The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(133)

I don’t understand.

I see a flicker of movement, and I duck in to hide behind a bush. I watch as Eddie walks out of the house and up the street as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. So brave and stoic.

Poor fucking kid.

I wait until he disappears around the corner, and I make my way up to the deserted house. It’s dilapidated and barely standing. Two stories with a staircase running up the outside. The front doors and windows are boarded up, so I walk around the back and see an old broken door.





KEEP OUT


DANGEROUS CHEMICALS.

I tentatively push the door open, and it lets out a deep, loud creak. I peer in.

Darkness.

“Hello . . . ,” I call.

Silence.

“Is anyone there?”

Silence.

I turn on the flashlight on my phone and push the door back and walk in. The floors are broken, and it’s dark and musty. Holes are punched through the walls, and graffiti covers everything.

My stomach twists.

I shine the flashlight around. Where does he sleep?

I need to see.

I search all the rooms. It’s worse than I thought.

Much worse.

My vision blurs, and I wipe my eyes so that I can see. I get to a room in the back, and I peer in, and my heart breaks.

A lone mattress is on the floor with a sleeping bag.

I walk over and look around. All the postcards I sent to him are carefully pinned to the wall like trophies. A laminated photo of Hayden strategically pinned in the center.

“Eddie,” I whisper through tears. “My poor, poor Eddie.”

I imagine him sleeping here in the musty dark.

All alone.

Nobody to care for him and make him feel safe.

I screw up my face. The reality of his situation is so raw and real.

Devastatingly sad.

I unpin the photo of Hayden; she’s smiling and looks so happy and carefree; my heart constricts, and I sob out loud.

He misses her too.

“Who’s there?” Eddie’s voice barks.

I try to pull myself together and wipe my eyes. “It’s me,” I call.

“Who?”

“Christo.”

He pushes open the door, and his face falls, and I can’t help it: my face screws up in tears.

“Don’t . . . ,” he spits. “What are you doing here?”

“I came back for you.”

He frowns.

“And I promise you on my life,” I whisper through tears, “you’ll never be alone again.”





Chapter 30


His eyes search mine.

“Get your things,” I tell him as I regain some composure.

“Why?”

“You’re coming with me.”

“To where?”

“London.”

“What do you mean?” He frowns.

“I came to take you home.”

“I am home.”

“This is not your fucking home,” I spit. “You belong with me . . . at least until you’re older.”

“Where’s Hazen?”

My nostrils flare, and the lump in my throat hurts as I admit my failure. “We broke up.” I hang my head in shame.

“Oh . . .” He steps forward and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says softly. He pats my shoulder. “It will work out.”

It just makes me more unstable. How is he comforting me at a time like this?

Because he’s Eddie . . .

“Come on, buddy, let’s get the hell out of here,” I blurt out in a rush.

He stares at me, completely confused.

“I’m asking you to come and live with me. Do you want to do that? I’ll look after you . . . keep you safe.”

He opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it as if stopping himself.

“Say it,” I tell him.

“What would someone like you want me to live with them for?”

His silhouette blurs. “Because . . . I missed you.”

His eyes widen. “You did?”

“Yes, fucker, I do,” I snap. “You better have missed me.”

He bites his bottom lip to hide his smile.

“Come on, get your things.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. We’ll work it out.” I throw up my hands in defeat. “Do you want these postcards?” I unpin one.

He stares at me, and I see the fear in his eyes. How many times has he been let down in his life?

“You can come back to Barcelona anytime you want . . . I promise. I’ll bring you myself.”

He stands still and looks around the room. “Could I bring my sleeping bag?”

The lump in my throat nearly closes it over, and I nod.

I have no words.

“Do you want these postcards?” I ask him.

“Yes, please.”

I get to work in unpinning them.

“Can I bring my gas cooker?” he asks timidly.

With my back to him, I screw up my face. The tears won’t stop. “Yep.”

“And my flashlight?”

“Uh-huh . . . bring whatever you want.”

He’s killing me.