone, nursing my vodka.

It’s a catch-22, I thought, watching Miller absently kiss Violet on the top of her head.

I want River here with me, but he can’t be here because of me.

I was the problem inherent in the solution and always would be.

Finally, the sun sank, and Miller had to catch a plane to Los Angeles.

Shiloh hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Be safe. Do good.”

I staggered to my feet and hugged him tighter and longer than I should have. When I let go, I wagged a finger in his face.

“If you ever need anything and I hear that you didn’t ask me first, I will personally hunt you down and kill you.”

Miller smiled a little. “I don’t need anything but for you to take care of yourself, okay?”

“Me?” I snorted. “I’m a paragon of good life choices.”

“My ass.” He frowned as if a sudden thought came over him and threw his arms around me again. “I mean it. Take care.”

“Careful, Stratton, or I’ll have to assume you’re in love with me.”

Because I’m in love with you and Ronan and He Who Shall Not Be Named…

Violet and Miller left, and I sat back down heavily in my seat in front of the dying fire.

Ronan and Shiloh were talking privately—but I felt their eyes on me—then he left her to stand in front of me, feet planted, arms crossed.

“Do you practice glowering in front of a mirror? Because…” I made a circle with my thumb and forefinger and clucked my tongue. “Nailed it.”

“What’s the plan, Parish?”

“To finish this drink, watch the sunset, and then go home.”

“And after that?”

“Gay Paree, my friend.” I tilted my flask. “I intend to make sure it lives up to its name.”

“When?

“As soon as my payout comes in. Any day now.”

Ronan drew his hand down his lips and squatted on his heels. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

I put my hand to my chest, affronted. “Moi?”

“I’m fucking serious,” Ronan said, his voice low and dangerous. But not to me. He’d destroy anyone who hurt me, God love him. But big, tough Ronan was helpless against my demons too.

I patted his hand. “I’m going to be okay. I promise. I’ll be free.”

“And River?”

“He’ll be fine too. Trust me.”

Ronan studied me with flat gray eyes, then sighed and got to his feet. “I’ll see you before you go?”

No chance. I could only say goodbye to him now if I pretended it wasn’t goodbye.

“Absolutely.”

Ronan nodded and joined Shiloh. She smiled gently and waved. I held up my flask and watched my best friend disappear around the huge boulder that gave the Shack its protection from the outside world.

I sat for a long while after. The sun was a burning sliver sinking into the deep when my phone rang, jarring the perfect quiet. I fished it out of my pocket to read an international number.

“Hello?”

“Holden Parish?” asked a thick French accent. “This is Monsieur Bernard.”

“Bernie. How’ve you been, old chap? I hope you’re calling with good news.”

“Indeed.” He sniffed. “I have received proof of your graduation from Central High School in Santa Cruz and informed your parents. Mr. and Mrs. Parish have, as per the agreement, released your inheritance to you.”

“And?”

“And…?”

Did they ask about me? Do they send their regards? Are they proud…?

“What else?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Bernard said. “I can give you the details of your investments, assets, and holdings, but I prefer not to do so over the phone—”

“I meant, is that it? You spoke with them and told them I graduated.”

“Well…yes. As per—”

“The agreement.” The one in which I specifically requested they never talk to me again. I should’ve been glad they stuck to it, but as my parents, they weren’t supposed to.

“How much?” I asked, blinking hard.

Monsieur Bernard cleared his throat delicately. “You want the number—?”

“Yes, I want the cold, hard number. What’s the payoff?”

He lowered his voice. “When all assets are totaled—liquid and otherwise—the amount is in the vicinity of $750 million.”

A huge number. It would take half a lifetime to count that high, and yet I’d have traded every penny to have my parents be parents instead.

“It’s a little on the low side, but I suppose I can work with it.”

“Mr. Parish, I recommend we meet in my Paris office as soon as is convenient to go over the details and walk you through the—”

“I’m on my way.”

I hung up and watched the last of the sun sink beneath the ocean, spraying gold and amber over the water. Up the coast, the rocks slid into the sea, and then their grays and browns gave way to the green of the forest.

“A guy could get used to a view like that,” I said, the wind whipping away my words.

But it was time to go.

I hauled my ass off the chair and stepped into the Shack one last time. It was dark, the small space full of shadows. And memories. The best memories. I set my flask on the long wooden fisherman’s table and left, shutting the thin door behind me.

I was almost to the parking lot when my phone chimed a text from River.

She’s gone.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mom had spiked a fever and went into the hospital at four in the morning. She slipped into a coma a few hours later, rapid organ failure followed, and by four p.m. she was gone.

The staff in the oncology department recognized us; we’d been frequent visitors for a year, and they did the math. Four of us went to the hospital that morning. Three came out. The front desk staff didn’t ask questions. They smiled gently as we filed by, silent and stupefied by shock and grief.

“I thought I was ready,” Amelia said dully from the backseat of the car. “She’s been sick forever. I…I thought I was ready.”

From the passenger seat, I craned my head around to look at her. She stared out the window, passing streetlights reflected in the glass. She wasn’t crying. Neither was I. Or Dad. He drove like a robot, eyes on the road, saying nothing.

Shock isn’t always a sudden impact, knocking the sense out of you like a blow to the head. This shock felt like I’d been stuffed full of cotton, my skin dry and tight. No blood moving through my veins, my eyes staring at everything and seeing nothing. On the radio, the DJ was hawking concert tickets. It sounded like a transmission from an alien planet; something that had no bearing on my life.

I moved through the days after Mom passed in that same stuffed-cotton shock. Plans were made, phone calls were placed. More of our small family trickled in, familiar faces belonging to strangers. They talked to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I just nodded, knowing this step outside of reality wouldn’t last. The shock would wear off and I’d have to handle it. Take care of my dad and sister.

I kept turning corners in the house, expecting to see Mom, but she was never there.

The funeral happened under a gray sky. Mourners in black gathered around a casket bearing a huge spray of daisies and sunflowers; Mom loved white and yellow. Except for Violet McNamara, none of my friends had shown up.

Holden hadn’t shown up.

While the priest droned about life eternal, my gaze aimlessly wandered among the headstones, expecting to see Holden lurking. The vampire. I’d given him my heart and he’d sucked it dry and left the husk.

Violet gave my hand a squeeze, bringing me back to the present. The service was over. Everyone rose, and Dad, Amelia, and I tossed flowers into the hole in the ground. Dad sobbed behind his hand while one of his brothers, Uncle Greg wrapped an arm around him. Amelia stared vacantly—still cocooned in shock. Good. Maybe it would stick around, and she’d get through these first days without feeling the enormity of it.

At the reception at our house, Uncle Tony handed me a beer and I drank it. Then another. Figures in black drifted from room to room, talking in low voices and eating the food Dazia had arranged to have brought in. I think the earth would have stopped rotating if she hadn’t been there to keep it spinning.

Hours oozed past and finally, the guests started to depart. Family headed back to their hotels. Violet sat beside me in a corner of the living room.

“I want more than anything to stay with you as long as you need me, but I have a plane to catch.”

“I know you do.” I smiled weakly. “You’ve postponed your trip long enough.”

Violet was heading to Baylor, Texas to begin her med school career. She was supposed to have left days ago but stayed for Mom. And for me.

Unlike some fuckers I could name…

I wasn’t drunk but getting there. I took another pull from my beer.

“You look like you could use some sleep. Your dad’s fine,” she said when I started to protest. “He’s with your uncles and Dazia took Amelia to bed a long time ago.”

The house was nearly empty. When everyone left for good, that emptiness was going to swallow us whole.

I got to my feet a little unsteadily and walked Violet to the front door.

“Thank you for being here. Through all of it. You took…” My throat tried to close. I swallowed the tears down. “You took really good care of her. She loved you.”

“I loved her too,” Violet said, tears shining in her deep blue eyes. “I think everyone who knew her did. She was extremely loveable. And so are you.”

Not loveable enough. Not enough to make him stay.

“I mean it,” Violet said, reading my doubt. “You and I started out on a weird path, but I’m so glad we got a friendship out of it, River. Let’s stay in touch, okay? When you get sad, call me. Any time. Day or night. And I’ll do the same when I’m missing Miller. It’s not the same kind of missing, obviously. But maybe we can help each other through the bad nights.”

“I’d like that,” I said gruffly. I engulfed her small body in my arms. I didn’t use a sling anymore, but I was careful not to scratch her with the fiberglass cast wrapped around my left wrist.

She hugged me tight and then kissed my cheek. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Have a safe flight, Violet.”

I closed the door and stepped back into a living room that was littered with food plates, glasses, and a few beer bottles. Party residue. Laughter and loud talk came from the kitchen. It sounded like my uncles were getting Dad good and drunk.

“Stellar idea,” I muttered and found a mostly full bottle of Heineken on our coffee table. I took it with me upstairs, draining half of it on the way.

Inside my room, I sat heavily on my bed, the beer bottle in my hand, shoulders slumped. The silence was too loud. Since the night we’d left the hospital, I’d been playing music and reading until three or four in the morning. I’d read until my eyes drooped and pass out when my head hit the pillow so I wouldn’t lie awake in the dark, thinking.

Remembering.

I loosened my tie and started to take off my jacket, and that’s when I smelled it. Him. Clove-laced smoke, cedarwood cologne, vodka.

Slowly, I turned my head. He was in all black, leaning against my dresser. His silver hair gleamed, and I’d never seen his eyes so green. Like the peridot gem but red-rimmed and glassy instead of hard.

Fucking beautiful bastard.

I hated how my heart crashed against my chest, beating for him. I hated how my blood heated and moved faster through my veins, burning through the numbness, awakening the feelings that had been sedated.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I seethed. “Now? You’re here now?”

Holden had no time to answer. A wave of turbulent emotion swelled and crashed in me, and I rushed him, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and slammed him against the wall, our faces inches apart. My eyes burned as they bore into his.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Holden faced my murderous, feverish glare unblinking. “Saying goodbye.”

His words sank in, stabbing my heart and yet I felt him everywhere his body was pressed to mine.

I let him go and staggered back a step. “Get out.”

He straightened his rumpled coat and jerked his shirt into place.

“Did you hear me? Get the fuck out.” I turned my back on him.

Holden walked past me, and for a few horrible seconds, I thought he was doing what I ordered. But instead of leaving, he locked the door and then pressed his back to it.

“Goddamn it. What are you doing?”

“Giving you what you need.”

He moved slowly toward me, his eyes dark and dilated, a dash of color slashing his sharp cheekbones.

“I don’t need anything from you. You’re leaving—”

“Yes, tomorrow. I’m leaving because I have to.” The predatory glint in his eye slipped and I saw the pain beneath. His cold voice wavered. “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re hurting me now.”

“I’ll hurt you worse if I stay.” He moved closer, his gaze roaming my face, lingering on my mouth. “We have tonight.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, but my voice tapered to a ragged whisper. Because I knew what he meant. The promise of sex was all over him, as tangible as his scent and more potent.

Holden nodded, reading my thoughts. He was close enough I could feel his breath on my chin, warm and smelling sharply sweet—what I imagined absinthe would taste like. He pulled the tie off my neck and tossed it aside, and then his hands went to my belt. He whipped it out of its loops, and it’d hardly hit the floor before his nimble fingers had undone my button and zipper. I stood still, trembling with a thousand emotions; pure, unbridled want rising to the top the fastest. Desperate for escape. For release.

“You need this.” His hand slipped inside my pants, finding my cock hard and aching. He gave it a squeeze. “I’m going to give it to you.”

“Holden…”

“You need it,” he said again, his lips brushing mine. “You need to fuck.”

My blood caught fire. A growl erupted out of my chest, and I gripped him by the nape of his neck and crushed his mouth to mine. The growl melted into a helpless groan as I tasted him for the first time in what felt like years. My mouth devoured his and he opened to let me in. And then I knew what he’d planned. To let me have him like this all night. To take and take because he thought he had nothing else to give.

“No.” I wrenched my mouth from his. “Holden…”

“Yes,” he whispered, his eyes suddenly shining. Pleading. “We have tonight and then you have to let me go.”

Before I could speak, he was kissing me again, hot and hard, while he pushed the jacket off my shoulders. With every touch of his hands on my skin, with every sweep of his tongue, I gave myself up more and more. My grief and need became the same thing—a ravenous hunger. A need to fill the void he’d leave behind. Loving him and already missing him so badly.

We have tonight.

I yanked off his coat. He ripped at my shirt. Buttons clattered. Buckles clanked and clothes slid to the floor. We tore at each other while our mouths sucked and bit, angling to get as deep inside as we could. When our clothes were a pile at our feet, our hands slid over naked skin, grasping. Roaming. Our cocks straining and swollen.

I kissed him hard, holding him tight to me. Infusing every touch with heat, praying it would break through the cold of what they’d done to make him feel unworthy of anything real.

But Holden was too fucking smart. His mind too sharp, too tuned up. He felt my intentions and wrenched away from my kiss to attend to the business at hand. He retrieved a condom and a small bottle of lube and tossed them both on the bed.

“Those are for you,” he said, coming back to me, his voice hoarse with need. “Do what you want to me, River. Whatever you want.” His hand closed around my cock and he licked his lips. “Or I’ll give it to you.”

He started to sink to his knees, but I stopped him, not recognizing my own voice, panting and desperate. “No, I…I want to be inside you.”

“Good,” he whispered and reached for the condom and lube. Chest to chest, my breath rasping in my nose, I watched him roll the condom down my aching cock. “You need this,” he whispered against my mouth while coating my fingers with the lube. “I want this.”

With an inhuman growl, I roughly turned his back to me. My left arm in its cast went around his chest, locking him tight. My right hand slipped around to grip his cock, squeezing hard and stroking slowly.

“This is what you want?” I growled, out of my mind and half-drunk with him. “You want to get fucked?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “God, yes…”

I slipped my fingers from his cock, down between his legs. Holden sagged against me, his breath coming in short pants, as I worked him open, loosening him for me.

“Now,” he gritted out when I moved two fingers in and out of him easily. “Please…”

He bent over the foot of the bed, his back rounded, muscles playing under perfect, smooth skin. His ass, round and taut, poised in front of me. Slowly, I pushed in, gripping his hips and pulling him on me at the same time.

“Ah God, yes,” he hissed. “More. Harder.”

I was in a delirium but hadn’t lost myself enough to be reckless. I couldn’t hurt him though I wanted to. Wanted to punish him.

Holden braced himself with both hands on the bed, rocking back into me. I reached around and gripped his cock, stroking him in time with my thrusts, creating a rhythm out of the chaotic lust and love that roiled in me like a tornado.

How was it possible to feel this broken and yet whole at the same time? To have my heart saturated in grief and love in equal parts. To have my body wracked by the greatest pleasure I’d ever known while pain gripped my soul. Wanting to hold on while saying goodbye. I fucked him because he was leaving. I fucked him to make him stay. I gripped his hips and used his body, driving against him, my own release ready to detonate.

Not yet…

I chased after it but I didn’t want it to come. I wanted to remain suspended in this mindless bliss with Holden’s body shuddering from the pleasure I gave him. To hold onto the night and make it stretch into forever. Because his absence in the morning was going to break me all over again.

And it was breaking him too.

Holden sank onto his stomach on the bed, and I braced myself over him, my chest to his back, wanting as much of his skin on mine as possible. We rocked together, our bodies sealed. His hand found mine and we locked fingers; I heard the shaky inhale of his breath. Hot tears trailed down his cheek and I kissed them away as I moved in him, our bodies in perfect harmony, giving and taking.

“Ah, God…” Holden gritted out. “River…”

“Come.”

I wanted him to come on my bed, in my sheets. It was dirty and raw, but I was going to sleep wrapped in everything that was him.

Holden tensed, his sharp cry cut off and his entire body went rigid except for my merciless thrusts that drove him back and forth, his cock trapped in the friction between his body and the bed. I kissed him between his shoulder blades, then bit back a harsh curse as my own release shuddered through me.

I sank against Holden, blanketing him, and we lay there for long moments, our breaths rising and falling together. But I was too heavy; I gently pulled out of him and slid to the mattress. I rolled to my side to dispose of the condom in the wastebasket and stayed there, my back to him. Drained. Ribbons of the orgasm still coursed through me and yet the terrible hollow grief sucked it all away.

The bed dipped and Holden’s warm skin met mine all along the length of us. His arm wrapped around me, his muscular legs tangled with mine. Our fingers twined and I held on, sinking too fast into sleep.

“Holden…”

“Shh,” he whispered, his breath hot against the back of my neck. “Sleep now, River.”

I fought it but the sleepless nights and overwhelming emotions of the last few weeks were driving me toward merciful oblivion. My eyes wouldn’t stay open. All I could do was cling to him, relish the feel of him in these last moments.

Just before the black came, his chest expanded against my back and his breath wafted warmly over my neck.

“I love you.”

But he was gone in the morning. The bed empty and cold, so maybe I only dreamed it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The first rays of light were filtering in through the window when I carefully disentangled myself from River. The cold air swooped in where our skin was no longer touching.

I dressed quietly, wincing at every sound yet wishing he would wake. If he opened his eyes and asked me to stay, I might.

But River slept on, heavy and sated from last night. I’d felt the power in him as he gripped me, moved in me, his release shuddering through both of us. But the man refused to simply fuck. Because River was River, his love for me had seeped through every touch until I’d sunk under the weight of it.

When I was dressed, I stood on his side of the bed.

Wake up and tell me to stay…

That was cheating, to ask anything of him.

So was telling him I loved him.

I shouldn’t have said it, but he’d probably been asleep anyway. It didn’t count. I’d leave without him ever hearing those words and he’d forget me faster. River was the strongest person I knew. He was going to survive his mother’s death; he sure as hell could survive me.

I nearly bent to kiss him goodbye but that would be cheating too.

I took the stairs down to the front door. The house was silent and heavy with grief that hung in the air like vapor. It had been easy to break in yesterday during the family gathering.

No one paid any attention to another mourner dressed in black.

No one noticed when I slipped out, shutting the door quietly behind me.

I walked home under a gray sky; an early morning walk-of-shame without the shame. Only a howling pain I pushed down. One that the voices in my head told me I deserved.

The big house was dark as I snuck into the guesthouse, moving quietly so as not to wake anyone. My bags were already packed, my trunk of journals already on its way to Bernie’s office in Paris until I had a place to crash.

My letter to Aunt Mags and Uncle Reg was written, thanking them for their hospitality and expressing my hope that I hadn’t been too much of a burden. The letter felt too light in my hand. Not enough. But they were getting their guesthouse back and were no longer shackled to Santa Cruz. They were free too.

I took a shower, washing River’s scents and cells off of me until there was nothing left, then dressed in slacks, a black turtleneck to conceal the bitemarks on my neck, and my long gray tweed coat.

The clock said I had twenty minutes before James arrived to take me to the airport for our last ride.

I sat down at my empty desk with pen and paper and wrote one final letter, sealing it just as James pulled up to the curb. I set both letters side by side on the desk, grabbed my rolling suitcases, and went out without looking back.

James hurried to meet me, helping me with my bags. He stowed them while I climbed in the back seat, my eyes on the big house. Like asking River to wake, I willed the back door to open, to see Mags and Reg come down the walk, waving and smiling their friendly smiles…

“Anything else, sir?” James asked, his gaze meeting mine in the rearview. “Anything left to do?”

“No,” I said. “There’s nothing left.”

Dear Beatriz,

I’m writing this in Portuguese because it’s only for you. If Mags or Reg read this, they’d think I’d been kidnapped by someone soft and sweet, and this was their ransom note.

Thank you, Beatriz. For pipoca. For peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. For asking “What is going to happen next?” at every movie we watched on Movie Nights. I liked our Movie Nights. I liked that it felt like you knew everything about me, and I didn’t have to say a word. Or explain. Or apologize.

Thank you for that.

And don’t worry about me. I don’t know what’s going to happen next; we’ll both just have to wait and see.

I will always be thinking of you and will try my best to behave.

But no promises.

With love,

Your Holden

Part V

Chapter Twenty-Six

One year later…

“That should do it,” I said, letting the hood of the ’67 Chevy Impala slam shut. “Give her a try, Julio.”

From his seat behind the wheel, the mechanic turned the key. The V8 engine roared to life. Julio flashed me a triumphant smile through the windshield.

