Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(3)

But I’m still scared.





? Golden Boys ?

GABRIEL + HEATH + REESE + SAL





CHAPTER THREE

REESE

“I can’t believe they’re doing … it again.”

I’ve sent four messages in a row, and I know a fifth would be too much, but they’re supposed to help us set up the party. A sigh escapes my lips as I swipe from our group chat to Find My Friends, where the S circle and the G circle are practically on top of each other at Sal’s house. Fitting, as they’re probably literally on top of each other right now.

Gross.

“Still bothers you, huh?” Heath says from the driver’s seat. I want to snap back and tell him what bothers me more is his erratic driving, or the fact that his truck’s shocks needed to be replaced about two decades ago. That usually stops him from prying. But I don’t do that.

Because that’s not exactly true. Sitting shotgun with Heath is like this. Like a thrill ride at Cedar Point—the feeling of danger in a safe, contained space. We bounce along the roads, and I take a second to collect myself.

I’m flustered, yes, but I have good reason to be. My goodbye party starts promptly at six. I asked Gabriel and Sal to be there on time so they can help set up tables and chairs, put up decorations, set out the chafing dishes, and so on.

It’s how every party goes. My moms spend the full day in the kitchen making party food, and they expect us to set up the rest of the house. Which is cool in theory, because setting things up wouldn’t take long with four people … but it gets a lot more stressful when two of us are late.

And they’re late again, like always, because they’re obviously hooking up right now.

“It’s not the first time we’ve had to do this alone,” Heath says, and a grin smacks me across the face. “And it probably won’t be the last.”

I groan. “Well, if they’re more than fifteen minutes late, this time will be their last. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Sure, sure, we’ve all been friends since preschool, but today’s the day you take a stand.”

He laughs, and it’s such an aggravating laugh in its sincerity. Heath gives me a hard time; that’s always been the case. But of all the people who put pressure on me, who critique me—from my moms to my graphic design tutors and everyone in between—he’s the only one who does it in a way I know he’s joking.

“They do this shit.” His voice is a bit more serious now. “I mean, they can’t even make it to one of my games before the fifth inning, and Gabriel’s backyard literally touches the park.”

He releases a dry laugh, but it doesn’t seem particularly sad. Maybe it doesn’t affect him as much as it does me, though he was quick to find a very specific, personal anecdote.

“Everyone’s flaky,” he says.

“You’re not,” I reply.

Instinctually, my mind reaches for anything to lighten the sincerity—for a witty remark, or anything clever—but I come up dry. Because he’s not flaky. He just isn’t. Some days it’s like he’s the only one I can depend on.

“Neither are you.” A smile crosses his face, and butterflies invade my stomach. “Last row of the bleachers. Sketchbook in one hand, hot dog in the other. Every game.”

“That’s different. See, I just like baseball.”

He chuckles. “Tell me again what a full count is?”

“Three balls, two strikes. Don’t test me. Though you’re correct that I’m only there for the concessions stand.”

He turns to me briefly, but I break eye contact. We both know I’m only there for one reason. Him. Or, maybe he doesn’t know.

We hit a bump, and the shock sends me flying up off my seat. My stomach flutters.

“Sorry,” he says, and I don’t know if he’s sorry about giving me a hard time or making my head hit the roof of his car.

I respond to both. “It’s okay.”

My gaze falls on the window, and there’s a sort of comfort that takes over me as I watch the blur of fields and country houses fly by. The sameness of it all can be beautiful, but the charm’s kind of lost on me. My heart needs something I can’t find here: an art scene, a city with a complex history. Part of me is already in Paris, though my flight doesn’t leave for a few more days. But so much of me is here.

Heath changes the topic. “Okay, so I think I’ve finally got your family memorized. All fifteen cousins, even the ones with the identical-sounding names. Elena, Isabella, Gabriella, and …”

“Wait, really?” I turn to him in shock. “I can barely keep them straight.”

“Gabriella”—he overpronounces the G—“is the one with guh-lasses. Elena looks eleven even though she’s, like, our age. Want me to keep going?”

“Save the magic trick for the party,” I laugh, and then we settle into an easy silence. I study his face for a moment as I take a sip of one of the cappuccinos we got from the gas station. The sweetness of the drink matches the satisfied smirk on his face. “I can’t believe you memorized my extended family. You only see them like once or twice a year.”

We pull up to a stop sign, and he turns to me gently. His cheeks redden, I think, as he runs a hand through the wavy peaks of his new haircut. I’ve read nonexistent signs way too many times; it’s hard to tell what’s real and what I’m making up as they happen.