The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(93)

“You okay?” River asked.

“Fine. It’s just been a crazy couple of days.”

To say the least.

“Yeah, no kidding.” He studied me closer. “But for real, you look like you need some air. Or maybe a drink?”

“Water would be great.”

“On it.” River got up and then froze, his gaze snagging on something over my shoulder. His face hardened into a grimace, even as his eyes softened.

I turned around and saw Holden Parish leaning casually against a wall, dashing in a long coat, the collar turned up, with a vest over a button down shirt. But his shirt was loose at the collar, his hair disheveled. He scanned the scene with dull eyes, sipping from a flask.

Then his gaze landed on River. A strange smile came over his sharply handsome features. He tilted the flask back, drained it, then hurled it at the drink table.

I jumped in my seat and River muttered a curse as the metal flask smashed into a row of sparkling water and apple cider, shattering one bottle and sending bubbly water spewing. Surprised cries rang out, and the faculty started looking around for the culprit. But Holden had already stormed out.

I looked quickly to River. His face was a mask of anguish. And longing.

“I told him I was going to Alabama…” He swallowed hard. “And that he couldn’t come with me.”

I put my hand on his arm. “Go.”

River blinked and stared down at me. “What? No…”

“Go to him.”

“That’ll make me two-for-two in ditching you at a dance.”

I smiled. “Strike three and you’re out.”

“Violet…”

“I don’t feel so well, anyway. I’m going to go.”

“Will you be okay? No, fuck that. I can’t leave you.”

“I’ll be fine. Go.” I took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t lose him, River.”

“I think it’s too late,” he said heavily, his smile sad. “But thank you.”

River kissed me on the cheek and strode quickly out the side door where Holden had gone.

I made my way out of the gym, too, stopping to talk to a few friends from the soccer team and the math club. Each conversation felt more and more forced, until finally I was able to slip out and call an Uber. My head rested against the cool glass in the car. I wanted to climb in bed, pull the covers up and get out from under this heavy sadness.

“Which one?” the Uber driver asked.

“That one,” I said. “The one with the For Sale sign in the front.”

Worst…birthday…ever, I thought and had to laugh so I wouldn’t cry.

The house was quiet. Mom was probably in her room and Dad in the den, where I could see the blue light of the TV flickering under the door. I went up to my bedroom and struggled to undo the buttons on my dress. I wiped off my make-up, pulled down my hair, and changed into my sleep shorts and a T-shirt.

For a long time, I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about what came next. Moving to Texas. Miller moving to Los Angeles to make his record. My parents moving to opposite ends of the country to get away from each other. So many roads that once ran parallel now diverging, and I had no idea where mine would take me. Or how far from Miller.

I’d nearly fallen asleep, when the familiar creak came from outside my bedroom window on the trellis. It was open to let in the summer air, and then Miller was there. He climbed through and hopped off my desk, setting his bags and his guitar case on the floor.

I shot up to sitting, my eyes and heart drinking him in. “You’re here.”

“I hope it’s okay I came. I can’t go home.”

I scrambled out of bed and rushed to him, threw my arms around him, concealing my turmoil against his neck.

“Hey…” He stroked my hair. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I shook my head against his chest and pulled myself together. “Nothing. God, Miller, I’m so happy for you. Tell me everything.”

He pulled back; his beautiful topaz eyes were lit up, and for the first time in a long time, he looked happy. The heavy burden of poverty lifting off of him just a little.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” he said. “They talked to me for a while and then took me into a studio. They wanted to get something down that day. To test me out, or…I don’t know what.” He gave his head a disbelieving shake, then his gaze softened. “I sang ‘Yellow.’ Our song. Because it was the first song I ever performed in front of someone else. For you, Violet. You are the reason this happened for me.”

I shook my head. “It was Evelyn. Her vlog—”

“No,” he said fiercely, holding my face in his hands. “You believed in me first. You didn’t wait for a thousand views or a hundred comments. You’ve known who I was from the beginning. You accepted me, dirt poor and stinking of the station wagon.” He moved in closer, his gaze boring intently into mine. “I’m going to make this album, and every fucking song is going to be for you. Every one.”

My eyes fell shut, and I leaned into him, my hands on his waist, letting him prop me up. Feeling the solidity of him. He sensed something deeper was happening in me, as he always did.

“Vi?” He pulled back and his expression fell to see my tears. “I know. It’s going to suck being in LA, away from you. But I can jump on a plane and be here in an hour.”