He joined me to stand beside the boat of a car idling in the second garage I’d built on the shop last year. We studied the rest of the car with its dents, faded paint. The interior was going to be at least a month, not including tracking down sixty-year-old parts. But getting it driving came first, always. No one wanted an oversized toy that just sat in their garage. They wanted to show it off.

“Congrats, man,” Julio said. “You were right-on about the cylinder head.”

“You were right about everything else.” I clapped Julio on the back as he reached in to kill the engine.

Twenty years older than me, Julio Morales had already been the best mechanic in Santa Cruz, but it turned out he had a knack for restoration too. I studied on the side, practicing at home on a ’72 Chevelle while soaking up everything Julio had to show me at the shop.

We could only take one customer at a time—full restorations took months, and we still had the rest of the business to think of. But whenever it was slow, we slipped off to the second garage where I spent most nights and weekends.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice sounded from the main garage stalls. “Does anyone work here?”

Julio gave me a small smile. “He’s probably got the office door closed and can’t hear her. I got it.”

“Thanks,” I said gratefully. We’d both worked with my dad long enough to know he’d never make a customer wait. But that was then. This was now.

Julio met the customer while I went to the main office. Dad was in his usual spot, sitting over a pile of paperwork without seeing it. His hair was grayer than it had been a year ago, and his face had aged a decade. Grief did that. Amelia said we were Pod People from the Dark Crystal, and grief was the evil Skeksis, sucking the life force out of us.

I took her word for it.

Dad sure as hell looked like something vital and alive in him had been ripped away. The light in his eyes was dimmer now. In Amelia too. And me.

When I looked in the mirror now, the mask was back. The one I’d been wearing all my life. Only instead of hiding who I was, I used it to barricade the pain and to keep going for Dad and Amelia. Someone had to pay the bills, buy the groceries, and make sure Amelia didn’t flunk out of school. Someone had to make sure Dad remembered to eat. I took on all the jobs myself and filled every waking second with responsibility.

It was exhausting but easier than missing her.

And him.

“Dad?”

He jerked. “Oh, hey. I was just finishing up the McKlowski invoice.”

“I can do it. Maybe you want to go home and take a nap?”

“A nap? It’s one in the afternoon.” He gave his head a shake. “No, no. I got this. How’re things out there?”

“Great. We got the Chevy started.”

Dad pursed his lips. He still wasn’t sold on the idea of restoring cars; the turnaround was too slow for not a lot of payoff. He didn’t understand that I didn’t do it for the paycheck. With Julio’s help, I’d only restored one car so far, and turning the old wreck back to its former glory had been the best thing to happen to me since Mom died.

Since Holden left.

I brushed the thought away, but the pain whacked me anyway.

“I just hope our regular customers aren’t being neglected,” Dad said. “We have a reputation to maintain.”

“Yep,” I said tightly. He didn’t need to hear how our rep had already taken a small hit. Not that anyone in town blamed Dad; they all knew how he suffered. But he wasn’t 100% and it was obvious to everyone except him.

I just need to work harder.

Another customer pulled in.

“I’m on it. Mr. McKlowski will be back soon…” I glanced meaningfully at the paperwork.

He laughed lightly and waved a hand. “Get out of here. Your old man hasn’t lost all his marbles.”

I smiled faintly.

No, he’s just lost his wife and his lifelong dream for his son.

I went out and the phone in the pocket of my dark blue uniform pants rang. My shoulders sagged when I saw the number.

“River Whitmore?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Deborah from the office at Central High.”

“Yes, hi, Deborah.” I sat on the bench outside the main office, blinking into the bright sunshine of that March afternoon. “I drove Amelia to school myself this morning. I watched her walk in.”

She sighed. “Yes, her teachers reported her present for her morning classes, but it would seem as if she never came back from lunch.”

“Shit.” I rubbed my face with my hands. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Deborah’s voice turned hesitant. “River…is it possible that your father might be able to exert some discipline? I know you’re doing your best, but…”

“But I’m just her brother.”

Over the last year, Amelia had started to give up and the school had given up on my dad. He missed parent-teacher conferences and forgot to return their calls. One of Amelia’s teachers brought in her Honda for an oil change and we got to talking. From then on, it was my phone number the office staff had on file.

“Her Algebra teacher reports that if Amelia doesn’t pass her midterm exam, she’s in danger of flunking the entire class and must retake it in summer school.”

I grit my teeth. “I understand. I’ll talk to her tonight.”

And take away her phone.

I’d already disabled the WiFi in the house after nine p.m. since she’d stopped doing homework in favor of watching TikTok videos.

“Thank you, River,” Deborah said, pity lacing her voice. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

“No problem. I’ll handle it.”

I hung up and, as usual, I checked for a text or call I might’ve missed.

Nothing.

The phone went back in my pocket and I got back to work.

An hour later, as Julio and I stood together discussing a diagnostic on a ’17 Mazda, a white Jeep Rubicon screeched to a stop at the intersection in front of the shop. Mikey Grimaldi was behind the wheel, Chance Blaylock riding shotgun and Donte Weatherly laughing in the back seat. I supposed they were home from college for a visit to compare their football highlights.

They all stopped when they caught sight of me. Chance said something that made Mikey snort laughter, but Donte’s smile looked stiff and didn’t touch his eyes. The light changed and the Jeep’s tires squealed as they drove off.

“What’s that all about?” Julio asked.

He knew nothing about my personal life. Mostly because I didn’t have one.

“I played football with them in high school.” I heaved a breath and let it out. “Then they found out I had a boyfriend.”

Julio pursed his lips, thinking. “So they got jealous?”

A genuine laugh burst out of me. “Something like that.”

Julio grinned and chucked my shoulder. “Come on. We have half an hour until our next appointment. That Chevy is calling.”

That night at dinner, Amelia picked at her curry noodles. I’d stopped on the way home to pick up takeout from her favorite Thai place. Maybe it wasn’t great parenting to reward her for flunking math and ditching class but getting pissed at her never worked and I always hated myself afterward. Losing my temper was like a small hole bursting out of a dam. If I didn’t stop it up quick, more holes would break through, more emotion pouring out until I drowned in it.

“The school called,” I said, poking at a prawn with my chopsticks. “Again.”

Amelia hunched deeper, her dark hair falling over her eyes. “So?”

“Hmm, what’s this?” Dad asked. “When did they call?”

“This afternoon. Amelia’s failing Algebra.” I turned to her. “If you don’t pass your midterm, you could wind up in summer school.”

“Whatever,” my sister muttered.

“Summer school is not whatever. It sucks. But Christ, math, Amelia? I’ve told you a hundred times, I can help you. I like helping you. I’m a big dork, remember?”

She didn’t crack a smile.

Dad held up his hands. “I can’t get through to her either.”

I grit my teeth and forced myself to stay calm. “Amelia, you can’t be ditching school. I’m going to have to take your phone away.”

Her head whipped up, her eyes wide and blazing. She looked to Dad. “He can’t do that,” she declared, then seethed at me. “You can’t do that! You’re not my second dad, River. Don’t get a swelled head. You’re just my brother.”

“Yeah, I’m your brother who’s sick of watching his sister piss her life away.”

“You can’t have my phone. I won’t give it to you.”

I shrugged. “I’ll just take it off the plan. It won’t work if no one’s paying for it.”

Amelia glared at me. Dad poked at his food absently.

I shoved my plate away with a sigh. “Look, Amelia. Please. Just…go to all your classes. You only have a few months left. Can you do that for me? Please.”

“Can I keep my phone?” she asked, trying to maintain her hard shell but it had cracks in it too. This wasn’t her. This was Amelia without her mom.

“You can keep it if you swear to me I won’t be getting any more phone calls from the school. And if you let me help you study for your Algebra exam.”

“Okay,” she said in a small voice. “Thanks.”

Dinner resumed under a tense quiet, a silence that had infected the entire house since Mom died.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” I said, slowly. “The business is holding steady, and the restoration is coming along—”

“Your side hustle?” Amelia said with a rare smile.

“Yeah, that.” I grinned. “So I was thinking about getting my own place. An apartment between here and the shop…”

My words died as both Dad and Amelia stared at me. Dad’s fork clattered to his plate.

“You want to move out?”

He looked at me as if I’d said I wanted to be the first to colonize Mars. He and Amelia exchanged glances, both equally terrified of a future in which they’d be alone with each other in this house.

“Well…at some point, yeah. I’m going on twenty years old and I feel like I need—”

“Do you already have a place in mind?” Dad asked, looking close to panic. “Is this something you’ve been planning for a while?”

“No, I was just thinking—”

Amelia slammed her glass down on the table, spilling soda onto the wood, and abruptly pushed her chair away. She shot me a stricken look and hurried to her room.

Dad sat back in his chair, his mouth hung open a little in shock. “Are you serious about this, River?”

“Well, yeah, but it doesn’t have to be any time soon. I guess it can wait.”

“Don’t scare me like that,” he said with a rough chuckle, his hand on his chest as if I’d played a prank on him. “If you left… I don’t know what we’d do without you, but it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Leave the mess. I’ll clean it up later.” He rose to his feet, his hand resting for a moment on the back of Mom’s empty chair; then he went out.

I sighed. “It was just an idea.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I lounged back in my chair at the head of the table in the private room at the Epicure restaurant in the Le Bristol Hotel—my current residence—and took in the scene. The long, oval table was littered with the residue of a three-star Michelin dinner. All that remained were plates of half-eaten Tarte Tatin and crème brûlée, cups of coffee, and empty bottles of champagne.

“Wait, wait, silencieux!”

Alexandre Caron, the ringleader of tonight’s party, motioned for silence.

Fifteen of my closest friends—a few of whom I met that day—slowly quieted their laughing, drunk conversations in a handful of different languages. Tonight’s party was comprised of French, Germans, Italians, Britons, my Lebanese shopping BFF, one Russian, an American man I didn’t recognize, and a beautiful Swiss man.

Tonight’s target.

If the artist Basquiat and the actor Michael B. Jordan had had a love child, it would be this guy—perfectly smooth brown skin and a sprig of dreadlocks tied at the top of his head. I’d been making eyes at him all night, but he hadn’t taken me up on my unspoken offer.

Yet.

“Let us raise a toast to our patron saint of the endless party and author extraordinaire…” Alexandre was saying, lifting a glass of champagne. He was sharp like an arrow—slender, with an angular face and a harsh beaked nose. Fortunately, he was straight and unadventurous, otherwise he’d be relegated to the long list of our mutual acquaintances with whom I’d slept with and never spoken to again.

Alexandre grabbed two magazines and lifted them in his other hand. “To Holden—oh, pardonnez-moi, to Gordon Charles. The first writer to have stories published in the New Yorker and the Paris Review at the same time!”

Cheers went up, glasses were raised, and the room toasted to my success. The American—a pale, wiry guy with strawberry blond hair and glasses—met my eye with a look that said he had an agenda.

Too late, my friend. Basquiat B. Jordan is tonight’s dessert.

Or so I hoped. I glanced at the Swiss man and was pleased to finally see a flirty smile dance over his lips. Tonight, I’d get lost in those lips, that mouth, and every other part of him—in my continued quest to erase River Whitmore from my body’s memory.

If only…

None of my old tricks—alcohol and meaningless sex—were working when it came to River. Each night spent in a desperate clutch with someone that wasn’t him only imbedded him deeper into my sense memories. Despite fleeting moments of pleasure, my skin and cells and sinews cried out for him. My fucking heart screamed for him, a never-ending howl that refused to be silenced by alcohol or the sweaty, writhing bodies of strangers.

But I’m no quitter. I reached for more champagne and shot the Swiss man a wink.

Alexandre slammed the magazines down on the table, knocking over a water glass that soaked them both.

“Putain de merde,” he cursed with a grin. “I have ruined your stories, Holden, and now you cannot do your reading.”

“Cheers to that,” I said and gulped down another swallow of champagne.

I’d had zero intention of reading my own work aloud anyway. Like Ms. Watkins had taught us to do in another lifetime, I wrote fictional stories with heavily autobiographical elements, and then slapped them with the pen name, Gordon Charles. Once a story was on paper, it was out of my conscious. Purged. Revisiting it wasn’t on the agenda.

More champagne was ordered, the guests mingled in small groups, and the party showed no signs of stopping though the restaurant had closed hours ago.

“May I join you?”

“If you must.”

The American moved gracefully into the chair beside me. He wore a brown houndstooth suit and an antique Rolex strapped to his wrist. He looked like the world’s wealthiest librarian.

“Elliot Lash,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m an agent for Amanda Boyle Literary. You’ve heard of us?”

He was being cute. Anyone halfway paying attention in the literary world knew that agency. They handled some of the biggest names in fiction, most of whom were currently riding bestseller lists or being nominated for Bookers and Pulitzers.

I smiled sweetly. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Elliot glanced down with a small chuckle. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’d like to represent you.”

“In court? I have no pending lawsuits. That I’m aware of.”

“Mr. Parish—”

I waved a hand. “No, I’ll get straight to your point. You read my stories that I—a no-name nothing—sent unsolicited and yet managed to have published in the biggest literary magazines in the world, and now you want to take fifteen percent of my piddling profits. Sound about right?”

Elliot leaned over his thighs, a glass of beer in his hand. “Speaking of nothing names, why Gordon Charles?”

I frowned at his sudden change of topic. “Ever read Flowers for Algernon? My pen name is a play on the main character, Charlie Gordon.”

Elliot’s eyes went a little vacant as he sought to remember and then lit up with recognition. “Oh yes. The story about a man with extremely low intelligence who undergoes an experiment of some sort. It turns him into a genius, but the experiment fails, doesn’t it? He slips back, losing everything he’d gained. Very sad.”

“He falls in love,” I muttered.

“Sorry?”

“When he’s smart, Charlie falls in love with a teacher but has to leave her when he becomes stupid again.” My finger ran along the lip of the glass. “I gave that book to someone once. He thought I was inferring that he was Charlie, the stupid one. Turns out, it was me all along.”

My eyes fell shut under a barrage of memories. River at his shop, pinning me to the wall with his body, his eyes dark and hooded, his lips parted…

I brushed the memory away and nodded at the Swiss man.

“Do you know who that is? The Basquiat-looking gent with the perfect…everything?”

“That’s Jean-Baptiste Moreau,” Elliot said. “He does remind one of Basquiat, doesn’t he? Fitting. He’s an artist too.”

“You know him well?”

“We run in a few of the same circles.”

“I’d like to get to know him too. In the biblical sense, if you catch my drift.”

Elliot’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “Are you asking me to be your pimp?”

I frowned. “Isn’t that what an agent is?”

“Mr. Parish—”

“Forget it. I haven’t needed assistance in that department. Yet.”

Elliot Lash pressed his lips in a thin line and pulled his card from his alligator skin wallet. “I’ll be frank with you, Holden. I think your writing is astonishing. And I know every editor at every major publishing house agrees. If you could produce a full-length novel—a memoir, perhaps—”

“I’m not writing a memoir. I write fiction.”

“Autobiographical fiction?” Elliot suggested and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Truthfully, you could write a grocery list and I’d have ten houses lined up to buy it. You’re a hot commodity right now.”

“Gordon Charles is a hot commodity. I’m nobody.”

As far as most of the world knew, Holden Parish didn’t exist. And I wanted to keep it that way. But that Elliot was a persistent little fucker.

“Do you know how rare it is to be published in both the Review and the New Yorker at the same time with two different stories? At twenty years old?”

“Nineteen.” I smirked and took a pull from my champagne. “Do you like my work, Mr. Lash, or do you like that little novelty? Because I’m drowning in my own bullshit, already. I don’t need you to shovel more in my lap.”

“Sometimes a writer is the next ‘hottest thing’ and sometimes he or she is truly something special,” Elliot said. “You happen to be both. And I wouldn’t be a good agent if I didn’t do everything in my power to make sure the world knew it.”

I toyed with my glass, swirling the golden liquid around and around. “I’ll think about it.”

“Please do. I think you’re ready for the next step. And it will be a big one.”

He finished his glass of beer and reluctantly left as if afraid he’d never see me again once he walked out the door.

Given my track record, he was probably right.

Stay…

I banished River’s pained voice from my memory for a solid ten seconds as I pondered Elliot Lash’s offer. But ugh, a whole book? A book took long hours of plotting and research and rewrites and editing. A book was a lot of fucking work.

“I hate work,” I muttered.

But instead of tossing Elliot’s card in the candle centerpiece and watching it burn, I shoved it in my pocket, downed the rest of my drink, and strode across the room to Jean-Baptiste Moreau.

“Well?” I demanded.

He smirked, amused, but his dark eyes raked me up and down. “Can I help you?” His voice was low and smoky and tinged with a thick accent.

“I hope so.” Help me, JB. Help me forget him. “I’m Holden Parish.”

“I know who you are,” he said. “I’m Jean-Baptiste Moreau.”

His hand closed around mine, and the deal was sealed right then and there.

“I have a question for you, JB.”

“No one calls me that.”

“But you make an exception for me.”

“I suppose I do.” His gaze roamed my face, lingering on my mouth and then my hair. “Silver. I like it.”

My one cheat against anonymity. River could find me in a crowd…

“My question is,” I said, “we’ve been in the same room for the last hundred hours. Why are we just now meeting?”

JB laughed, showing beautiful white teeth in a face of perfect dark skin. “Perhaps I’m shy?”

“God, I hope not.”

His smile turned seductive, his dark eyes locking on mine. “Why don’t you take me upstairs and find out?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Hours later, JB lay sleeping in the tangled sheets in my bed while I sat in the suite’s next room, writing furiously in a journal by the light of a small desk lamp. A bottle of Ducasse sat beside me, half empty.

For the last three months, Suite 1925 had been my home. It wasn’t the biggest suite the hotel had to offer but it had a view of the Eiffel Tower, and Josephine Baker had lived here for a while, which made it feel appropriately artsy.

With JB’s scent still all over me, my body still humming from our tumble in the sheets, I wrote about River until my hand cramped. I wrote to River, crying out for him, my pen crawling over the paper, falling down the page until it was just his name, over and over, blotted with my tears.

“Goddammit…” I whispered brokenly. “I can’t do this…”

I could write, drink, or fuck my way through Europe—and had been doing that exact thing for the better part of a year—and River couldn’t hear me. Somewhere beneath the cold whispers, I knew I couldn’t keep going like this much longer.

My alcohol-soaked brain concocted a plan to rescue my broken heart. Like a puppet guided by someone else’s strings, I staggered out of the chair and made my way to the phone on the small table under Josephine’s smiling face. My fingers fumbled over the receiver.

“Can we help you, Monsieur Parish?” the operator answered in her French accent.

“Concierge,” I said, glancing at my trunk of journals under the window. Years’ worth of my story. Everything that was me was in that trunk, raw and unfiltered.

The concierge came on the line. “How can I assist you, Monsieur Parish?”

“I need to have something sent to America. Immediately.”

We spoke for a few minutes and then I staggered back into the bedroom. JB slept peacefully, his strong body spread out, claiming ownership of my bed, just as he’d claimed my body that night.

Too late, I thought, wandering back to the living area. I belong to someone else. I will always belong to him…

At the striped couch in the living room, the puppeteer cut the strings. I collapsed and pulled a thin throw blanket over me. Shivering, I curled in a ball and fell into oblivion.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Amelia, get back here!” I followed my sister through the front door. “We’re not done talking about this.”

She ignored me. The same silent treatment she’d given me in my truck when I got her from the police station where she’d been picked up for truancy. She stomped up the stairs to her room. I was about to go after her when a sharp pain lanced up my shin. I tripped, catching myself on the bannister.

“Goddammit.”

Someone had left a steamer trunk in the entry. It looked vaguely familiar; maybe Dazia was back for a visit. I rubbed my shin with a curse and started after Amelia upstairs, but her door slammed hard enough to make the house shiver.

“Shit.”

I gave the trunk a kick, anger and frustration boiling up in me. I fought for calm; if they escaped, the grief was sure to follow.

“But the fucking police station?” I seethed and stormed through the house to the den.

Dad was in his chair, having taken the day off from the shop. He’d been doing that more and more lately. A replay of the 2018 Eagles-Patriots Super Bowl game was on the flat screen.

“Dad, we have to talk.” I turned the chair beside his recliner to face him.

