The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(101)

October—



I haven’t written much in here lately. I’ve been too busy; my studies get harder with every passing semester. But being that busy helps keep me occupied, so I don’t spend every waking hours missing Miller.

Of course that’s not true. I miss him always. Every minute is colored slightly by not having him. I probably sound dramatic, writing stuff like that, but this is my outlet. Miller’s is his music. As everyone predicted, his first full-length album, Out of Reach, went triple platinum. It’s beautiful and I can hear us in it. Our distance and our hard goodbyes.

He’s in Europe now, headlining his own world tour. The last time I saw him was a month ago. The label set him free for an entire weekend before kickoff. We hid away in a cabin in Lake Tahoe to avoid the press, desperate to make the most of those forty-eight hours. He looked so tired. Exhausted. He loves his fans and playing live but the rest of it is overwhelming. I told him he was allowed to enjoy his success and take care of himself better, but he’s determined to do this tour. He’s negotiated that half of his profits will go to a charity that feeds the homeless and helps find them housing.

I do this and it all makes sense, he told me. Then I can look myself in the mirror every morning.

I loved him for that, even more than I thought possible. He asked me to wait for him and I promised him I would. Of course, I did. Because I’m the one who has to do the waiting. I can’t jet off with him; I have my own work and my own goals to accomplish so I can be proud of myself.

We kissed and made love, and then he was gone again, and now there’s nothing I can do but wait.





Chapter Twenty-Five





March



“Violet, order up!”

Chef Benito—who everyone called ‘Papa’—set two plates of eggs, bacon, and hash browns in the window. He banged on the bell, then disappeared again.

I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, finished taking a table’s order, and hurried to the window to stick the ticket. Two other tables needed coffee refills, but nothing got cold faster than eggs. I’d learned that the hard way when I got hired at Mack’s Diner two years ago.

I grabbed the plates Papa had set out, refilled coffee, dropped a check. When the breakfast rush ended, I had a moment to catch my breath.

“Hey, V.” Dean, another server, sidled up and flashed me one of his trademark charming smiles. “There’s an art exhibit opening downtown tonight. Want to check it out?”

“Can’t,” I said, marrying two ketchup bottles. “Have to study.”

“How did I know you were going to say that?”

“Because for two years you’ve been asking me to go out with you, and for two years I’ve said no.”

He grinned. “Make me sound pathetic, why don’t you?”

I gave him a tired smile. “You know how it is.”

“I know that all work and no fun is bad for your health.” Dean leaned over the counter and whipped a lock of sandy blond hair off his brow. He nudged my arm softly, his fingers lingering on my skin. “I worry about you.”

“Oh please,” I said with a wry laugh, then dropped my glance to where he was touching me and back to him, brows arched.

He pulled his hand away and stood straight, grinning. “I don’t understand how you can stay immune to my considerable charm. It’s not like you have a boyfriend, right?”

I winced and busied myself with the ketchup. “Right.” I gave him a look. “Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe I just don’t like you?”

His eyes widened innocently. “Me? Nah.”

Papa appeared in the kitchen window. “Violet! Order up.” He banged the bell.

“I gotta get that.”

Dean heaved a sigh and walked backward, hands up. “I’m not going to give up on you, V. Someday, I’m going to win you over and you’re going to say, why didn’t I order the Dean Special sooner?”

I rolled my eyes at him. He was so full of shit; most girls were not immune to his considerable charm. He only wanted me because I hadn’t fallen into his bed immediately. He had no idea how impossible it was. How even the idea of it couldn’t find a hand hold in my thoughts.

My shift ended, and I went to the backroom to take off my apron and unpin the silly cloth cap from my head. Other guys in the back and servers starting their shifts greeted me warmly or said goodbye for the day. The crew at Mack’s had become like a second family to me, with grouchy Papa as head of household. It was one of the things I liked best about Texas—the southern mentality of warmth and familiarity that I’d have died of loneliness without.

I drove my Rav 4—which was getting old and needed some work—through Waco, Texas. Halfway between Dallas and Austin, the town was completely landlocked. Nothing but flat stretches of land as far as the eye could see. It had its own beauty, but I missed the ocean, forests, and mountains of Santa Cruz. The bonfires at the Shack were becoming a distant memory, replaced, instead, by scents of fried food at Mack’s and the recycled air in the Baylor University Library.

Growing fainter still were the scents of Miller’s skin and cologne. The way his shirt smelled when I wore it after he’d slept in it. The salt of his sweat in bed after he’d brought me from one delirious orgasm to another…