The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(11)

“I want you to keep having those things,” I said softly. “At my house. Any time. And your mom too. Whatever you need.”

I touched my fingertips to his wrist and then slipped my palm against his. To my shock, Miller’s eyes filled with tears as he glanced down at our touching hands. His rough fingers twined with mine and held on so tight…

Then he quickly let go and turned away. We continued down the street in silence. After a block, Miller’s steps grew uneven. Weaving slightly, he had to push off the wall of a restaurant or shop when he veered too close.

“Hey.” I grabbed his arm. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Just thirsty. I need…water.”

He crossed the street toward the 7-Eleven on the opposite corner in shuffling steps and without looking for traffic. A pick-up truck hit the brakes, horns blaring, but Miller paid no attention.

I hurried to catch up. “Miller, hey. You’re scaring me.”

He ignored me, his gaze fixed on the 7-Eleven. Inside the convenience store, he headed for the drink refrigerators and grabbed the largest Gatorade they had.

“You want anything?” he asked, his voice sounding tight, as he fished in the front pocket of his jeans for a fiver tucked there.

“No, thanks.” Warmth infiltrated my worry for him because he was trying to take care of me, even when he’d had to pawn the most valuable thing he owned.

Miller paid for the drink, and we rounded the corner to the side of the building. He slid down against the wall and chugged the neon yellow liquid. I watched him down half the bottle in a few huge gulps and then close his eyes in relief.

“Better?” I asked, crouching beside him. Please tell me you’re better.

He nodded but then drank the other half, draining the bottle.

I stared. “That was thirty-two ounces. Miller…”

“I’m fine, doc,” he said, tiredly. “I should get back.”

He started to haul himself to his feet, but I held him back. “No. You need help. Your face is flushed, and your eyes are kind of glassy.”

“I’m fine. I promise. Go meet your friend without me.” He smiled wanly. “I’ll see you at school on Monday. Christ, won’t that be fun? First day of school. Can’t fucking wait.”

I studied him closer, again wishing I could read these symptoms, and that I had the clout to make him listen to me. But he pushed off the ground and went down the way we had come, the empty Gatorade bottle still in his hand. But he was walking steadily, like normal.

He’s okay, I thought.

Because he had to be.

It made sense, I told myself as I headed for the café. The fact that Miller was living out of a car with his mom was going to take a toll on him. Stress. Hunger. Cold. He was probably coming down with a fever from inadequate shelter. One night in my house clearly wasn’t enough.

That has to stop. They need help.

But Miller had sworn me to secrecy. Demanded it. He’d never speak to me again if I tried to get him help—not that I even knew how to do that. If word got out he lived in a car, it’d kill him. There were poor kids in our district, but that wasn’t the same as being homeless.

There has to be a way, I thought. I can borrow money from Dad. Or earn it fast. Maybe take it out of my college fund. Enough for a deposit and first month’s rent on an apartment.

My thoughts hit a brick wall.

And if they can’t pay the rent every month after that?

Shiloh waved at me from inside the Brewery Café, her many silver and coppery bracelets glinting over her arms. I replaced my worried frown with a smile. She couldn’t know about Miller’s situation either, even though I was dying to tell her. She’d say I had to tell someone else, immediately. But I’d promised Miller, and I always tried to keep my promises.

But sometimes keeping a promise wasn’t good or right. Sometimes, it was the worst thing you could do.





That night, I left my bedroom window open to hear Miller in case he showed up. All was quiet until nine or so, and then it sounded like someone crashing through the woods. I looked down to see him stumbling and mumbling to himself. Like he was drunk.

“Miller?”

He turned his face up and a gasp stuck in my throat at how pale he was. Ghostly white. Confused. Like he didn’t know who I was.

Oh God, this is bad. So very bad…

He mumbled something and fell to his knees. I climbed down the trellis as fast as I could, slipping once. My palms scraped the wood, then I hit the ground just as Miller turned on the faucet to our garden hose. He drank from it as if he were dying of thirst. As if he’d been in a desert for months. The scent of urine—his pants were dark with it—hit me, mingled with a fruity smell that didn’t belong there.

“Miller, wait… Please, stop.”

I reached to take the hose away from him. The way he needed it was terrifying—like a rabid animal, water flooding his mouth, choking him, spilling all over his face and shirt. He shoved me aside and kept at it until his eyes rolled up in his head to show the whites. Then his body went limp, and he collapsed to the ground, hard. Not moving.

A strangled cry tore out of me. My heart crashed against my ribs. I tossed the hose aside and crawled to put my ear on Miller’s chest, damp with water. He was still breathing, his heart still pumping but faintly.