“Sure, son,” he said, his eyes on the TV. “What can I do ya for?”

“It’s Amelia. She’s ditching again. The cops picked her up at the mall.”

Dad sat up, his eyebrows rising. “The police?”

“I don’t know what to do with her anymore. I’ve tried everything. I need you to…” Do something. Anything… “Talk to her. Please. She needs you, Dad.”

I needed him too, to come back from wherever he went to escape the grief.

“I will,” he said. “She’s gone too far if the police are involved.” But his eyes were already drifting back to the game. “Look at Brady’s pass.” He shook his head, marveling. “That could be you, you know. It’s not too late.”

I clenched my jaw. “Dad…”

“I know, I know. It’s too dangerous.”

I started to tell him—again—the car accident had nothing to do with why I quit football but didn’t bother. He rarely spoke about the accident and he never mentioned Holden or my non-existent love-life. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Dad, when are you going to talk to Amelia?”

“Soon. Tonight.”

I sighed. Amelia had passed her midterm by the skin of her teeth after we’d spent two solid weeks going over the material. I thought things were improving, but now she was slipping again, and nothing I said or did was propping her up.

“River,” Dad said. “I will talk to her. I promise.”

I nodded and started to go. I was at the door when he said, “Oh, a big delivery came for you today. I had them leave it in the entry—it’s too damn heavy for me to carry to your room.”

“That’s for me?”

“Yep. All the way from Paris.”

Every part of me froze except for my heart that took off, racing around my ribs. I practically ran to the foyer and knelt beside the trunk I should’ve recognized immediately.

“His life’s work,” I murmured, running my hand over the surface.

I took hold of the side handles and hefted it. It was heavy as hell; my left shoulder ached as I struggled to carry it upstairs.

In my room, I kicked the door shut behind me and dumped the trunk on my bed. Its dark red surface was scuffed, customs notices from Paris and New York affixed to the front, and a shipping address from the Le Bristol Hotel. The lock had been taped over by thick industrial tape that took me several minutes to cut through.

My heart in my throat, I opened the trunk to Holden’s journals. Maybe a hundred of them; he’d told me they dated all the way back to when he was a kid. I took one out and held it in my hands. A newer one, less worn than the others. My fingers itched to open it, to read his words and reclaim a piece of him I’d gone so long without.

I can’t. It’s too private.

But he’d sent them to me. He’d meant for me to have them, didn’t he?

Slowly, I opened the journal and flipped to a random page dated November of last year.

The conversion therapy’s cruelest lesson wasn’t taught in the hardest moments—the night marches, the beatings, or even the lake. The cruelty was in the words fed to us, a steady diet of self-hate. A mainline of loathing and unworthiness injected directly into our bloodstream every day. Long after the bruises have faded, the poison lingers, circulating through every part of me and rotting everything I touch.

When River tells me he loves me, the poison whispers that he’s lying.

When I want to say it back, the poison tells me my words aren’t worth the breath it takes to utter them.

The poison commanded me to run away, and I did, even though I’d have given anything to stay.

I took the words like a deserved punch to the gut and flipped through other pages, scanning quickly. But the same theme rose to the surface every time—what was done to Holden in Alaska went deeper than I could ever know, even after witnessing his alcohol benders, his shivering in seventy-degree heat, his march into the ocean that black night. He covered it up with elegant clothes, a fuck-the-world attitude, and a sense of humor that reassured everyone he was fine. But underneath…

I shut the journal, my heart breaking all over again and guilt filling in the cracks. Holden was in constant pain and this trunk was filled with his cries for help. Page after page, thousands upon thousands of cries for help.

And no one answered.

He’s calling to me.

I shut the trunk and went to my laptop. Google told me the Le Bristol Hotel was in the 8th Arrondissement of Paris. That didn’t mean anything to me, but now I had an address.

I hurried from my room and knocked on Amelia’s door. My sluggish blood felt electrified. Fear and hope and love—God, the love came rushing at me, full force, whacking me so hard when I’d started to forget how strong it was.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Amelia said from inside her room.

“Amelia, I need to talk to you.”

“Go away, River.”

“That trunk downstairs? It’s from Holden.”

I heard a rustling, then the door flung open. Amelia grabbed my arm, pulled me into her room and shut the door. “You heard from him? Oh my God, sit down. Tell me everything.”

I chuckled lightly. “I don’t know much. He sent me old journals he wrote during a pretty fucking terrible time in his life.”

“Okay so…why? What does it mean?”

“It means I have to go to Paris.”

Amelia cocked her head sarcastically. “Uh huh. Oh, I forgot to mention it, but my ex-boyfriend called me. He’s really sad so I have to jet off to Tahiti to cheer him up.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I think Holden’s hurting really badly and I…”

“Miss him?”

“To put it mildly. But I need your help, Amelia. I can’t leave here if I think you’re just going to get in trouble again. Or hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt, for crying out loud.”

“Says the girl I just picked up from the police station.”

Amelia held my gaze, defiantly, then flopped back on her pillows. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that everything feels so pointless. Like, my friends at school talk about the stupidest shit and I just want to grab them and scream in their faces, None of that bullshit matters.” She shook her head, face crumpling. “I just miss her, River. I miss her so much.”

I lay beside her on the pillow, shoulder to shoulder. “I know. Me too.”

“Yeah?” Amelia said, a hint of accusation in her voice. “Of the three of us, you’re the only one who seems to have his shit together.”

“We’re taking turns being a mess.” I nudged her arm. “You’re taking a really long turn, by the way.”

“Ha ha.”

My smile faded. “Amelia, I haven’t heard from Holden in almost a year. And it really fucking hurts. Every day.”

“On top of missing Mom.”

I nodded, my own tears pricking my eyes. “And now I have a chance. If something happens and I didn’t at least try to be there for him, I’m not going to be okay. I’m not going to be okay at all.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see what happens when I get there. If he hasn’t taken off again.”

A shiver wracked me to think Holden might regret sending me his journals and had disappeared all over again.

“Are you going to bring him back?”

“That’s not up to me. He has a lot of stuff to get through.”

“Like what? You never told me why he left in the first place.”

“Because he thinks he’s no good for me.” I looked over at her. “Can I trust you with something personal?”

She nodded quickly. “Yeah, sure.”

“When he was fifteen, Holden’s parents sent him to conversion therapy.”

My sister’s eyes widened in fury. “To try to make him not be gay? Assholes!”

“They taught him that he wasn’t worth anything the way he was, and it stuck. As much as I…care about him, I can’t magically fix him. It’s not possible. But I can let him know I’m still here.”

“A year’s a long time, River,” Amelia said gently. “How long will you wait?”

“However long it takes.”

“You really love him, huh?”

I nodded. “But I love you too. And I can’t go to France and spend the entire time scared something’s happening over here. I need to be able to trust you.”

“You can trust me, River. Even though it looks like I’m caught up in my own shit and get pissed at you sometimes—”

“A lot. You get pissed at me a lot.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to apologize. I see how hard you work for us. And how sad you are, though you don’t show it. I see it.”

“Thanks, Amelia,” I said, relief and the electric nervousness humming through me that in less than twenty-four hours I might be with Holden.

“When will you leave?” she asked.

“As soon as possible. Right now, actually,” I said, getting off the bed. Amelia walked me to her door.

“Do you think you’ll be gone a long time?”

“I’ll come back as fast as I can.” My stomach clenched at her dubious expression. “Unless…Maybe I shouldn’t go…”

“No, no. You should. I know you need this. We’ll be fine, swear.”

I felt torn in half. “You sure?”

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, go. Holden’s probably waiting for you in his hotel room, lying naked on a bear skin rug with a rose in his teeth.”

I coughed a laugh. “Ummm…”

“What? You need to get laid. Straight facts. Well, maybe not straight.”

“I’m not going there to get laid, and how about we not talk about that anymore?”

She laughed, a spark in her eyes I hadn’t seen in a while. “Whatever you say.” She slugged me in the shoulder. “Go get’em, champ.”

“Dork.”

“Nerd.”

I grinned, feeling lighter than I had in a long time. An unfamiliar feeling flooded me. Hope.

After settling things with Julio to make sure the shop would be okay without me, I boarded a plane for Paris the next afternoon.

Dad had been dubious. “You’re flying to France?” he’d asked from his chair in the den that morning. “For…him?”

Inwardly, I’d flinched. Since I had no social life to speak of, my father hadn’t been forced to acknowledge my sexuality. I suspected he thought I’d been going through a phase or that it had been a turbulent time with the accident and Mom’s death.

“Yes, I’m going for him. Because I love him. I’ve never stopped loving him, Dad.”

My father had pursed his lips. “What about the shop?”

“It’s handled. I won’t be gone long.” I hugged him close. “Watch over Amelia, okay?” Be her dad for a while… “And take care of yourself.”

He’d chuckled through a perplexed frown at my seriousness. “Of course. I’ll be here when you get back.”

I looked at the den with its food wrappers, the recliner he’d turned into a bed, and the NFL Network blaring constantly.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

The plane touched down and I fumbled my way through the airport, looking like the jet-lagged American I was, to my hotel in the 8th Arrondissement. The hotel was small, dark, with no elevator and a shared bathroom down the hall. But it was all I could afford after dropping a small fortune on a last-minute flight. My room was nothing more than a bed, a tiny table and chair, and peeling green wallpaper that looked like it’d been new in 1950.

After a short nap on the springy bed, I showered and changed into jeans, a fresh T-shirt, boots, and a worn, brown leather jacket. My heart was crashing in my chest so loudly I was sure my taxi driver could hear it as he took me to Le Bristol Hotel.

The hotel was a white behemoth of classic French architecture with bursts of red flowers overflowing from every wrought iron balcony. A far cry from my little place down the road.

“A fine hotel,” my cabbie said as I counted out the Euro for his fare. “One of the best in Paris.”

“How much per night?” I asked.

“Depends,” he said. “Room or suite?”

“Suite,” I said, smiling fondly. Holden Parish wouldn’t be caught slumming it in a regular hotel room. Even in a five-star hotel.

“Mm, maybe five thousand Euro per night.” The cabbie grinned with obvious pride. “Very nice hotel.”

My stomach did flipflops as the cab pulled up to the hotel’s elegant entrance. I paid the cabbie while a man in a maroon uniform opened the door for me.

“Uh, thanks,” I said.

I handed him a two-Euro coin. It didn’t feel like enough, but I reminded myself I’d just paid him two bucks to open a door. I’d entered a different world at Le Bristol Hotel. The polished lobby floor was so gleaming, I was afraid I’d scuff it with my work boots or drag grease from the auto body shop.

I went to the concierge.

“Can I help you, monsieur?” the man in an impeccable suit asked in English before I could speak.

“Am I that obvious?” I asked with a smirk. “I’m here to see Holden Parish.” Suddenly, I was on the damn verge of tears just for saying the words. I cleared my throat. “Is he here?”

Please God, let him still be here…

The concierge smiled thinly. “Indeed. But I’m afraid I cannot let non-guests up to the floors without invitation. Your name?”

“River Whitmore.”

“A moment.” He picked up a sleek black phone and pressed a button. “Monsieur Parish? Monsieur River Whitmore vous attend à la réception.” He listened, at one time pulling the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly. “Très bien, monsieur.” He hung up and fixed me with a tight smile. “He’ll be right down.”

I blew out a steadying breath and jammed my hands in my pockets, pacing a small circle over the perfectly polished floor. Elegant men and women came in and out; others sat at small tables over cocktails and coffee.

Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. Then forty-five. I was about to try again with the concierge when the elevator opened with a refined bing and Holden was there.

His hair was still silver and damp from a fresh shower. He wore impeccably tailored white slacks, white shirt, and—despite the warm spring day—a black vest and a black and white striped jacket. My breath caught, and my blood heated instantly.

The absence had only made him more fucking perfect, his body filling out his clothes better, his shoulders and chest broader. But his green eyes were shadowed and red-rimmed—the last year had been filled with alcohol, late nights, and parties.

And other men?

Holden approached slowly, strolling casually, though I watched his Adam’s apple bob in a hard swallow while his eyes drank me up.

“Hey,” I said, my throat dry.

He kept his face impassive. “I should ask what you’re doing here but I have a guess. My journals?”

“You sent them to me for a reason.”

“It was a mistake. I was drunk.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No?” he said, struggling for his usual flippancy. “You have a theory?”

I lost my voice. Without letting myself think, I rushed to Holden and wrapped my arms around him. He stiffened and then sagged against me. Tears threatened to squeeze out of my closed eyes as I inhaled him, relishing the feel of him in my arms and under my hands. Cloves, expensive cologne, and shower soap filled my nose, and beneath that—him. His body felt bigger in my arms. Stronger, even if his eyes told another story.

Slowly, Holden’s arms came up and he held me too. Tightly, his hands making fists in my jacket, his face buried in my shoulder. I felt his ragged breath gust over my neck, over the place where my bone had broken the night that tore us apart.

For long moments, we held each other, and I wanted to stay in that perfect, timeless limbo of just having him at long last. But too quickly, he pulled away and turned to wipe his eyes.

“Well…” He cleared the emotion out of his voice. “You never answered my question.”

“Why am I here? For you. Can we go somewhere and talk? Maybe your room?”

“My room is…occupied.”

The words whacked me in the chest and my heart cracked all over again.

“You have someone there,” I stated.

Holden didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“It’s a nice day,” he said. “Let’s take a walk, have a drink.”

I nodded mutely and as we walked in silence into a perfect spring day in Paris, I wondered what would be left of my heart by the time this trip was over.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

He’s here. He came…

I couldn’t stop staring at River as we walked down the boulevard. River looked as ruggedly beautiful as ever in jeans, boots, and a worn leather jacket over a tight T-shirt. But his body was bigger, stronger. I’d felt the power in it when he held me. I could’ve lived in that embrace forever, wrapped in his safety. But River’s eyes were heavy with grief and exhaustion, his shoulders hunched as if he were carrying a heavy burden.

He is. His grief and that of his sister and father. I’d bet my worthless life on it.

But despite that, he was here because I’d cheated and selfishly undisappeared myself. A moment of weakness. I didn’t even remember sending him my journals, but when the morning came two weeks ago and the trunk was gone, I knew exactly what I’d done. And why. Those journals were me. He was so far away, so I hurled myself at him—sending him every word of my heart because I was too chickenshit to go back myself.

We walked in silence to one of my favorite cafés. As with almost all cafés in Paris, this one spilled its seating onto the sidewalk, with little tables for two and pairs of wicker chairs facing the street to watch the scene. Paris was too damn beautiful to not be looked at, and the city knew it.

We took a table at the end of the first row with unobstructed views. River pulled his chair away from mine to face me instead of sitting adjacent.

“I can’t talk to you sitting like that.”

I nodded. Side by side, our thighs touching, our mouths inches apart, all we’d have to do is turn our heads and his mouth would be on mine…

I crossed my legs and lit a Djarum as the waiter came by.

“Un kir, s’il vous plait,” I said. “River?”

My heart tripped over his name, saying it to him for the first time in almost a year.

“Any beer, I guess.”

“Une bière pression, je n’ai pas de préférence.”

The waiter dropped two coasters and left.

“Neither of us is twenty-one,” River said. “They don’t care?”

“God bless the French; the drinking age is eighteen. Besides, do you feel nineteen years old?” I asked. “Nineteen to the tenth power, maybe. I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s been rough.” He tapped the coaster on the little table. “So you live in a hotel now?”

“Not just the one. I’ve lived in hotels in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, London, and now Paris again.”

“Why not just buy a place?”

“Why would I do that? The beauty of hotel living is that it comes with all the furniture and they bring you food.” I tapped ash into the little ashtray between us. “Not to mention, I’ve never been much of a home-dweller.”

River didn’t smile. “I was going to ask you how you’ve been, but I think I have an idea.”

“How much did you read?”

“Not much. I don’t think you sent them for me to read.”

“Is that a fact?” I asked, trying to keep my cold front up while River’s innate warmth and kindness was working to melt it down. “That’s interesting, given I don’t know why I sent them.”

“You sent them because you want help.”

“Says you,” I sniffed. “Maybe I was testing the efficiency of the French postal service.”

“Holden…”

The waiter returned and placed my drink—blackberry liqueur in white wine—on the table beside River’s sturdy glass of beer. For some dumb reason that juxtaposition was stark and punched me in the chest. How badly I missed him crashed over me so hard I was amazed I didn’t fall out of my chair. But this wasn’t fair to him. I’d cheated, broke my own rules meant to protect him.

He can’t be here. His family needs him.

My defense mechanism shifted from Aloof to Asshole.

“Look at you and your beer,” I said, shaking my head, my voice dripping with derision. “You stick out like a sore thumb. A big, dumb American in your jeans and scuffed boots and your unstylish jacket.”

River’s eyes widened, then darkened. “I don’t actually give a shit what people think. And you’re American too, in case you forgot.”

“I look the part,” I said, gesturing at my clothes. “I can speak the language. You don’t belong here. If I took you to one of my parties…”

If I took River to a party, he’d stand out in every way that mattered. Current tragedies in the world would make the rounds like a waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. The people would nibble on genocide or war or famine, chew it up, and spit it out like an olive pit. But River would actually care. He wouldn’t shake his head solemnly or quote some blog post and then forget all about it the second someone came by with champagne.

River would give a shit and goddamn, I love this big dumb American…

“I don’t want to go to one of your parties,” River said darkly. “In fact, that’s the last fucking thing I want to do.”

“What do you want?”

“To help. Or…I don’t know, Holden. I don’t know what the hell to do.”

“Sounds familiar,” I said into my glass. “I don’t know was always your thing.”

“Why are you being such a prick?” he spat, his voice and eyes hard. River leaned across the small table. “I came all this way. Say one fucking thing to me that’s honest. One fucking thing.”

I opened my mouth, a bitchy comeback on my lips, then snapped it shut. My throat had gone dry. I tossed back the rest of my drink, the bite stinging the back of my throat, making my eyes water.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

River’s hard expression softened, his forgiveness instant. “Me too.”

His hand reached to cover mine and I wanted to cry. Our fingers twined together, and we sat quietly, watching the people pass. I held perfectly still, not wanting to move for fear of breaking the perfect moment or losing the feel of his skin on mine.

But the waiter came back, and River withdrew his hand self-consciously and finished his beer.

“La meme chose?”

I started to say yes when I felt River’s eyes on me.

“Non, merci,” I said, and he left. “How long are you here?”

“Not sure,” River said with a pointed gaze: That depends on you. “I can’t stay long. My dad’s sleepwalking through life and my sister’s not going to graduate high school unless I drive her there every morning.”

“And the business?”

“Not bad, actually. I’m keeping it afloat.” He smiled ruefully. “Like a juggling act that never ends.”

I nodded. Just as I suspected, Nancy’s death had blown the Whitmore family to bits and it was left to River to sweep up the pieces and put them back together.

If I’d stayed, I’d only have added to his burden. I still would…

“Come on,” I said, rising from my chair and throwing a twenty Euro note on the table. “You need to see more of Paris than this street corner. I’ll take you on my daily route. This was breakfast.”

“It’s one in the afternoon.”

“Don’t be judge-y. It’s not sexy.”

His frown deepened, and I saw his thoughts drift back to my hotel room and my bed that wasn’t empty. I started walking, distracting him and forcing him to catch up.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Church.”

I hailed a cab and we took it to the center of Paris, to Île de la Cité, the small island in the Seine river that housed Notre-Dame. We got out of the cab and crossed a footbridge to the plaza in front of the cathedral, then made our way inside.

We stepped in the cool confines, and River took in the arched ceilings, the alcoves of statues, altars, and tables filled with little candles in cups—some burning, some waiting to be lit.

“You come here every day?” River asked quietly.

I nodded. “I’m as shocked as you are that lightning doesn’t strike me as soon as I cross the threshold. But in my experience, God’s always had a twisted sense of humor.”

“Why do you come?”

“I light a candle for your mom. And for Beatriz. For my aunt and uncle. And you, sometimes. When I’m feeling particularly brave that I won’t be struck down for my hypocrisy.”

We went to a table of candles. I dropped a fifty Euro note in the alms box and took one of the wooden sticks. I held it to an already-lit candle and lit a new one. I felt River’s eyes on me, blue and deep and soft.

“What about you?” River asked.

“The candles aren’t for yourself. It’s a kind of prayer for someone else.”

River nodded and held a stick to one flame, passed it to another until it caught, and then blew out the stick. His eyes held mine softly in the darkened cathedral, the hushed voices and footsteps of other visitors fading around us.

A peculiar sensation coursed through me, of being touched by his gesture and wanting him so badly at the same time. That was the problem with River Whitmore—he was eminently fuckable and loveable in equal parts. Instead of keeping the two desires separate, they twined and fused in me, doubling my pathetic desperation.

“Come on,” I said gruffly. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

Before I jam my tongue down your throat in front of the Virgin Mary.

I led River across another footbridge to the other side of the Seine and into the Latin Quarter with its narrow cobblestone walks and medieval churches. We stepped inside Shakespeare & Company, a bookstore that had a small café out front with a view of Notre-Dame.

“Very cool,” River said, strolling the cramped, multi-level store, craning his neck up to the high bookshelves with the same reverence he’d shown at Notre-Dame.

“I thought you’d appreciate it.”

River smiled and we parted ways for a bit, perusing the shelves. I mulled a few titles but mostly watched River from afar as he moved his big body between narrow aisles, his jeans tight around his perfect ass. He was potent virility wrapped in kindness. Masculine perfection with a heart as deep as…

“The Grand Canyon,” I murmured.

I met up with him in a corner of the bookstore where two tall shelves came together, a small table in front. He held a book open, reading intently.

“What’d you find?” I asked. “Anything good?”

I didn’t actually give a shit; when River started to answer, I swooped in, capturing his mouth in a deep kiss.

Instantly, every sensation I’d been starving for rocketed through me. The clean taste of him, the roughness of his stubbled cheek, the warm softness of his tongue sliding against mine.

He answered my kiss immediately, as if he’d been waiting for it too. The book tumbled from his hand and he grunted, gripping me by the lapels of my jacket and pressing me against the bookshelf hard enough to make it shiver. His mouth invaded mine, another resuscitation after drowning in a lake of alcohol for a year.

My hands went everywhere, over his broad back, into his hair, greedy to touch him. I felt the heavy hardness of an erection grow in his jeans and press against my own.

A store clerk cleared his throat delicately in passing, and River wrenched himself from me.

“Fuck,” he gasped breathlessly, his mouth reddened, his hair askew. His gaze bore into me, frustrated and heated at the same time. Then he bent to retrieve the book off the floor, slammed it on the little table, and stormed toward the exit.

I smoothed my rumpled clothes and followed him through a side door that led to a cobble-stoned street.

“I didn’t want to do that,” he said. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Your dick told me otherwise,” I said, then flinched at his murderous gaze. “Sorry. Can’t help myself.”

“Neither can I, that’s the problem. I can’t let you go. And I don’t want to. But Christ…” He became still, his eyes hard. “I can’t kiss you when you fucked someone else just last night.”

My arms dropped, and shame rushed through me like a wildfire. The sun was starting to sink, casting shadows over the cobblestone streets.

“Who is he?” River asked, his voice low.

“You really want to talk about him?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“He’s no one. A good guy,” I amended. “But he won’t last. Like the others.”

“Others.”

“Yes, others. Lots of others. Because that’s what I do.”

My words struck River hard and I hated myself more.

He stared at me, then barked a short laugh. “God, I’m a fucking idiot. I thought maybe you needed me. That it meant something that you sent me your books. But no, nothing’s changed. Except you’re over here living it up while I’ve been a goddamn monk, jerking off to you every night.”

I sucked in a breath, the truth hitting me as hard as mine had hit him. “No one?” I gritted my teeth. “I never asked you not to see anyone. I’ll never—”

“You’ve never asked me for anything, and you never will. Yeah, I remember your little mantra.”

I stared back, desperate to harden myself against him. “What do you want? Why are you here? To bring me back with you?”

“Why not? What are you doing here, except drinking yourself stupid and fucking everything that moves?”

“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

River scrubbed his face. “Christ…Holden.”

“What am I supposed to do, River?” I shouted. “Go back with you and do what? I’ll be the same mess there I am here.”

“You can get help. You can try again.”

“Yeah and while I’m stumbling around, flailing and falling down, what are you doing? You’re picking me up while taking care of your sister and dad and keeping the shop running at the same time. Like fucking Atlas, carrying all of us on your back. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re doing the same old shit too. Boxing up your feelings and stowing them for later. When has that ever worked out for you?”

“At least I’m doing something. At least I’m trying.”

He has you there, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Beatriz. Or Ms. Watkins with a Portuguese accent.

We stared each other down for a few more moments, and then I sank onto a wrought iron bench against the side of the bookstore, feeling tired down to my bones. Tired of the old pain that wouldn’t leave me alone. Tired of missing him.

River stood with his hands on his hips, his gaze on the ground. “Do you love him?”

“Of course not. He’s a distraction. They all are.”

He’s not you.

River nodded and sat down on the bench beside me. “What’s happening tonight?”

“Another party.”

“On your dime?”

“Of course.”

“Cancel it. Text your so-called friends and tell them you’re not coming.”

“What am I doing?”

“You look tired, Holden. Let’s get something to eat and go back to my hotel.”

I mustered an arched brow and a sly smile for old time’s sake. “That sounds promising.”

“We’re not sleeping together. You need to get actual sleep.” River sighed. “I do too.”

I nodded and then tilted into him, rested my head on his shoulder. After a moment, River moved to put his arm around me. I could have slept right there, listening to the beat of his heart and nothing else. But night was falling.

Eventually, we hauled ourselves off the bench and went back to the 8th Arrondissement to a little bistro near his hotel. Over chicken Kiev and beef bourguignon, he told me about his first car restoration.

“It’s slow, it costs more money than it’s making—so far—but I love it.”

“If you need help with anything,” I began. “A little start-up cash…?”

“No,” he said, stabbing his chicken with a fork. “I got this.”

I rolled my eyes. “Christ, people are so damn weird about money. I’ve pissed away enough to build you a state-of-the-art garage six times over.”

River grinned. “I have a sneaking feeling I’ll appreciate my state-of-the-art garage more if I build it with my own two hands.”

“Duly noted.” I poked at my food. “It may come as a shock, but I actually have some idea of what you’re talking about.”

He shot me a dubious grin. “Are you telling me Holden Parish actually got a job?”

I snorted. “Let’s not be crazy. But yes, I’ve earned a couple of paychecks. Two of my stories have been published in magazines.”

River’s face lit up with pure happiness. “No shit? That’s awesome. Congratulations.”

“Okay, okay.” I waved my hands. “The point is, I understand what you mean about working for something. The pay is a drop in the bucket, but seeing those checks with my name on them felt a million times better than when my inheritance came in. That money still feels like it belongs to my parents. The magazine money is mine. I earned it. What a concept.”

“Do you think you’ll ever speak to your parents again?” River asked in a quiet tone.

“Never. They’re the reason you’re in Santa Cruz and I’m here.”

“Doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Yes, it does. You’ve seen me at my worst.” I swallowed hard. “I’ve seen you in a banged-up car with blood trickling out of your ear.”

River’s fork clattered to his plate. “That accident was not your fault.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I do understand. It’s that goddamn conversion therapy, Holden. Every goddamn word of it was bullshit.”

“Logically, I know that. But it goes deeper than thought. What they did…it burrows down into the marrow of your bones so that you’re cold even when the sun is shining.” I blinked hard. “So when the person you love says he loves you too, the first inclination is to call him a liar. Your second is to run away. Your third is to fuck someone else. And your fourth is to drink and make it all go away.”

“How long can you do that for?”

“What’s the alternative? I was in a sanitarium for an entire year. Round-the-clock treatment. It didn’t help. Nothing will.”

“You deserve another try. You deserve a lot.”

“In the immortal words of Pretty Woman, the bad stuff is easier to believe. Especially when it’s been ingrained in me since birth. My parents have been telling me I’m a mistake since the day they learned who I was. You want to take that on?” I shook my head. “I won’t do that to you, River. I won’t force my mess on you.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something else but kept it to himself. We finished our meal over lighter talk. I had to practically wrestle him for the check, but we left the bistro with me victorious and River with a cute glower on his face.

We walked to his grubby little hotel, up four flights with no elevator. He unlocked a door that opened on a tiny room, hardly bigger than my closet at the Bristol.

“This is cozy,” I said, glancing around. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the hall.” River smirked at my aghast expression. “It’s not Versailles but it works.”

A cutting joke came to my lips, but I was with River. The room could’ve been a literal hole in the ground and I’d never want to leave.

We stripped down to our underwear, me in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxers, and him in a plain white shirt and boxer briefs.

“How exactly is this going to work?” I asked. “The bed is small, and you cannot sleep on this dirty floor. I will not allow it.”

“We’ll both sleep on the bed. But that’s all we are doing. Sleeping.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve made it abundantly clear there will be no fucking.”

He smiled grimly. “I’m reminding myself.”

We lay side by side on the bed that was too small, River on his stomach, me on my back. He draped his arm over my chest. My arm curled under it, my fingers playing in his hair. Exhaustion weighed over me like a heavy coat.

“I don’t know what to do,” River said after a few moments, his voice heavy with sleep. “I want to help you, but I don’t know how.”

“Neither do I.”

“But I can tell you that if I didn’t have a car to restore, I’d be wrecked too. It helps to have something to work toward. Something real that’s not damn thinking.”

I inhaled. “An agent approached me a couple weeks ago. The night I sent you my journals, actually. He wants me to write a book.”

River lifted his head. “Holden… Shit, that’s amazing. Do that.”

“I can’t write a book.”

“You’ve already written a hundred books,” he said with a grin. “What’s one more?”

“Stop it,” I said. “If you smile like that at me one more time, I’m going to have to sleep on the floor. I won’t be able to keep from kissing you.”

“I changed my mind,” River said, his voice gruff. “I’ll kiss you goodnight.”

He pushed himself up on his elbows. My heart stopped as he lowered his mouth to mine and started again at the first touch of his lips. A soft groan rumbled from his chest as I opened for him and his tongue slid inside. He kissed me deeply, thoroughly, and then I took my turn, tasting every corner of his mouth, sucked at his tongue, bit at his lips. No one tasted like River—clean and pure and good. Kissing him was more potently intimate than anything I’d done with anyone else over the last year, erasing them all. Leaving me a clean slate. No one had mattered since River and no one ever would.

Too soon, the kiss was over, and River lowered his head heavily to his pillow, while I now had to contend with a hard-on tenting my underwear.

I gestured at it with a frown. “Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

He chuckled. “You’re not alone. I’m as hard as a rock down here.”

“There’s a remedy for that. More than one, actually.”

“Go to sleep, Holden,” he said, his eyes already falling shut. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I said, but as tired as I was, sleep wouldn’t come.

Tell him. Tell him you love him with your own voice.

But River’s breathing was already deep and even. His face relaxed. Content.

I’ll tell him in the morning, I thought. In broad daylight. And maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe Alaska will stay away and we can be happy…

I fell asleep with a different life dancing in my thoughts, but when I woke up, that broad daylight showed me an empty bed. River’s things were gone, and a note sat propped on the small desk.

Holden,

I got a text from my sister. Dad’s had an accident. Not bad, just a fender-bender, but Amelia’s freaking out. I’m going back. I think maybe it’s better I go anyway. If I stay, my willpower will break down and I won’t get out of that bed with you.

And that’s not why I came here. I came to tell you that even thousands of miles away, I’m still here for you. I can’t make you believe me when I say that I love you, but I do. I think you love me too, and when you come back to me, I’ll be waiting.

Love,

River

The note fell from my hand. Paris outside the window blurred. A feeling expanded in my chest—pain that he was gone already but something good, too. Bigger. Like a dawn breaking after the darkest night. Moving stiffly but quickly, I dressed and went out. River had already paid the hotel bill. I called a cab and took it back to the Bristol.

The remnants of a small gathering—empty glasses, a room service cart, and overflowing ashtrays—littered the suite. All signs that Alexandre brought the party here in order to charge everything to my room.

Jean-Baptiste was still asleep in my bed. I gently woke him and explained that our brief affair had come to an end. He took it well—we’d never been anything to each other but decent conversation and a good lay. When he was gone, I fished around in the closet, searching through pockets until I found Elliot Lash’s card.

I hit call, my damn heart in my throat, beating for the first time with hope instead of fear.

“Elliot Lash speaking,” he answered.

“Elliot, it’s Holden Parish.” I inhaled. Exhaled. “Let’s write a book.”

Chapter Thirty

Two years later…

“Hello?” I said, pushing open the door to Dad’s house. “I have pizza.”

I juggled the box and the six-pack of Coke on top and shut the door behind me. The house was quiet.

“Hello?” I called again.

“In here,” Dad’s voice came from the den.

My father had the blinds drawn and sat in his recliner, feet up. A rerun of the 2003 Niners-Giants wildcard game played on the flat screen.

Dad smiled as I came in. “Smells great. Let’s eat in here, okay?”

I frowned. “Where’s Amelia?”

“Out. She met some loudmouth in a Camaro and he took her to the Boardwalk.”

I sank down in the chair beside his. “She knew I was coming, right?”

“Who knows what’s going through her head,” he said, his eyes on the screen.

I gritted my teeth. I’d moved out of the house six months ago, to my own apartment not far from the shop. Amelia hadn’t taken it well but had never missed my twice-weekly dinner visits.

“What’s this guy like?” I asked, setting the pizza box on the coffee table and handing my dad a napkin and a Coke.

“You know the type—bad boy, leather jacket, no ambition to speak of.”

My jaw clenched. My sister was on the verge of dropping out of high school and had recently added a parade of lowlife guys with “no ambition to speak of” to her downward spiral.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“What can we do?”

“You could try talking to her, Dad,” I said, trying to keep the bitter accusation out of my mouth.

“I have, but she doesn’t listen. She doesn’t want my advice, son. She needs her mom.”

So do I.

I buried the thought. I had enough shit to deal with without diving into that black pit too.

Dad and I ate pizza and watched the game.

“Look at that,” Dad said as Jeff Garcia evaded a half dozen tackles and ran for twenty yards. “You had moves like that, River. A sixth-sense about where the defenders were coming from. You could see running lanes before they opened while still keeping an eye on the receivers. All options on the table.”

“Yeah, I did.” I swallowed a lump of pizza that tasted like clay.

“I was talking to Sam Blaylock the other day. He says both Chance and Donte Weatherly are likely to go early in this year’s draft. Isn’t that something?”

“Great,” I said dully.

Three years later and my dad was still holding tight to my imaginary football career the way he held the remote, playing and replaying it in his mind.

I cleared my throat and put on a smile.

“But hey, I have some good news. I secured the loan for another garage extension. Construction can start as soon as next month. Already have two clients lined up and two more hires to help run the rest of the shop.”

“That’s fantastic, son,” Dad said, his eyes on the game. “You’ve really taken the business way beyond anything I’d imagined for it. I’m proud of you.”

“I wish you’d be there more, Dad. Sitting around here isn’t good for you.”

“You have things in hand. You don’t need me.”

“Yeah, I do. It’s still your shop.”

“Nah, it’s yours, River. With all the additions…”

“That’s the restoration. We still need you in the garage. The customers ask for you all the time. Dropping in once or twice a week isn’t enough.”

“We’ll see.”

I sighed and cleaned up the dinner.

“I’m sure Amelia is sad to miss you,” Dad said when I returned from the kitchen. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow. Never hurts to see your ugly mug around these parts.”

“I can’t tomorrow.” I cleared my throat. “I’m going out.”

“With friends?”

“On a date. With a guy.”

Dad’s smile froze and his gaze darted back to the screen. “Anyone I know?”

“No. Someone I met at the shop.”

My father nodded and said nothing else, and suddenly I knew how Amelia felt—lost and scattered. I wished I had Mom to talk to about a first date with someone who wasn’t Holden. My guts twisted with nerves, but mostly with an ugly feeling. As if I were betraying us.

But there is no us.

After I’d left him in Paris, Holden had seemingly pulled his life together. Late last year, he’d published a book, Gods of Midnight, that was now topping bestseller lists and garnering major acclaim from every corner of the literary world. According to an article in Vanity Fair, he was about to embark on a thirty-city book tour.

Book tours and interviews, but not one fucking word to me.

I’d promised Holden I’d wait for him no matter how long it took, but the years were getting longer. With every passing day, it seemed clearer that he’d moved on. Maybe met someone else. Or lots of someone elses, while my heart was firmly locked on his.

I’d rented my own apartment to have some privacy, but every night I came home to an empty space. Ate alone. Slept alone. Irony of ironies, I now had privacy coming out of my eyeballs.

That’s called loneliness.

So when Brad Martin, with his easy smile and nice eyes, asked to grab some dinner at the Mexican restaurant down the road from the shop, I said yes. I had to do something that wasn’t reading Holden’s book cover to cover every night until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I’d sent his journals back to him—they were never mine to keep—and dove into the words he shared with the world. Because that’s where he was.

That’s all I had left of him.

I blinked out of my thoughts and patted my dad on the shoulder. “What about you, Dad? Ever think about getting back out there?”

“Oh no, no,” Dad said gravely, shaking his head. “Your mom…she was the one for me, River. She was something special.”

“Yes, she was,” I said gruffly.

Dad’s eyes on the TV turned glazed and distant. “A woman like her doesn’t come around but once in a lifetime. We were living in Alabama when we met, you know.”

I knew. He’d told me this story a hundred times.

“She would’ve moved with me no matter where I was drafted, but she loved the ocean. When I got injured, we came here. Easiest decision I ever made in my life. I was hurting real bad. Not just my knee, but from missing my shot at the NFL. Seeing her face light up when I told her we were moving to Santa Cruz…” His eyes filled. “That was worth everything.”

His voice cracked and his body bent with sobs. I put my arm around him as best as I could, lending him my strength. But his tears tried to draw out mine; I teetered on the edge of that black pit of grief but couldn’t let myself fall in. Too much was riding on me keeping my shit together.

The roar of an engine sounded from the driveway, followed by a rattle.

“Someone’s got a hole in his exhaust system,” I said.

“That’s Amelia’s prince charming,” Dad said, pulling himself together, wiping his nose on a napkin. “Go kick his ass, would you?”

I smiled. “I gotta get going, actually. I’ll see Amelia before I go.” I stopped at the door. “You’ll be okay?”

“You don’t worry about me.”

Too fucking late.

Worry compounded on top of worry for him and my sister. Instead of holing up like Dad, Amelia was running around but not going anywhere. I hurried down the stairs just as she was coming in. She stopped short when she saw me.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Who was that?”

She immediately rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

I caught her arm before she could head upstairs. “Hey. Talk to me. I just want to know he’s a good guy.”

She snorted. “No, he’s a serial killer. Dad got to you, didn’t he? Told you all kinds of shit about Kyle?”

“I don’t want to hear it from Dad. I’m asking you.”

Amelia’s hard expression softened for a second, as if she felt the distance between us and hated it just as much as I did. Then she hardened again.

“Who I date is none of your business.” She yanked her arm out of my grip and stomped up the stairs. “Go home, River. You don’t live here anymore, remember?”

Her door slammed. I scrubbed both hands over my face and sagged against the wall in the entry where Holden and I had once kissed. We’d mauled each other’s mouths until I couldn’t think or breathe and didn’t want to so long as I had him…

But that was a million years ago. Another life.

I went out, back to my little place that was dark and empty.

The next morning, I was at the shop with Julio and three other guys, a new team I’d hired as both the car restoration and the general repair business grew. Dad didn’t show up though he was on the schedule.

Julio gave me a commiserating smile. “He’ll snap back.”

“When? It’s been three years.”

“When he’s ready. How you doing? You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that every time I ask.”

I mustered a smile. “Then stop asking.”

“No can do, boss. You’ve been working to the bone, after-hours, weekends…”

“Dad’s not showing up. Someone’s got to be here.”

“You’re always here. In the four years I’ve worked with you, you’ve never taken a day off.”

Not true. I flew to Paris. To Holden…

I pushed the thought away, but it stabbed me in the heart anyway.

Julio frowned. “I’m just saying, I’m here, bro. If you ever need some time off, take it.”

“Thanks, man. I will.”

I was lying and we both knew it. There was nothing left for me but the work.

Julio went to handle a customer who’d driven up and I went to assess a full body panel fitment for a ’67 Mustang GT500, when a familiar voice sounded from behind.

“Yo, Whitmore.”

Donte Weatherly stood in the drive, hands in his pockets. He looked good—tall and packed with the lean muscle of a wide receiver. He was dressed in expensive jeans, top-of-the-line basketball shoes, a leather jacket. A thick gold necklace hung around his neck. His smile was as charming as ever; if he ever got tired of football, he could switch to Hollywood, easy.

“Hey,” I said, my stomach tightening. I set down my clipboard and pen and stepped out into the sun. “Can I help you with something?”

“Nah, man, I’m not a customer, though that Mustang looks pretty sweet.”

“It’s coming along.” I crossed my arms. “How’s football life? The draft’s coming up, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re saying I could go in the top ten.”

“That’s what I heard. Awesome, man.” I waited for a twinge of jealousy to find me, that he was living the life I could’ve had. It never came. “Who’re you hoping for?”

“Anyone but the Browns,” he said and laughed. “Kidding. I’m just ready to play.” He cocked his head. “Don’t you miss it?”

“Not even a little.”

“I’m going to have to take a little offense at that. Our signature Whitmore-to-Weatherly bomb was highly satisfying.”

“Those were pretty sweet, but I like cars more.”

“Cool, cool.” Donte’s trademark smile downshifted to a nervous grimace. “So yeah, I just came to see how you’re doing. It’s been awhile. You free to grab dinner or a beer tonight?”

“Can’t,” I said, holding his gaze. “I have a date.”

Donte shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s cool.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I do. Whatever makes you happy, you know?”

“Since when?”

“My girlfriend’s brother is gay. I’ve been getting to know him and—”

“And lo and behold, it dawned on you that gay people are human too?” I snapped, the anger rushing to the fore. I sucked it back in. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I deserve it. And no, it dawned on me that I’ve been an asshole. That you needed my friendship and I didn’t give it to you. I withheld it at the worst fucking time and for the dumbest fucking reason. You are who you are, and I miss you. I miss my friend.”

“Me too,” I said, not realizing how much until I’d said it.

Donte shook his head, remorse painted all over his face. “I’m sorry about all that shit that went down. I should’ve visited you in the hospital after the accident. I should’ve…Christ, I should’ve been at your mom’s funeral. I’m sorry, River. For whatever it’s worth.”

“I’ll take it. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Gratitude washed over his face and he gave me a hug. “I am sorry, man.”

I clapped his back and pulled away before the cracks in the dam began to burst. “It’s all good.”

“So this date…” Donte cleared his throat. “Is he hot or what?”

I burst out laughing.

“Shut up.” He chuckled. “It’s a valid question.”

“I guess he’s good looking. I haven’t really thought about it.”

He’s not Holden.

Donte’s brows scrunched as if he’d read my mind. “Hey, whatever happened to that guy with the silver hair? Holden, right? Weren’t you two together?”

“We were but not anymore,” I said, my throat tightening. “He’s in Europe. Just published a book, actually.”

“Oh yeah? Any good?”

“It’s fucking brilliant,” I said with more energy than I meant to. “I mean, yeah. It’s good.”

“Cool. Well, I’ll let you get to it,” Donte said. “Let’s hang out though, before I’m shipped off.”

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

“All right, man. Good to see you.”

“You too.”

I watched Donte leave, like a ghostly visitation from my former life. I’d been on autopilot for the last few years, letting the days slide over me, filling them with work so I didn’t go crazy missing all the people who were absent from my life. Having Donte back felt good, but the biggest voids remained raw and empty.

I finished up work several hours later, went to my place, showered and changed for my date— feeling like I was about to cheat on Holden.

“Knock it off,” I told myself, pulling on a black T-shirt, jeans, and boots. “He’s not coming back. No calls. No texts. Live your life.”

My life. Whatever that was.

I met Brad at El Palomar, off Pacific Avenue. He was already there and waved me over to a table for two in the center of the restaurant. Brad had dressed in jeans, a blue button down, and a sport coat that made me feel casual by comparison.

“Hey, good to see you,” he said, smiling brightly. He had a nice smile. Thick, light brown hair, nice build, nice eyes.

He’s so…nice, said a sly voice that sounded like Holden. How nice for you…

I smirked to myself, but phantom Holden was right. Brad Martin was nice with a capital N, and he’d make someone a great boyfriend, it just wasn’t going to be me. Before the waiter came to take our drink order I knew we weren’t getting to a second date.

I listened hard as Brad told me about himself, letting him do all the talking while despair sank its teeth deeper with every passing minute. I wanted Holden. Three years gone except for one night in Paris and I was still waiting for him.

When the check came, I grabbed for it quick, ready for the night to be over.

Brad’s hand covered mine over the little tray. “I should get this. I asked you.”

“Nope, I’ve got it.”

I slid my hand out from under his dry touch. I’d wasted his entire night. The least I could do was pay for dinner.

Outside the restaurant, we drew on our jackets and lingered in that awkward, what-do-we-do-now, post-date silence.

“You want to go somewhere?” Brad asked. “Grab a drink?” His nice smile turned suggestive. “I had a good time tonight. Kind of don’t want the night to be over.”

He leaned into me, his breath salty and tinged with his margarita’s biting sweetness. For a heartbeat, I froze, willing to let it happen. For Brad to kiss or even fuck Holden out of me so I could get on with my life.

Instinctively, I reared back before Brad’s lips could touch mine. “Sorry. I can’t. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Uh oh,” Brad said, smiling tightly. “Pretty sure that’s code for this isn’t going to work.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you… I’m getting out of a relationship.”

“Oh yeah? Did it end pretty recently?”

It hasn’t ended.

“Yeah, pretty recent. I thought I was ready to get out there, but I’m just not.”

“Well, it was a nice dinner anyway.”

Brad gave me a hug, and again, I waited for my body—deprived of sex for three years—to respond. But Brad smelled different, felt different in my arms, and I let him go easily.

“Have a good one, River.”

“Yep. You too.”

Holden, you asshole. Where are you?

We went our separate ways, and I drove back to my apartment. I flipped on the light and tossed my keys on the table by the entry. Hard. My heart pounded in my chest and I fought for control.

I stripped down to my underwear and climbed into bed with Gods of Midnight. Again.

Because I’m fucking pathetic.

But in moments, I was lost in the complex story of one man, Oliver, who lives a seemingly perfect life—loving husband and career—but who dreams of another version of himself every night: Jules—who lives a wild, reckless life of sex, drugs, alcohol…and who dreams of Oliver.

Holden seamlessly wove their narratives together until the climax where Oliver and Jules see each other on opposite sides of the same bathroom mirror in a seedy club in Amsterdam. When their reflections touch, they’re transported to a black lake in a snow-covered wasteland. Both struggle to the surface but only one climbs out, shivering and naked. The reader is left not knowing which one emerged or if either truly survived at all. Maybe the life of one man was merely a drug-induced hallucination of the other as he died in that Amsterdam bathroom. Maybe not.

I felt Holden’s conflict dripping from every page, his yearning to be free of his demons, and the relentless power they wielded over him. But the open ending was a big question mark, leaving me without answers.

A sudden growl erupting out of my chest, I hurled the book across the room. The hardcover smacked the dresser and landed face down, pages bent and the spine dented.

“Fuck.”

The silence in the small apartment crowded in, and I nearly let go. Nearly screamed and let every ounce of grief—for my mother and for Holden—come pouring out. I felt it rise in my chest, like a boulder that needed to be coughed up.

It was going to hurt.

It was going to tear me open.

I fought it down while part of me begged to let it out.

My phone rang. Violet. I sucked in a deep breath. Then another. When I trusted my voice, I answered.

“Hey, Violet.”

“Hey, you,” she answered. “You sound terrible. Chest cold?”

I cleared my throat. “No, I’m…fine.”

“Oh, good. I know it’s late, but it’s been too long since we spoke.”

“It’s been about a month. Not that I’m counting,” I added, forcing a smile over my words. “What are you up to? How’s Miller?”

“He’s great. Perfect, actually, now that he’s done with touring.”

“I’m happy for you, Vi.”

“Thanks, River.”

She quickly changed the subject, as if her happiness would chafe against my loneliness. She updated me on her medical school progress and how she and Miller were planning on moving back to California as soon as she graduated from Baylor.

“Having you here will not suck,” I said.

“I can’t wait. I miss it so much. I miss you and Shiloh…”

Her sentence tapered and I could hear the ache in her voice.

“Do you want to talk about her?” I asked slowly. “Or Ronan…?”

“No,” she said quickly. “It’s too sad and I want to talk about you. What are you up to?”

“Guess,” I said bitterly.

“Reading Gods of Midnight.”

“You forgot to add, for the sixth time. Don’t sugarcoat my pathetic existence.”

“Stop. You’re not pathetic. First of all, the book is brilliant. I’ve read it twice myself. Second, it’s all him. Like…he ripped himself open and laid it all out there.”

I closed my eyes. “I know.”

“You still haven’t heard from him?”

“No. So I did something stupid and went on a date.”

“You did?” Violet practically shrieked. “That’s great… Not stupid at all. Why do you say that?”

“Because it was pointless. I wasted the guy’s time and it felt like I was cheating on Holden.”

“River,” Violet said quietly. “It’s been three years since you’ve been with anyone. Two years since you’ve seen him. You’re allowed to live your life.”

“I know but I told him I’d wait for him, no matter how long it takes. But Christ…sometimes I feel like I’m going to implode. Taking care of the family, the business…”

“Who’s taking care of you?” Violet asked gently.

“I’m fine—”

“Stop saying fine. I can hear the hurt in your voice. Makes me want to jump on a plane tonight. How are you, really?”

“Not great,” I admitted. “It’s why I went out, Vi. To make a connection or…I don’t know what. But it was a mistake.”

“Was he an asshole?”

“Just the opposite. He was a good guy. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t anything.” I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. “Maybe I’m not gay after all. Maybe I only want Holden.”

“Or maybe you’re just in love with him.”

“Yeah, well… It’s looking pretty one-sided. At what point do I give up?”

“You don’t. When it’s real, you can’t give up. I’ve loved Miller since we were thirteen years old. Fate and circumstance tried to keep us apart, but it didn’t work. Nothing will. You and Holden will find each other again. I know it.”

“Thanks, Vi,” I said, genuinely grateful for her love and support, but her theory only worked if Holden felt the same way about me.

All I had was his book, but if the answer was within its pages, I couldn’t find it.

Or maybe that was my answer—nothing.

Chapter Thirty-One

“I just got word,” Elliott said excitedly.

My agent rushed into the anteroom of the Frederick P. Rose auditorium. On the other side of the wall, two hundred people were waiting to hear me give a reading of my book, Gods of Midnight.

“You’ve been shortlisted for the National Book Award. The youngest author ever.” He started ticking off items on his fingers. “The youngest author nominated for the National Critics Circle, the PEN/Faulkner, the Lamba Literary… At this rate, the Pulitzer is just around the corner.”

“Okay, okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said, smoothing my jacket in the mirror. “I’m also the youngest author to be banned by six library associations.”

Elliot laughed. “All press is good press, my friend. Chatter about being banned increases interest. And sells more books.”

“We’ve sold plenty of books, Elliott.”

“You won’t be saying that when your royalty checks start rolling in.”

I suppressed a laugh. I could wipe my ass with my royalty checks when compared to the investments I’ve been making with my inheritance.

But no need to be an asshole about it.

Mette Olsen joined us. Tall, with short blond hair and kind blue eyes, my publicist was more like a second therapist; steering my ship to calmer waters when things got choppy. Which was frequently.

“They’re ready for you, Holden,” she said. “Time for kick off. Nervous?”

New York City was the first stop on a thirty-city book tour where I was expected to read passages from my book and take questions from the audience. People who’d paid to see me. Who’d taken time from their day to listen to me babble about my work.

My hand automatically reached for my flask in my black, lightweight jacket. Two years without a drop and you’d think I’d stop reaching, but the thirst never quite went away. It lurked in the corners, especially on days in which Alaska seemed to be breathing down my neck more heavily. Or the days I ached for River.

Which was all of them.

Missing him was the worst thirst, the most gnawing hunger; my hands reached for him in empty hotel beds more than they reached for my flask.

My therapist said I’d been making great progress over the last two years. But she insisted that contacting River was a decision only I could make when I felt ready, no matter how many times I demanded that she tell me to. Like a prescription: see River Whitmore and call me in the morning.

Every time I thought about it, I froze up.

Because he’s moved on. Two more years of silence left him with no choice.

Mette was waiting for an answer.

“Peachy,” I said. “Let’s do this.” I’d started for the door when my phone rang. The family lawyer, Albert Bernard. “Hey, Bernie. Who’s pissed at me now?”

“No one today, but it’s early yet.”

“Progress. And the foundation?”

Instead of sitting on my pile of money or pissing it away, I’d started a foundation for LGBTQA+ kids who’d been kicked out of their homes to have shelter, stay in school, or find work. I would never be as innately good and kind as River, but I could throw money at kind people and let them do good things with it.

“The foundation establishment is going quite well,” Monsieur Bernard said.

“Great. But I’m about to give a talk in front of two hundred people. If there’s no pressing emergency, can I get back to you?”

“I won’t keep you. I just wanted to pass on that I’ve been in touch with your parents.”

“You have.” My hand reached for my empty pocket.

“Yes. They have asked me to pass on two requests. The first being that you not use your real name on your current book.”

Anger roiled in my stomach as the cold began to creep in. “I can’t re-publish a book under a different name. Ludicrous.”

“I attempted to explain this to them, but they are adamant. They’re not happy, specifically that your book with their name on it is banned in some circles due to graphic sexual content and drug use.”

I clenched my teeth. “And the other request?”

“It has come to their attention that you intend to release an interview detailing your time in Alaska as a youth.”

“You make it sound like a wilderness vacation. My time in Alaska was conversion therapy, Bernard, and it nearly killed me. And because programs like it still exist, the very least I can do is anything and everything to get them shut down.”

“I understand. I am only relaying their concerns. They feel it will paint the family in an unflattering light unless their side of the story is also included.”

“Their side…” My eyes widened in disbelief. “By all means. Tell them they are free to tell their side of the story, Bernie. They’re welcome to share with the world how they had a gay son and didn’t want him to be gay anymore, so they tortured him for six months which resulted in a year’s long sanitarium stay which further resulted in him sabotaging the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He had to run away from the one person he loved more than anyone because he didn’t feel he was worthy, because he put that person in danger, and because he’d rather die than do it again. Tell them that.”

I stopped my rant to catch my breath. Mette and Elliot were watching me with wide eyes, then quickly pretended to be doing something else.

“Mr. Parish,” Bernie began quietly. “They asked me to tell you that should you give this interview and fail to remove the Parish name from the book…they intend to disown you.”

I took a step back, my blood running cold; old whispers starting up again.

Worthless. They don’t want you. No one does…

I swallowed hard. “That’s…stupid. They’re too late. I already have their money and I’m twenty-one years old. They can’t disown me—”

“It’s a symbolic gesture, to be sure,” Bernard said in a low voice.

“They don’t want me to have their name.”

“That’s the short of it.”

I leaned against the wall of the anteroom, the phone clutched in my hand so hard, my knuckles ached. “What about my aunt and uncle? Any word from them?”

I hated how pathetic I sounded. Weak and needy. Reg and Mags had moved back to their Florida mansion after I left Santa Cruz. They had no way to contact me, except through Bernard.

“I have not heard from them, no.”

I nodded, conscious that Mette and Elliot were waiting for me.

“Forget what I told you to tell my parents,” I said. “This is my answer to their two requests: fuck you and fuck off. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to give a reading of my banned book.”

I hung up, turned the phone on silent and shoved it in my pocket with trembling hands. My therapist’s advice came back: I breathed over the whispering voices, listening to the soft in-and-out instead of them.

I’m alive. I’m still here.

When I felt warmer, I forced a bright smile for Mette and Elliot.

“Sorry about that. A little unpleasantness with the family.”

“Are you all right?” Mette asked.

“No,” I said, smiling gratefully. “But I’m getting there.”

Mette smiled gently and pressed a copy of Gods of Midnight into my hand. “They’re going to love you.”

And that’s not nothing, I thought and stepped out onto the stage.

Thunderous applause greeted me, accompanied by a few cheers and whistles. It rolled through me—the approval and acceptance…I almost turned back around. But I sucked in a steadying breath and gripped the edge of the podium with both hands.

“Hi, my name is Holden and I’m an alcoholic,” I said. “Woops, wrong group.”

Laughter tittered through the crowd.

“It’s surreal to see so many of you here for me and my naughty little book but thank you for coming.”

Another round of cheers and applause; smiling faces waiting to hear what I had to say.

“I’m supposed to give a reading of Gods of Midnight, but I’ve changed my mind. If you’ve read the book, you’ll be bored. If you haven’t, I’ll spoiler it. Plus, I don’t need to read my own stuff out loud. I can—and do—jerk myself off any time I want; no need to do it with an audience.”

More laughter and a few whistles.

“Instead of reading, I’m just going to skip right to the question and answer.”

A hundred hands went up.

“If your question is about the ending, put your hand down.”

Ninety percent of the hands went down.

I laughed. “You have your ending. I’m not telling you mine. Next question.”

A few good-natured boos and laughs went through the crowd, and then a guy in the back wearing a dark jacket and baseball cap raised his hand.

“Jules suffers through pretty intense drug and alcohol addiction,” he said. His voice sounded vaguely familiar. “You’ve said that this book is a fictional memoir. If it’s not too personal, is any of that character based on real experience?”

“Art is personal. And yes, my little joke at the beginning isn’t much of a joke. I’m an alcoholic, but I’ve been sober for two years.”

Applause ripped through the auditorium making my eyes sting. I tried to get a better look at the guy but someone else was asking a question. More followed: about my ideas, my inspiration, and how someone as young as twenty-one could write with such depth.

“When you go down into the abyss,” I answered, “you come back out with something to say.”

When the Q&A was over, the attendees lined up to have their books signed. Mette and Elliot flanked me to assist in keeping the chain of books moving.

I signed my signature and scribbled out a note to each reader; their names already spelled out on Post-It notes to ensure I didn’t fuck up the inscription. Many attendees told me how much what I’d written had meant to them. I didn’t know what to do with compliments, but I muddled through, being as grateful and gracious as possible.

Finally, we came to the last attendee. A book slid in front of me. The Post-It read Silas.

I froze, then slowly lifted my gaze to Silas Marsh.

He wore a blue shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap that he took off as he gave me a tentative smile. Silas’s hair was the same chrome blond I’d remembered in Alaska only instead of ragged and dirty and hanging in his face, it was cut short and swept off his brow. He’d been nearly eighteen then, stronger and bigger than me. Now he glowed with health, his body filling out his clothes, standing tall when he’d been so broken in Alaska.

“Silas,” I managed.

“Hey, Holden,” his own voice thick. “It’s been awhile.”

I rose on shaking legs, part of me wanting to run away as the demons of Alaska whispered. Memories returning, one on top of the other. But now I had tools. Weapons to fight back. It had taken two years and the work wasn’t done yet—it might never be done. But when the cold reached for me with icy fingers, I remembered Silas’s kindness instead. When I shivered in that drafty cabin until I thought my bones would shatter, he’d lain on that hard floor and put his arms around me, sharing what little warmth he had. For a few moments, I’d been safe.

Silas tried for a grin, but his eyes were shining, and suddenly I was rushing around the table at him. We embraced hard; he held my shaking shoulders and I felt his chest hitch with shallow breaths.

We pulled away quickly, wiped our eyes, laughing and crying and then hugging again.

“Shit, it’s good to see you, Holden. You look great.”

“So do you. I feel like I’m dreaming. What are you doing here?”

“I was searching online for something to read and saw your name. I couldn’t believe it was you; I even doubted the author photo on the back. But then I read your book and—holy shit—I cried like a goddamn baby. Alaska was all there. Even in the scenes where it wasn’t.”

“I had to get it out.”

“Did you?”

“It will always be a part of me. I’m just getting better at not letting it control my every waking fucking moment. You?”

“Same, but it’s been a goddamn journey.”

“Tell me about it. My parents disowned me about eight seconds before I took the stage.”

Silas’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Then I’m even more proud of you. Is it too soon to say that?”

“I’ll take it,” I said with a grateful smile. “Let’s go somewhere. I want to hear everything.”

Although I had an after-party and photo op, I canceled it all, and Silas and I went to a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant in Midtown. I ordered Kung Pao chicken and watched Silas fumble his chopsticks through a giant bowl of chow mein. We talked a little about my book and he told me he’d taken his family’s vast pharmaceutical fortune and used it to clean up the opioid crisis it’d helped to create.

“I’m going to guess you didn’t pick that as your cause by accident,” I said slowly. “You’re the one who asked me about addiction at the Q&A.”

“It had me for a while. I needed to feel something, even if it was manufactured. But Alaska was even stronger than dope. It taught me it was better to feel nothing than something ‘wrong’ or ‘unnatural.’ I lived that way for a long time. Like a robot in human skin.”

“I went the other way,” I said. “Everything they told us was wrong, I did. Like a sad, little rebellion that hurt me more. But I felt possessed sometimes, by forces beyond my control. They were always whispering that I was no good. Not worthy of anything. So when I met someone who was the physical embodiment of good, I sabotaged it.”

Silas’s eyes lit up. “You met someone?”

I nodded. “But I’m pretty sure I thoroughly fucked it up. I’ve seen him once in three years.”

“Why?

“My therapist says I grew up in an ‘atmosphere of deprivation.’ River was an infusion of everything I’d gone without—a disruption of the status quo. Being with him was too good.” Tears threatened. “I fought us every step of the way.”

“This River was good to you?”

“The best.”

“I like him already.” Silas took a bite of spring roll. “But why not give it another try? You’re not in the same place you were the last you saw him.”

“True. I’m off the booze. And I’ve been celibate for two long years which, if you know me, is as improbable as a lunar eclipse, Halley’s comet, and meteor shower all happening at the same time.”

My breath caught as a meteor shower and my perfect night with River—our first time—came rushing back to me…

“That’s not nothing,” Silas said, echoing my own thoughts from earlier.

“Once I got a little bit of clarity, it was easy,” I said. “I never wanted anyone after River. I still don’t.”

“So what are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know. I’m scared of fucking it up again. That I’m not well enough.”

Silas thought for a moment and folded his hands on the table. “I was where you were just a year ago. And then I met someone.”

I sat back in my chair. “Oh damn. The way you said that just now tells me everything I need to know. You’re madly in love with him.”

Silas chuckled. “Damn straight. His name’s Max and he’s…everything. Better than anything I believed was possible. But it hasn’t been easy. I have a therapist too, I go to meetings, and Alaska still tries to infiltrate our happiness. But when it does, Max helps me. Because he loves me as much as I love him. I don’t know this River, but he sounds a lot like my Max.”

“I’d give my right testicle to call him my River.”

“It’s not too late.”

“It could be. He may have settled down already. He wants a house with a white picket fence and 2.5 kids while I have wanderlust in my blood.”

“So you compromise.” Silas leaned over the table. “Look. When you’re down in the shit, it’s impossible to imagine a better life than what you have. But it’s there. You just have to trust yourself enough to reach for it.”

Suddenly I was on the damn verge of tears. “What if he’s given up on me?”

“If he has, you’ll survive it. You’ve made it this far. But do you honestly think that’s possible?”

“I never told him,” I said in a broken whisper. “He told me he loved me, and I never said it back. Not where he could hear it.”

“Go to wherever he is, and you just say it.”

“Because it’s that easy.”

“No, it’s scary as shit,” Silas said. “But damn, Holden. Think of what could be waiting for you on the other side.”

The waiter came by and dropped the check. I reached for it, but Silas was faster. He tried to pull it toward him, but I held on and a mini tug-of-war ensued.

“Look at us,” I said. “Two idiot billionaires fighting over who gets to pick up a thirty-dollar tab. When the revolution comes, they’re going to hang us first.”

Silas threw back his head and laughed, and I snagged the bill.

Outside, the night air was warm and thick—summer in New York City, and I wore only a lightweight jacket. A major achievement, even if no one knew it.

River would know it. He’d notice instantly.

“I have to get home to Seattle,” Silas said. “But let’s keep in touch, okay?”

“We’d better. When I get back to the book tour, I have a date in Seattle. Bring your Max.”

“When you get back to the tour? Does this mean you’re pausing to go to your River?”

I heaved a breath. “I have to take a shot. I love him too much.”

Silas’s eyes filled. “You know that’s a victory over Alaska, right? Being able to love someone without the self-hate, shame, and guilt getting in the way. We gotta grab our victories wherever and whenever we can and hold on.”

I nodded, my own eyes stinging. I pulled Silas in for a hug. “Thank you for coming. And for what you did for me in Alaska. You saved me that night and they punished you for it—”

“I’d do it a hundred times over,” Silas said fiercely, his voice gruff. “But you saved me too, Holden. You kept me sane. I wouldn’t have made it out if it weren’t for you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said. “But I’m trying.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

I stopped by Amelia’s favorite Thai food restaurant on the way to my twice-weekly dinner at home. A peace offering. She was hardly speaking to me anymore and Dad said she was getting home late most nights. Lots of noise, loud music, shouting, and people he didn’t know coming in and out of his house.

It hurt my heart because I knew my sister, and this wasn’t her. She was on a downhill slide, from ditching classes years ago, to hanging with assholes. Something worse was coming if things didn’t change.

I pulled up to the house and found a ’92 Dodge Challenger idling in the driveway, white but dirty and scratched. It rattled and spat plumes of exhaust. Two figures were in the front seat arguing; I heard muffled shouting—one voice low and harsh, one belonging to my sister.

Something worse…

I got out of my truck with the bag of takeout just as the guy made a fast move, and Amelia’s head jerked back and struck the passenger window. The sound of her head connecting with the glass dropped the food from my fingers. I froze for a split second and then rage coursed through me like jet fuel. I took long strides for the Dodge, my breath rasping in and out of my nose.

Amelia pushed out of the passenger door and slammed it shut, crying and holding her face. The guy—Kyle—wore ripped jeans, Chucks, and a stained T-shirt. He came around the front of his car, charging after her.

“Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you,” he bellowed, whipping his dirty blond hair out of his eyes.

“Leave me alone!” Amelia screamed, backing away. The right side of her cheek was swollen, and a bruise was forming on her temple.

Kyle strode toward her, fist raised. “I told you, never—”

The rest of his words cut off with a whuff as I tackled him around the waist. My face scraped pavement as we both went down hard.

“River!” Amelia screamed from somewhere distant.

I could hardly see or hear for the red haze that had dropped over my vision and the blood thrashing in my ears. I rolled the guy over onto his back, straddling him, and smashed my fist across his face. His head whipped to the side, blood splattering.

“Fuck you, asshole!” he spat.

He threw a punch, but it glanced off my chin. I gripped him by the shirt collar, hauling him up and smacking his head back onto the pavement.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch her, do you hear me?” I raged. “If I see you near my sister again, I’ll kill you.”

Kyle snarled and his hand jabbed out. A grating pain exploded in my throat, and he scuttled out from under me. I scrambled to my feet, gasping for breath, putting myself between him and Amelia.

“What the hell is this?” asked a voice behind us.

My dad was striding out of the house, hands in fists, his face more animated than I’ve seen in years—twisted in rage. He looked like the football player he’d once been, charging down the line, ready to rip someone’s head off. He took one look at Amelia’s swelling eye and his expression turned murderous.

“Did you do that to my daughter?”

Kyle, now outnumbered, backed off. “Hey man, it’s cool. Things got a little out of hand.”

“You’re going to jail, asshole,” I said as Amelia clutched my arm and buried her face in my back.

“Go ahead and call the cops,” Kyle said, though his voice quavered. “You assaulted me. You slammed my head in the ground—”

“I’m going to do a lot more than slam your head in the ground,” Dad said, his voice shockingly loaded with danger. He backed Kyle up against his car and gripped the front of his shirt, fist raised. “Son, you’re going to wish you were never born…”

“Get off me!”

Kyle shoved my dad back and ran around the other side of his car. He jumped in, tires squealing, the engine sputtering and belching black smoke. I read the license plate as he peeled out, leaving two black streaks on our driveway.

When he was gone, Amelia flew into Dad’s arms. He hugged her tight, stroking her hair.

“Oh, my sweet girl. I’m sorry. Are you okay? I’m so sorry…”

She shook her head against his chest. Over her shoulder, Dad met my eyes.

“What about you, son?”

“I’m fine,” I gritted out. “I’ll call the cops.”

We all went inside the house and later, two police officers arrived to take Amelia’s statement. After seeing her bruised face, the officers felt they had probable cause to arrest Kyle. They said they’d keep us updated and give us further instructions when he was in custody.

Amelia and Dad sat on the couch long after they’d gone while I paced in a small circle. Dad had his arm around my sister, and she was reluctant to leave the comfort of his embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Amelia said brokenly. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s almost like I’m daring bad things to happen to me just so I can feel…anything else.”

“It’s my fault,” Dad said. “I owe you both an apology. I’ve been sleepwalking. I just…I miss your mom so much. Every day. But you both deserve better. I’m going to do better, I promise.” He glanced down at Amelia. “I just wish it hadn’t taken you getting hurt for me to wake up.”

They hugged again and Amelia looked to me. “River? You’re so quiet.” She crumpled into tears again. “Oh God, your face…”

“Just a scratch,” I said.

My heart was still pounding, my hands still in fists, ready to punch something. Tackling that asshole had awoken something in me too; dams were breaking, and I wished Kyle were still here so I could hit him again and again…

“I gotta get some air.”

“River, wait.” Dad rose from the couch. “You’ve been working so hard, keeping everything together. I’m going to try to do better by you, too. I’ll do my work at the shop and at home to make us the kind of family your mom wanted us to be. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said tightly.

“I know you don’t trust me. You have no cause to, but—”

“It’s fine. I believe you. I just… I have to go. You going to be okay, Amelia?”

She nodded. “Thank you, River.”

I muttered a goodbye and left them both staring after me. I hated how I was worrying them, but it faded fast. I had nothing left to give.

I pushed out the front door, no clue what I was doing or where I was going. My pulse was clanging a heavy beat, and my hand ached where I’d punched Kyle. I flexed my stiff fingers, but they wanted to ball into a fist again. The urge to run away came back—to just run and run until I collapsed and then sleep for a million years.

I wandered to my truck with the vague idea to go back to my apartment. I’d left my driver door open, Thai food splattered all over the driveway and Holden was getting out of a black sedan…

I stopped short, staring at the mirage that had to be three years old—the black car with James in the driver seat, and Holden…

He wore jeans, boots, a stylish, tight-fitting shirt—black with one white stripe down the left side—and a lightweight jacket that was appropriate for the weather. No scarf, no sweater, no heavy coat. Christ, he looked beautiful. Another two years had filled his clothes out even more with lean muscle, broader shoulders. But his skin—still pale—was glowing with health.

“Are you really here?”

“I’m here,” he said, coming toward me, studying my face, his gaze sharpening. “Who did that to you?”

“Doesn’t matter. What’s happening?” I asked warily, not trusting myself. But Holden was almost in front of me now, a few feet away. I could see the green of his eyes and the small mole high on his left cheek.

“I came to see you.” He swallowed hard. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. I’m really fucking not okay.” I scraped my hands through my hair. “Some asshole just hit my sister, so I fought him, and the police were here and now you’re here…”

“I’m here,” he said again, moving closer.

I took a step back. “I don’t…I can’t…”

“River.” Holden’s voice was low and still. Calm. “What do you need?”

It was breaking. Brick by brick, the dam was coming down. My breath was coming in heaving gasps.

“I have to get out of here. I don’t know where to go…”

“I do. Come with me.”

Feeling as if I were in a dream, I followed him, and then I was in the sedan, James nodding at me from the front seat. He drove us down to the Cliffs; I recognized the parking lot with the utility shed.

“Wait here, please,” Holden told James.

“Yes, sir.”

Gracefully, he slid out of the seat with a tranquility I’d never seen in him before. Or maybe I was just too wound up and on the verge of exploding and Holden seemed calm by comparison.

He led me down a path on the beach, over rocks and in between large boulders. The way was not easy; at one point water lapped at my boots and the ground seemed too rocky where the cliffs had spilled down into the ocean.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Someplace I should’ve taken you a long time ago.”

The path finally grew easier; the ocean receded to a safe distance. We rounded a final boulder, larger than the rest. There was a shack built against the heavy slate rock, sand-worn and weather-beaten, the door hanging off one hinge.

“No one has been here in years, but this is where we hung out,” Holden said, the sun beginning to set behind him, turning his silvery hair gold. “The Lost Boys. This is where I belonged. Then Miller started bringing Violet, and Ronan brought Shiloh. I wanted to bring you,” he said, his voice thick. “But we were a secret.”

“Why are you bringing me here now?”

“Because this is a place where you can be yourself. You can be whoever you are and there is no judgement. There’s just you and the ocean.” He moved closer to me, his hand slipping into mine. “Let it go,” he whispered, his words torn by the wind. “This is where you do it. This is where you let it all go.”

I nodded, understanding flooding me. I staggered away from him, past a dip in the sand where there’d been a fire pit. Pieces of wood, white and gray, lay mostly buried by sand—skeletons of old bonfires. I walked down to the shore to the ocean that was waiting, offering to take anything I had to give. Grief—the howling pain of it—welled up in my chest, black and rotten from having never seen the light of day.

My breath hitched and a sound rumbled up my throat, and I let it out. I screamed out three years’ worth. Behind my closed eyes, the agony of losing my kind, funny, beautiful mother stared at me full in the face and I had no choice but to stare back.

Memories rushed through me—her smile, her laughter, her gentle words at night when I’d had a nightmare. Making dumb jokes with me; holding baby Amelia with so much love, she was glowing with it… I let it all out, an inhuman cry that made me more human than I’d been in a long time. Then I dropped to my knees in the sand and sobbed. Huge, wracking sobs that bent me in half.

For a few moments, I was alone on that beach, and then I felt his arms around me. Holden knelt in the sand and held me just when I thought I was about to break apart. I gripped his jacket and clung to him even as more sobs poured out of me. He said nothing. Just let me be.

Finally, the sobs tapered off leaving me drained and exhausted. I took heaving, hiccupping breaths over and over until the calm, like a tide, came in to fill the emptiness.

Holden’s arms around me tightened. He inhaled a breath, then let it out.

“I love you.”

The wind took the words and ran away with them. I wondered if I’d heard him right. I raised my head. “What…?”

“I love you,” Holden said. “I’m in love with you, River.”

His green eyes were clear, and the usual caustic tint in his voice was gone, leaving his words raw and naked.

“I could’ve told you a thousand times over the years, but I thought it wouldn’t have meant anything coming from someone like me. Someone fucked up and broken. Alaska taught me that, and it’s taken me a long time to unlearn it. I still am.” He shook his head, tears brimming in his green eyes, turning them liquid. “I’m sorry for every single ounce of pain I’ve ever caused you, River. But I love you and if you give me a chance, I’ll make up all those years. Every second.” He swallowed. “Or…if you want me to go, I’ll go. If it’s too late—”

“It’s not too late,” I said, holding him tighter “I love you, too. Christ, I’m so in love with you, I don’t know how I made it through all the days until this one.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, bringing his mouth to mine and kissing me softly. “I’m so sorry. But I needed the time to make myself good for you, because you’re so good, River. The best of us. You deserve the best I can give you.”

“I don’t give a shit about what I deserve,” I said, roughly gripping him around the collar, my hands cupping his jaw. “I just want you. I love you. I love you so much…”

Words dissolved as we kissed, deep and perfect. Pure. Kisses that bonded us with unspoken promises. We fell back in the sand doing nothing but holding each other and kissing. Reconnecting and reacquainting. Remembering his mouth, the taste of him…his body that felt stronger. He was stronger. I felt the vitality of him thrumming under my hands.

We sat for a long time, until the sun had nearly disappeared, taking the heat with it. Then we got up and headed back, Holden taking a last look at the Shack.

“It’s a good place,” I said.

He smiled wistfully. “We’ll be back here someday. All of us.”

We made the journey to the car in silence, just content being in each other’s presence. James drove us to my place.

“It’s not much,” I told Holden, unlocking the front door. “Not what you’re used to.”

He glanced around, hands in his pockets, a very Holden-esque look on his face.

“It looks un-lived in.”

“Pretty much. I don’t really live here.”

“But do you have a bed? That’s the question.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, I have a bed.”

“I can work with that.”

Holden took hold of my hand and poked his way nosily through my place until we got to the bedroom.

“Strip,” he ordered.

“Holden…”

He waved his hand. “Despite the raging urge to attack you where you stand, I’m going to behave myself. You need to sleep. You look dead on your feet.”

He was right. It was still relatively early, but I could hardly keep my eyes open. Having him here was too good. Like a dream. I was going to wake up any second and be alone in this empty apartment again, lying in an empty bed.

“Wait,” I said as Holden removed his jacket and shoes. “What are we doing?”

“I just told you. We’re taking a nap.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Holden. I mean, what are you doing here? I haven’t heard a word from you in two years and I’m feeling a little fucking raw right now. Honestly, I don’t know what I can handle. If you’re just going to take off again—”

“I’m not, I swear it,” he said quietly. “But you’re literally swaying on your feet. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know but please lie down before you fall down.”

I stripped down to my boxers, my limbs feeling like they weighed a hundred pounds each. We climbed into bed facing each other.

“I missed your face,” I said tiredly. “But I’m afraid if I close my eyes…”

Pain flashed over Holden’s features. “I know. I wanted to call you every day—every fucking second—over the last two years, but I had some work to do.”

“Like what? Aside from writing a critically-acclaimed bestseller.”

Holden didn’t smile. “I’ve been sober for two years. I found a therapist I click with. I go to meetings.”

“You quit drinking?” My sluggish brain tried to process all of this. “Damn, that’s amazing. I’m so happy for you.”

“That’s not all I gave up. I haven’t so much as looked at another man since our night in Paris.”

“No one?”

He shook his head. “I’m trying to be good for you, River. But I had to be good for myself first.” He glanced down uncertainly. “But I understand if you…I mean, if you’ve been with other guys. You’d have every right…”

I grinned, watching him stammer and fumble.

He scowled. “Something funny?”

“You’re fucking adorable when you grovel.”

“I’m happy my discomfort amuses you, but can you please put me out of my misery and tell me if there’s someone else?”

I gave his arm a tired shove. “I told you, I only love you, dummy.”

“You never took another model out for a test drive? Never?”

“I tried. Once. Just last week, actually.”

Holden’s jaw ticked. “Yeah? How’d that go? Cataclysmically awful, I hope.”

“You’re even more adorable when you’re being possessive,” I said and smoothed the frown off his lips with my fingertips. “Nothing happened. He wasn’t you. I told you, you’re it for me, Holden. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

His green eyes shone. “Me too. There’s no one else, River. And I’m going to be here for you however you need me to be. I’m supposed to be on a thirty-city book tour, but I’ll cancel all of it. Or you can come with me, but I don’t want to be apart from you again.”

“You’d be willing to stay in Santa Cruz? You hate it here.”

“It’s grown on me.” His smile softened. “And it’s where you are. I might go slightly stir crazy if we don’t travel now and then, but that’s nothing we can’t work out, right?”

“We can work it out.” I smiled, and something settled into a place deep inside me. The last of my tension and uncertainty fled, and my eyes fell shut.

Holden rolled me to my side, pulled my back to his chest and wrapped his arms around me. “Sleep. You need the rest.”

“I need you.”

Holden held me tight, his lips on my neck, softly kissing.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I dreamed of Kyle, my fist raising to strike him and Amelia crying. I dreamed of my father coming back to life after a three-year hibernation. I dreamed of me on my knees in front of the ocean, screaming my pain into the wind.

And Holden…

I jerked awake and sat up. The room was dim; the clock said it was close to eleven at night. The familiar ache clenched my heart.

I dreamed him.

I rolled onto my back and a figure in the bed beside me stirred. Holden lay on his side, reaching for me in his sleep. His hand landed on my chest and joy flooded in, erasing the ache.

Holden peeked open one eye and smiled. Beautiful, without irony or protective walls up to guard him.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

I nodded against the pillow. “The grief is still there, but I’m not afraid of it anymore.”

“I know what you mean. My book did that for me. Like one long scream into the wind.”

“I’m proud of you for doing that.”

“I’m proud of me too,” he said dryly. “For lying half-naked in the same bed with you for hours and not losing my goddamn mind.”

With a rough sound in my chest, I pushed him back and lay on top of him, his body warm and heavy and real beneath me. I ground my hips against his. Once. Slowly.

He groaned. “Fuck, River.”

“Yes, that.”

His eyes widened at my feral tone, and his pulse jumped in the hollow of his throat. I bent my head and laid a kiss there, then dragged my tongue up toward his jaw, forcing his head back, exposing his throat. His breath caught, and his hands on my waist gripped me hard, pulling me to him. I worked my way up his chin, then took his lower lip in a long, slow suck.

Heads level now, Holden’s eyes met mine. Green fire burned through me, and beneath that, love.

My heart full and my body wide awake, I kissed him. A hard invasion, my tongue demanding entry and him giving it, opening for me. He cinched me tighter to him, his legs locking around mine, our erections straining against our underwear. Holden engaged in the kiss, taking as much as giving, his tongue sliding against mine and pushing into my mouth, exploring every corner, consuming.

“Missed you,” I whispered against his lips.

“Me too…Christ, River I had no idea it could be this good.”

Three years’ worth of unspent emotion gathered between us, twin storms ready to be unleashed on the other. Our kisses turned biting, needy, our heads angling again and again to leave nothing untasted. I had him pressed hard against the bed, and my hips thrust against his. Holden spread his thighs, allowing me in the V of his legs, his own hips rising to meet mine. We moved as if we were fucking already, cocks straining, aching for skin.

I braced myself over him so that I could engulf him completely. Take him how I wanted to take him. But Holden was strong, his body taut with lean muscle and a need as great as mine. He pushed me off of him and climbed on top of me, straddling my thighs.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he said, his voice low and rough.

The promise in those words was almost a threat, heating my blood with the visions and fantasies of us I’d been carrying around with me.

Holden nodded as if he read my thoughts, a seductive curl to his lips. His hand slipped down between us, to palm my cock over my underwear, then gripped my length. I pressed up into his touch. His breath caught and his tongue slid over his lips.

“I nearly forgot how big you are.”

“Christ, Holden…”

“I’m going to ride this cock, River,” he said, giving me another squeeze. “I’m going to make you come so hard, you’ll want to sleep again.” He bent over me, whispering hotly. “But I won’t let you.”

Fuck.

My chest tightened, my cock swollen and leaking, begging for him. Holden rolled off me long enough to strip out of his underwear. His own erection was huge and iron hard, and just the sight of it made my mouth water. His entire body was a feast—sculpted to perfection over the last two years when it’d already been perfect. Perfectly male and hard and everything I wanted.

He stripped me out of my boxers and my cock sprang free, sending anticipation shooting through me like electricity.

“You’re beautiful,” Holden said, gazing at my naked body. “I missed you. Every part of you.” He bent and reverently laid a kiss on the tip of my cock. Then he dragged his tongue over my length in a long, slow lick with the wicked gleam in his eye that I loved so much.

“I won’t last ten seconds…” I warned, making fists in the sheets.

“You have what we need?”

I jerked my head at the nightstand where I’d kept a stash—unused and gathering dust—waiting for this night. Holden rummaged in the drawer and came up with a condom packet and a small bottle of lube.

I pushed myself to sitting, Holden still straddling my thighs, and took the bottle out of his hand.

“Let me.”

We kissed again, molding our mouths around each other’s as I coated my fingers, then reached between his legs to ready him for me. Holden’s head fell back at the first touch; my lips grazed his chin as he moaned.

“Yes,” he whispered. “So good…”

Good wasn’t good enough. I wanted it to be perfect. For him and for me. For us. The years were falling away, minute by minute. Every touch, every heated breath, every kiss a promise that there’d be no more cold nights in empty beds.

Holden rocked on my two fingers and gasped when I added a third. I watched the grimace of pleasure play over his face. Kissed his moans off his lips and drank them down.

Finally, he broke away breathlessly. “No more. I’m ready. Holy fuck, I’m so ready.”

I withdrew my hand while he rolled a condom over me. I used more lube and coated myself, stroking my aching cock while Holden watched.

“Now,” he breathed. “I want you inside me now.”

He pushed me back to the pillows and I positioned myself beneath him. My heart crashed in my chest as he slowly lowered himself down, his incredible tightness wrapping around me. I grit my teeth, held his forearms until he’d taken all of me.

“Ah, Christ,” Holden groaned, his neck and abs tight with the strain.

Then he breathed, the tension loosening. I bit back a groan as he began to move, slowly at first, then faster. I gripped his thighs, feeling the muscles tense under his skin as he brought himself down on me, over and over. I rose to meet him in a steady rhythm, a thousand sensations in me, drawing my release out of me like a sucking tide.

Holden gazed down at me, watching my every reaction, drinking it up greedily, his body drawing me up, higher and higher. His cock jutted between us, dripping and swollen and neglected. I reached for him, but he shook his head.

“If you touch me, I’m going to come.”

“I want you to come,” I breathed tightly. “All over me.”

Holden moaned, both of us moving faster now. I gripped his cock and stroked him in time to our increasingly desperate rhythm. He rode me hard and I met him with fierce upward thrusts. I couldn’t get deep enough in him, couldn’t give him enough of myself.

Everything. I want to give him everything.

With a strangled grunt, Holden came on my chest and stomach. The heated release burned through me and I moved like a man possessed, gripping his hips and driving into him hard until my own release was cresting.

“Holden…” I gritted out.

“Come, baby,” he whispered, leaning over me now, our hands locked, fingers intertwined. “Come inside me. Right now…”

My body obeyed. I let go, just as I had on the beach that day. A different release of pent up pain, love, and lust that’d had nowhere to go. Until now.

I came hard, the orgasm tensing every muscle, stealing my breath. Holden took it all, slowing our movements to make it last, drawing it out until I sank deep against the pillows, boneless and heavy.

Holden moved off of me and I pulled him close, chest to chest, his release sealing us together, our hearts beating against the other, our breaths slowing together. He buried his face in the crook of my neck and we lay there for long moments, reveling in the feel of each other, touching everywhere.

Finally, Holden raised his head, hair tousled, eyes shining. “I’m about to say something extremely emotional and honest. Don’t hold it against me.”

“You can say anything to me.”

He swallowed hard. “Thank you for loving me when I didn’t.”

I cupped his cheek like I’d done in the pool one warm night long ago, when I promised pain on anyone who’d hurt him. But he’d fought his own battles and come out, bruised and scarred but still fighting.

“Thank you for giving me back to myself,” I said, tears in my own eyes. “And I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“When you left, I thought the loneliness would kill me. But I realized today at the Shack that I’d made you lonely, too. I made you lonely while we were still together, when my stupid fears and self-doubt kept us in hiding. I’m so sorry for that, Holden. You deserve to be loved out loud.”

His lips trembled and I kissed him, tasted his tears, and we fell into each other again and for the rest of the night, building a future with every kiss and touch.

The day dawned, and we woke wrapped in each other. Holden was warm in my arms and I made a new vow that I’d never let anyone take anything from him again.

Epilogue

One year later…

“Don’t peek or I’ll send it back,” I say, leading River out into the scorching summer heat down to the garage of our new house.

We’d closed a month ago on a four-bed, three bath modest little number (modest by my standards) that had a pool I didn’t want but River insisted on. It was the only thing he’d insisted on, other than we not spend a fortune on it.

“I want a home, not a house,” he’d said.

Couldn’t argue with that.

“You’re peeking, aren’t you?”

River chuckles, one hand over his eyes. “I’m not, promise. I’m actually scared to look.”

We arrive at the garage and my pulse kicks up a little. “All right, have at it.”

River pulls his hand away and then stares. “Holy shit… That’s a 1967 Pontiac GTO sports coupe,” he says in awe, walking around the rusted red eyesore that is going to be residing in our garage for the next six months. “Only about seven thousand ever made.”

He comes around beside me, his smile ridiculously beautiful. “Who’s is it? What’s the job?”

“No job. It’s yours.”

His blue eyes widen, and I could cry at how touched he is over this decrepit jalopy.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? To make you happy. What other reason could I possibly have to—?”

River hauls me to him and presses his mouth to mine in a deep kiss. I sag, falling into him instantly. They used to call me a vampire, but River’s kisses drain me of rational thought and leave me dizzy and weak, the sexy bastard.

“Thank you, Holden. I love it.”

“Then it’s the best piece of junk I ever bought.”

“When I’m done with it, it won’t look like junk.”

No, the faded red paint will be gleaming, and the rusted chrome will shine again.

Because that’s what he does, I think, watching River admire the car. He brings things back to life.

“It’s more for me than for you, anyway,” I add. “You spend so much time at the shop, depriving me of the pleasure of you in your work clothes, greased and sweaty, bent over a car…”

“I’ll bend you over this car right now,” River says, his voice gruff as he pulls me tighter to him.

My hand slips down the front of his jeans. “I dare you…” I squeeze.

He groans, then removes my hand. “That’s one way to introduce ourselves to our neighbors.”

“The fun way.”

River laughs as we head back to the house. “Don’t forget. We have dinner at Dad’s tonight.”

“Forget? You’ve reminded me at least ten times since this morning.”

“I know, but…”

River doesn’t finish his sentence. I narrow my eyes. “We have dinner at your Dad’s all the time. It’s not exactly life and death if we’re late.”

River runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I just…have a lot going on at the shop. Maybe I’m reminding you, so I don’t forget.”

“Uh huh. Should I invite Beatriz?”

“I already did.”

The plot thickens…

“I wasn’t aware you kept a direct line to my tia.”

“I love her too.” River grins. “You need to learn to share.”

Beatriz retired on the Holden Parish Pension Plan. She wouldn’t let me give her as much as I wanted but enough to live comfortably and visit family in Salvador, Brazil any time she feels like it. She’s a frequent guest at our dinners with River’s dad and sister and will be at our home too, once we’re settled in.

I start to make a snappy retort when River jerks to a stop. I follow his gaze and freeze.

Margaret and Reginald Parish are walking up the drive. Reg is carrying a large gift, wrapped in silver paper and tied with a light green bow. The day is hot, and he’s wearing a Polo and shorts; she’s in a sundress. They’re both wearing hopeful, nervous smiles.

“Is that them?” River asks in a low, angry voice.

“No, my parents would never look that human, even in disguise. That’s my aunt and uncle.”

After I returned from my self-imposed exile, I left the door open to talk and reconnect with Reg and Mags through Bernard. That had been a year ago and Bernie had nothing to report. Except the news that my parents had officially disowned me.

And made it public.

Gods of Midnight remained under my name, and I did the interview in which I revealed—in graphic detail—the conversion therapy program they’d sent me to.

My parents had retaliated by taking out a full page in the Seattle Times. I’d been a “destructive force” in their life since my childhood. Incorrigible. Promiscuous. An embarrassment. Alaska was a last attempt at discipline, but I’d continued to shame the family name, even after they’d generously granted me my inheritance.

They concluded their little exposé by declaring that I was heretofore disowned, and that no one in the Parish family should contact me ever again.

River had had to peel me off the bathroom floor in the early morning hours that week, holding me while I purged myself of them the way he’d grieved for his mother. Except where he grieved for what he lost, I grieved for what I never had.

After not hearing from them, I figured my aunt and uncle had sided with my parents, just as they had when the decision to send me to Alaska came down in the first place.

Why are they here?

River lets out a breath, and his hand slips into mine, warm and solid. When I say nothing, he clears his throat. “Hi, I’m River. I don’t believe we’ve met. You’re Holden’s aunt and uncle?”

“Hello, River,” Uncle Reg says. “Reginald and Margaret. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Wonderful to meet you, River,” Aunt Mags says with a soft smile. She nods at the gift in Reg’s arms. “We heard you moved back into our old neighborhood. This is a little housewarming present.”

“Who told you that? Bernie?” I practically shout.

“Easy,” River says quietly.

“Can we go in and talk?” Reg asks. “Do a little catching up?”

River checks in with me. I nod.

“Sure,” he says.

Reg chuckles with nervous relief. “Great. This is starting to get heavy.”

River rushes forward and takes the gift from him, and they walk ahead of Mags and me.

“You look wonderful, Holden,” she says. “So healthy and happy.”

I nod at River. “Thanks to him. And a lot of fucking hard work on my part.”

She doesn’t flinch at my biting tone. “I’m so glad. He seems like a lovely young man. The Sridhars were telling us all about what he’s done to the Whitmore auto shop downtown. Just wonderful.”

“When did you get back in town?”

“Just last week. We’re only here for the month and then we’re taking a cruise—”

“With my parents?”

“No.” Mags’s hand rises as if she wants to touch me but thinks twice. “We’ll talk about it inside.”

River leads us into our new house, to the living room. It has comfortable, inviting furniture—him. And colorful paintings on the walls and eclectic art pieces—me. Built-in bookshelves flank the fireplace, filled to the top with our combined libraries, except for one shelf in the middle. It has only Gods of Midnight. River says it’s my shelf and that only the books I write will ever live on it.

He sets the gift down on the coffee table and pulls me aside. “You okay? You need me to stay?”

Fuck, I love him. I love him so much; my heart can’t contain it. “I’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” he says, loud enough for Mags and Reg to hear and kisses me full on the lips. “Call me if you need me.”

He waves at my aunt and uncle. “Nice to meet you both,” he says politely, but I can hear the warning underneath: If you hurt him…

Reg and Mags are on the couch. I sit down across from them in a tall wing-back chair. My fingers drum the armrests.

“Well,” Mags says with a bright smile. “It’s been quite a long time.”

“Indeed,” Reg says. “But we’ve been following your career. Marvelous, what with all the awards for your book.”

“Did you read it?” I ask rudely.

“We did, both of us have.”

My mind immediately flips through a catalogue of explicit scenes, specifically the chapter in which Jules attends—and then participates in—a seedy sex show in an underground club in New York City.

“We both thought it was incredible,” Reg says and chuckles. “A little more risqué than my usual James Patterson, but you’re very talented, Holden.”

Mags nods. “So very talented. We’re proud of you.”

I don’t know what to say to that except part of me leans toward them as if warming myself in front of a fire.

“Thanks.”

Reg rests his arms on his thighs, his lips pursed. “Holden, Margaret and I have been doing a lot of thinking in the last year. When we heard from Albert Bernard that you had contacted us, I admit we…hesitated.”

“Hesitated,” I say flatly. “For an entire year.” I wave my hand dismissively, the old insecurities rushing back. “Never mind. I left four years ago with only a shitty note. You don’t owe me anything.”

I never asked you for anything and I never—

“We do,” Mags says, breaking into my thoughts. “We owe you quite a lot, Holden.”

“Beginning with how we stayed silent when my brother told us his plans for you,” Reg says, his voice grave. “We both felt—your aunt and I—that that kind of therapy was wrong, and that Charles and Estelle were making a terrible mistake.”

“But you didn’t say anything.”

“No, we didn’t,” Mags says, meeting my eye. “And we should have.”

“Charles has always been the king of our family since we were young children,” Reg says. “He was your grandparents’ favorite—they were just as ruthless as he is. The only way to deal with him has been to not rock the boat. And, to be blunt, he owns majority stock in the Parish oil holdings. If he wanted to make our retirement difficult, he could.”

“But Reginald and I don’t need as much as we thought we did. Fancy cars and houses on two continents…” Mag shakes her head. “It’s unnecessary. And vastly less important than you.”

I sit back in the chair. “What are you saying?”

“We’re saying we have disowned your parents,” Reg says. “We have cut them out of our lives, divested ourselves of any joint financial ventures, and have requested they never contact us again.”

I feel like at any second, they’re going to burst out laughing and point at me for falling for the joke.

“Why…?” I clear my throat and try again. “Why would you do that?”

Mags and Reg exchange glances and she slips her hand into his.

“You were only with us for a year. And we hardly saw you—you kept to yourself so much.”

Despite their constant invitations that I spend time with them.

“But we enjoyed having you, Holden,” Reg says. “We don’t have children of our own—we’ve been living off the Parish fortune without so much as lifting a finger in a meaningful way. But having you with us felt like we were doing something important.”

“And when you disappeared, it hurt more than either of us expected.” Mags blinks hard. “We missed you.”

My gaze darts between them and I wish I hadn’t let River leave. But he isn’t here to lean on. A storm of emotions swirls in me, and it’s up to me to know which are real and true and which are only going to hurt me.

“I missed you too,” I say and know instantly it’s the truth.

Mags’s eyes are full. “A year was far too long to deliberate what we already knew in our hearts the moment you left.”

“We don’t expect you to forgive us, but if you do…” Reg pauses, and I’m shocked to see tears in his eyes too. “If you do, well…that would make us very happy.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I should thank you for putting up with me my last year of high school. I was a pain in the ass—”

“You never were. Never.”

What is happening right now?

“We’re neighbors now,” Mags continues. “It doesn’t have to happen overnight but…maybe we could have dinner with you and River sometime?”

“How about tonight?” I blurt, the words falling out of my mouth without my permission.

She gives a small, delighted laugh. “Really? Why…we’d love to.”

Uncle Reginald nods. “We’d like that very much.”

“Great. I just have to make a phone call. Be right back.”

Moving stiffly, I go to the kitchen and pull out my phone. River answers after one ring, as if he’s been waiting for my call.

“What’s happening? Are you okay?”

“I just invited my aunt and uncle to your Dad’s for dinner tonight.”

“You did?” River asks, happiness edging the wariness in his voice.

“What does that mean?”

He laughs, bewildered. “I think it means you want to spend time with them. As soon as possible.”

“That’s what I think too,” I say, still shell-shocked. “Is that okay?”

“Well…yeah. If that’s what you want, then it’s more than okay.”

“It is. I just needed to hear your voice. I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“Oh, baby…” River’s voice is suddenly choked with emotion.

“Don’t you start,” I scold. “It’s your fault I’ve become a gigantic sap.”

“I’m totally okay with that. Go back to your aunt and uncle,” River says, and that nervous tinge comes back. “I’ll tell Dad and Amelia to add two more settings.”

I blow out a breath. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you. And Holden, that happiness you feel right now? Don’t second-guess it. You deserve it.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “You have to stop talking or I’m going to tear your clothes off the next second I lay eyes on you and we’ll never make it to this dinner.”

“How is that different than any other day?” He chuckles. “Go. I’ll be home in a few.”

I hang up with River and rejoin my aunt and uncle in the living room. They look different somehow, more familiar than when I’d tried to keep them strangers.

“It’s all set. Dinner’s at seven.”

They both rise off the couch and approach me slowly.

“Thank you,” Aunt Mags says. “For the invitation and for forgiving us.”

An awkward silence falls where none of us move. Then Uncle Reginald says, “Well, we’d better get home and freshen up for dinner. Can you text us the address?”

We exchange numbers. I text him Jerry Whitmore’s address and another tight silence passes as I walk them to the door.

“So…can we bring anything?” Aunt Mags asks. “A bottle of wine or two?”

“Not necessary. And anyway, I’m off the sauce. In recovery.”

Identical expressions of worry mixed with pride come over their faces. Thoroughly parental, and suddenly I’m on the damn verge of tears. Again.

Uncle Reg is shaking his head. “Holden…would it be all right if I gave you a hug?”

I can’t move or breathe. I feel my head nod. “Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “That would be all right.”

Uncle Reg takes a tentative step toward me. I still can’t move, as if I’m petrified. My first novel won the National Book Award and it’s nothing compared to this moment. He puts his arms around me stiffly and just before he can pull away, I hug him back. Our stiffness melts and he holds me close; I smell Old Spice and cigars, aftershave and fabric softener. He smells like a dad and tears threaten.

When he lets me go, Aunt Mags is there with her hands clasped in front of her. “My turn?”

I nod and when Uncle Reg turns his back a moment, she hugs me too. Her touch is lighter and more delicate but just as warm.

“Thank you,” she whispers, then kisses my cheek and steps back. “We’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon,” I say faintly and watch them go down the walk. They smile at each other; Reg puts his arm around her, and she rests her head on his shoulder, content.

I shut the door and lean against it, waiting for Alaska to come out of hiding and pounce, steal my warmth and whisper that it’s all a sick joke.

It never does, and the warmth stays long after they’ve gone as I wander through our house. River’s and mine. I’m still exploring like I used to do when I broke into people’s houses.

I feel a little bit like a stranger in a strange land.

Until I wander to the master bedroom, to the closet where River’s boring jeans and shirts hang next to my fabulous suits. We don’t make sense—like pieces of a puzzle that come from different boxes. Yet somehow, we fit…and spend most nights proving it. The heat of River’s body and his love for me burn away the cold that I thought was permanently imbedded into the marrow of my bones.

And I know that one day, there will be nothing left.

I return from the shop a few hours later, my stomach tied in even tighter knots than it had been before I left. I rush through the front door, not sure how I’ll find Holden. But he’s in his office, laptop open, busily working on his next book.

“Hey,” I say from the door. “All good?”

He swivels around in his desk chair. He’s wearing black pants and a tight-fitting black shirt that highlights his lean, toned chest; the short sleeves stretch to contain his biceps. His light ash blond hair—his natural color—gleams from a recent shower.

He holds up his hands. “What do you know? I have an aunt and uncle.”

His happiness carries me across the office with its hardwood floors and wall-to-wall bookshelves. I lean over him, bracing my hands on the armrests of his chair.

“I’m not the least bit surprised. How could they not love you?”

He makes a wry face. “Do you want the abridged list? I didn’t exactly make life easy when I lived in their guesthouse.”

“No, you made it better.”

I lean in and kiss him. But now that my immediate concerns are erased, my bigger, more stomach-twisting nervousness comes back. I pull away before he can feel it.

“Going to shower, then we can head over to Dad’s.”

“Hey,” he says. Are you okay? You’re acting weird. Like you’re waiting for earth-shattering news. Or your browser history just went public.”

I shoot him a dry look. “It’s not my browser history I’d be worried about.”

He narrows his eyes, but I hurry out before his shrewd gaze sees right through me.

I shower, rinsing off the grease and oil from the shop, and change into jeans, and a deep blue button down shirt that’s too nice for a casual dinner with my dad and sister. It’ll fire Holden’s curiosity even more, but I’ll take my chances. He once told me this was his favorite shirt on me so I’m wearing it.

Finally, I pull on a lightweight jacket that I don’t need on a hot summer night. That’ll make Holden downright suspicious, but I need the pocket.

At my dresser, I throw a look over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t about to magically appear behind me—he has a habit of doing that. In the top drawer, under a pile of underwear, I find the little black box and slip it into the jacket pocket.

I heave a breath and go back to the office where Holden is still busy typing. He stops, mutters a curse, and taps heavily on the delete button.

I smile, watching him with so much damn pride. He came out of the dark lake Alaska tried to drown him in, and I know he’ll keep fighting to never go back. And I’ll be there every step of the way.

I touch the box in my pocket.

If he lets me.

I drive us to Dad’s house. Amelia’s Honda is parked in the drive. In the fall, she’ll start college at San Jose State, a forty-minute drive from Santa Cruz. She’s already got a roommate lined up, a sweet girl she met at orientation. There haven’t been any more Kyles in her life, and I trust her when she says there won’t be again.

She’s at the dining room table when we come in, laying out place settings.

“Hey, guys!” she says too loudly. She knows tonight’s the night, and I glare at her. She glares back but tones it down. “We’re having your favorite, Holden. Grilled halibut. Dad’s out back, hopefully not overdoing it.”

She comes to give us each a kiss on the cheek.

“Halibut?” Holden frowns. “What’s the occasion?”

“No reason,” Amelia says quickly. “But your aunt and uncle are coming, right? That’s the perfect occasion. We’re lucky we weren’t having ribs from that grease pit River loves so much.”

She gives me a playful nudge and I ease a sigh of relief that she’s deflected Holden’s suspicions. For now.

My sister is nineteen and pretty in my eyes. Not only for her physical beauty—she looks more like Mom every day—but because she’s healthy. Her smile comes easily like it used to. The grief is still there—it’s in all of us—but it shows now as a depth in her eyes instead of a shadow.

From the kitchen, I see Dad on the back patio wearing an apron that says, Boss of the Sauce.

Like Amelia, he looks healthy. More whole. The three of us have been attending grief counseling at the Medical Center and the change in him has been tangible. He’s abandoned the den and now works at the shop nearly every day. He says he’ll never date again, and I don’t push him, even though I worry about him being alone after Amelia starts school. But she’s promised our Dad to spend most weekends and summers at home.

And he’s welcome at our home any time.

“There they are,” Dad says, shutting the screen behind him and coming to give Holden a hug. He winks at me over his shoulder—which means Amelia spilled the beans to him. “I hear your aunt and uncle are joining us.”

“Hope that’s okay, Jerry. Not a lot of advance warning. For me either, come to think of it.”

“Of course, it’s okay,” Dad says. “More family the merrier.”

On cue, we hear the front door open and Beatriz calls from the entry.

“Hello? I am coming in.”

I grin, and Holden goes to greet the woman who’s been—until today—the only family Holden’s ever had. When he came back to Santa Cruz, she was the first visit he made after me. I wasn’t there to see their reunion, but Holden came back with his eyes puffy and red but happy. Another broken piece falling back into place.

Holden returns from the front with Beatriz, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm.

Like she might when she walks him down the aisle?

I rein in the thoughts that are too dangerously hopeful. Holden has spent most of his life in a prison of some kind or another—a loveless house, Alaska, the sanitarium… Maybe it’s asking too much, too soon.

Amelia reads my expression and pulls me aside while Dad greets Beatriz with a kiss on the cheek. “Second thoughts?”

“None. Except, what if—?”

“No chance.”

“It’s only been a year…”

“A year and a hundred lifetimes,” Amelia says. “I see it. Everyone sees it. How much you love each other…it’s the most beautiful thing.”

“I wish Mom could see it.”

“She can.” Amelia gives my arm a squeeze. “She sees everything.”

“River, meu doce menino,” Beatriz says and comes over to pat my cheek. “You are looking very handsome tonight, doesn’t he?” she asks the room, her hands over her heart.

I laugh and bend to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Beatriz. So happy to see you.”

She takes my face in her hands. “Meu Deus. Look at your man!” she says to Holden. “So beautiful tonight. What is the occasion? Is it my birthday?”

I shoot Amelia a panicked look and she swoops in to take Beatriz to the kitchen with Dad, asking her advice on the wild rice.

Holden leans his shoulder into mine. “Nothing like watching your seventy-year old auntie lust after your boyfriend.”

“She has good taste.”

Holden busts out laughing, but the doorbell ringing cuts it off with a choked sound. His face pales slightly. “They’re here.”

“I’m on it!”

Amelia breezes past us for the door and comes back with Margaret and Reginald. He’s carrying a bottle of sparkling cider and she has a bouquet of sunflowers. They’re introduced to Dad and they hug Beatriz as if she were an old friend instead of a former employee.

My hand goes to the box in my pocket. I wasn’t expecting a larger audience. My nerves stretch tighter until I see Holden with Margaret and Reginald, talking and smiling easily, and I realize the night just got more perfect.

Dinner is served, and we all sit and pass around wild rice, asparagus in melted butter, warm rolls, salad, and grilled halibut that Dad cooked to perfection.

But the food is almost tasteless in my mouth. Every bite, every minute takes me closer to the moment. I look across the table at Holden. He’s sitting between his uncle and Beatriz. He catches me watching and I fully expect him to do something suggestive with an asparagus spear. But he’s behaving himself. Subdued but in a peaceful way.

Do I want to ruin that? Freak him out? Make him run for the nearest exit?

I force myself to calm down before I freak out. From my right, Margaret touches my wrist and gestures at the empty chair at the head of the table, opposite Dad.

“Are we waiting for one more person?”

My stomach clenches and Amelia bows her head for a moment.

“My wife, Nancy—River and Amelia’s mom—passed away three years ago,” Dad says. “Cancer.”

Holden looks stricken. “Fucking hell, I should have told you…”

“Not at all,” Margaret says. “There is so much for us to catch up on. I’m very sorry for your loss. All of you.”

“Thank you,” Amelia says. “After dinner, I’ll show you some photos of her. If you’d like.”

Uncle Reg smiles. “We’d like that very much.”

The heavy moment passes and settles into something warm and deep, and the conversation flows easily with our mother now included and so much more than an empty chair.

But time feels like its rushing out from under me. I take a sip of water; my throat’s parched, and before I know it, the dishes are cleared. Coffee and dessert—Beatriz’s homemade Pé-de-moleque—squares of peanuts and molasses are served. Amelia kicks me under the table.

I heave a breath and start to rise when Dad beats me to it.

“Typically, we do this at the beginning of the meal, but better late than never.” Dad stands and holds up his water glass. “To Margaret and Reginald. Holden has become such an important part of our family, and we’re so happy to have you here too. To family.”

We all raise our glasses. Dad smiles at me proudly. Over the last year, we’d had a lot of talks about my relationship with Holden. It took Dad some getting used to the idea, but he wasn’t homophobic. Like me, he thought football had a default setting and his desire to see me excel at the sport clouded everything else. My happiness with Holden, he said, was better than any Super Bowl victory.

“Although I wouldn’t mind one of those either,” he’d teased.

I smile and watch Holden endure Beatriz smacking a kiss on his cheek. He’s surrounded by love, and I know there’s a part of him that still doubts it’s all real.

My nervousness fades as the surety of my love for him rushes through me. I could wait five more years, but why? There will never be anyone else for me but him. I’ve known this since the beginning. Holden can say no to me, but at least he’ll never wonder if my love is temporary. Never fear I’ll abandon him or leave him out in the cold.

I clear my throat and stand up. “I have something to say.”

All eyes are on me and Amelia is already pressing a napkin to her mouth.

“Firstly, I’m not good at making speeches. But tonight turned out to be better than I’d ever imagined. Reginald and Margaret, thank you for being here. Thank you for loving my Holden the way he deserves to be loved.”

Holden bows his head, shaking it slightly.

“You do,” I say to him. “You deserve so much, baby.”

I push my chair back and come around to his side of the table. Holden stares, his green eyes wide and disbelieving. I get down on one knee and a sob erupts from Amelia, but she stifles it quickly. Beatriz’s hands are clasped to her heart, tears already streaming.

“What are you doing?” Holden whispers hoarsely.

“Making it real.”

I take his hand in mine, tears choking my throat. I have to get the words out before I fall apart.

“I love you, Holden. I love your humor and wit. I love how you’re always the best-dressed person in a room. And the smartest. I love how you’d give away every penny of your wealth to someone you love without hesitation. I love how you give it away to strangers. You’ve been through hell and I love how hard you fight, every day. You’ve lost so much…” I say, and I know he understands I mean what his parents did to him, “…and I don’t have much to give, but I can give you my name. If you’ll have it.”

I pull the box from my jacket pocket and open it. Holden stares at the band of Damascus steel with dozens of curved and flowing lines carved into its surface, like the whorls of a tree.

“Will you marry me?”

Holden’s gaze flickers to the ring and then to me. My breath is locked in my chest and the room goes very still.

“Yes.”

He drops the word into the silence so softly I hardly hear it.

My hands tremble. “Yes…?”

Holden smiles, and goddamn if it’s not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Yes, River. I’ll marry you.” My heart clenches as he touches my cheek, no protective wit or deflective joke. “I don’t know how I made it through all the days until this one,” he says, echoing my words from a year ago on that beach.

The day he came back to me.

Sounds of barely contained emotion come from around us. With shaking hands, I take the ring from the box and slip it over his finger.

“It’s heavy,” he says, and I expect a joke about manacles or a ball and chain. But he’s still wearing that soft smile. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

His thank you breaks my heart and fills it at the same time. I surge forward, craning up to kiss him as the room erupts in applause and sniffles. Amelia sags into Dad. Reginald hands Margaret a napkin, and Beatriz has covered her face entirely.

I press my forehead to Holden’s and for a moment, the world becomes no one but him and me. We kiss and breathe against each other’s lips I love you, and my happiness knows no end because I know Holden not only feels it, but he believes it too.

We say our goodbyes and make plans for more dinners. More time together with this new family Holden and I have created. The night is hot and sticky as we arrive back at our place. I peel off my jacket in the entry and pull my sweaty shirt away from my skin.

“I have flop sweat,” I say. “That was the most nerve-wracking thing I’ve ever done.”

Holden arches a brow. “You thought I’d say no?” He waves off my answer and moves close to me. “You were brave tonight, laying your heart out there for everyone to see.”

“It’s for you,” I say. “Just for you.”

Holden sighs and presses his head against my chest. “What have I told you about comments like that? I’m going to melt and there will be nothing left of me but the ring. You’ll have to mop me off the floor of this entry.”

“Our entry,” I say and kiss him hard.

But before the flame burning between us ignites to celebrate, I feel the sweat trickle between my shoulder blades.

“I’m too sweaty,” I say. “And probably stink. Do you care if I take a quick dip in the pool?”

Holden leans in and draws my lower lip between his teeth, then lets go with a fiery glance. “If you must.”

“I’ll hurry,” I say hoarsely and don’t even bother changing into a bathing suit. I go to our backyard, strip down to my boxer briefs and dive in. The water is cool compared to the sticky heat of the night, but not too cold.

I take a few laps, and then head to the side to haul myself out. I go under the water and when I resurface, Holden’s lying on his stomach at the ledge, trailing his fingers over the water.

“I love this ring,” he says as the silver glints in the falling twilight.

“It came out well,” I say. “Shiloh made it.”

“Yeah? Now I love it more.”

“She’s talented,” I say. “The woodwork design on yours is incredible.”

“Woodwork?” Holden frowns, examining the silver ring on his finger. “The designs on this ring are water.”

“I thought it looked like the lines inside a tree.”

“That’s because there isn’t an egotistical bone in your body. These are the currents of a river.”

God, he’s right. The flowing lines are a current, going around and around, never breaking or going still.

“My River,” Holden says and bends down to kiss me again. Then settles his chin back onto his hands, a strange look on his face.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“You,” he says. “Me. How I want me to be with you.”

I chuckle. “You are with me. Always.”

“I mean in the literal sense. As in, right now.”

Then he’s pulling himself off the cement and stripping off his shoes and socks. His jacket and shirt.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my heart jumping in my chest.

“Maybe something stupid,” he says, and now he’s naked but for his underwear. “But we got engaged tonight. Because you were brave. I’m feeling a little brave too.”

Holy shit.

I’ve wanted this for him for so long. It was why I insisted on a house with a pool. I hoped someday he’d want to try, and I damn well wanted to be there when he did. I just had no idea it would be so soon.

Holden sits on the edge of the pool, his legs in the water. His face is still but he’s gripping the edge so tightly, his knuckles have gone white.

“Holden…”

“Come closer, please.”

I surge forward, my hands on his calves, letting him know I’m there. “What do you need?”

He smiles gratefully, then it fades into a look of determination. And courage.

With a short inhale of breath, he pushes himself off the edge and into the water. He gasps as the water comes up to his chest. It’s five feet deep, and he stands a foot above, the water flowing around his neck and collarbones. Instinctively, I put my arms around him.

“You okay?” I ask gruffly. I’m so proud of him, I could cry, but this is his moment and I pull myself together.

He nods quickly. “Don’t let go.”

“I never will.”

The water slips cool and smoothly between our chests. His feet are firmly planted with mine, his back to the wall. I hold him close and feel his heart beat against my own. We stay there until they become indistinguishable.

I check in again. “You good?”

“I’m fine. This is silly.”

“It’s not. You’re so fucking brave.”

His beautiful face wears that same smile from earlier and then the look of determination comes back. He pushes me an arm’s length away, still gripping my wrists.

And then he lets go.

I rest my arms on the ledge and watch him glide to the center of the pool. Tears blur my vision, but I quickly blink them away. I don’t want to miss a single moment.

Holden dives under the water and resurfaces with a small gasp. I restrain myself from going to him, but Holden is okay, floating on his back and staring at the sky. Then he sighs as if he’s letting something go. Something he’s been carrying inside for too long.

After a moment, he plants his feet on the bottom of the pool.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he says, striding toward me in long steps. “There’s only so many reunions and engagements and breakthroughs a guy can have in a single night.”

He comes back to me and I reach for him, pulling him to me. Water streams in rivulets down his sharp cheek bones to his full lips. Wordlessly, he crashes his mouth to mine, igniting the flame all the water in the world can’t douse. We kiss deeply, then harder, an intense delving of our mouths and tongues and lips. It sears me with its heat and love. So much love.

I take us to the pool’s edge, our hands roaming, sweeping over bare skin, wet and smooth with water. From our pool. In our house. I kiss Holden Parish, my love for him pulsing through me with fierce pride. Because he made it. He’s here.

He’s finally home.

The End

Author’s Note

This novel deals with the terrible effects of conversion therapy that will harm more than 80,000 LGBTQ youth in the coming years. You can read the facts HERE

Anyone wishing to make a difference can do so HERE

And if you or someone you know is struggling, The Trevor Project’s national helpline: 1-866-488-7386

This book also confronts addiction and mental health issues that affect tens of millions of people each year. I urge, with love, anyone who is struggling, to please reach out.

Substance Abuse & Mental Health Service Administration National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

Acknowledgments

As with every book, it takes a team of loving, supportive people to bring it from page to publication. I can’t do it alone, and I’m so grateful to the following for walking beside me on this journey.

All the love to Robert Hodgdon, my amazing sensitivity reader. Thank you so much for guiding me through this book, helping to ensure I told this story with the authenticity and love River and Holden deserve. Your encouragement means more to me than you know. <3

ALL the love and gratitude to Joanna Louise Weightman for your guidance, insight, and brilliant suggestions that lift every book you touch to a new level. I’m so grateful for that and for your kindness. Love you.

To Marissa D’Onofrio and Joy Kriebel-Sadowski, my intrepid beta readers, who slogged through early versions of this book so you don’t have to. Thank you so much for your insights and encouragement. <3

Many thanks to Júlia Moreira, Bruna Rafaela, and Eliana da Silva for ensuring my Portuguese is accurate and authentic and to Emma White for cleaning up my French. Much love to you all for your time and expertise.

To Annette Chivers for being an emotional support and dear friend for years—a formal declaration of my love and adoration is long overdue. Thank you for you. <3

Thanks to Lori Jackson for sharing her artistry and boundless talent. You brought Holden to life and I’m so grateful for you. (and for that mountain. #NailedIt)

Much love to my Entourage, my readers, the bloggers—a silent army of book love and support. I love and appreciate you all so much for what you do. I wouldn’t be here without you and I will never forget that. You are a universe. <3

So much love and gratitude to Nina Grinstead and the entire team at Valentine PR. Love you all so much and I’m thankful to have your support in this writing journey. I can’t wait to see where it takes us. <3

To Melissa Panio-Petersen…I’m running out of ways to say thank you for all that you do. For being on the other end of the line with so much love and thoughtfulness on top of everything else you do for me. I will never stop being grateful for you. Love you. <3

And to Robin Hill. They say it takes a village, but if that village had Robin, the rest of them would laze around eating bonbons while she handled everything else. I will forever be indebted to you, not only for the love and care you show me on a daily basis, but for the comfort I find in my worst moments because I know you’re there, taking every step with me. Thank you, always.

And all the love to my unseen angel who I know is with me always, whispering in my ear that love is love and there is no end to it. So I’ll keep telling love stories, baby. They’re all for you.

Sneak Peek

The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys #3)

Ronan and Shiloh’s story, coming soon

Add to your Goodreads TBR

ONE MORE THING…

Want to learn more about Holden’s friend, Silas Marsh? Holden first makes a brief appearance in Silas’s book, Someday, Someday.

WINNER! Utopia Con LGBTQ+ Book of the Year and available to read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

About the Author

Emma Scott is a USA Today and Wall St. Journal bestselling author whose books have been translated in five languages and featured in Buzzfeed, Huffington Post, New York Daily News and USA Today’s Happy Ever After. She writes emotional, character-driven romances in which art and love intertwine to heal and in which love always wins. If you enjoy emotionally-charged stories that rip your heart out and put it back together again with diverse characters and kind-hearted heroes, you will enjoy her novels.

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