Damn straight. I wasn’t going anywhere. I’d promised to watch over Miller’s mom until he could move her to LA, and a lawyer had contacted me to say he was sorting out Uncle Nelson’s shit. I’d keep taking care of the Cliffside apartments until then, but I was probably going to have to find a new place to live. Get a job and think about my future.
I couldn’t see what was in it, except Shiloh.
Eventually, Miller called it a night and packed up his stuff.
“You staying?” he asked.
“For a while.”
“Text me if you hear from Parish.”
“I will. Same.”
We clasped hands and he took off. I sat in front of the fire, in no hurry to go. Watching the flames and listening to the ocean crash. Despite my worry for Holden, I felt more content than I had in years. Shiloh’s love had sunk in deep, quieting that gnawing hunger that had plagued me for years. For the first time since Mom died, I felt closer to what I wanted to be instead of living in the shadows of him. Even the nightmares had backed off a little. I still woke up now and then drenched in sweat, my throat hoarse from a scream, but they were coming less and less frequently. And never when Shiloh slept over.
I settled deeper in my chair and had started to doze when I heard a muttered curse.
Holden appeared, looking pale, his usually perfect silver hair a mess. Dark circles ringed his eyes; his expensive clothes looked slept in.
“Ocupado,” he muttered. “I was hoping for some alone-time, Wentz.”
I sat up. “Tough shit. Where have you been?”
He slumped against one of the boulders that ringed the bonfire. “Busy. Very busy. Lots of plans to make, plane tickets to buy, vodka to drink.”
He took a long pull from his flask as if to prove his point.
I turned away quickly and put my own beer to my lips. “Were you ever going to fucking tell me? Or just split without a goddamn word?”
“Does it matter?”
I glared. “Yeah, it fucking matters.”
He recoiled, guilt in his eyes. And shock. As if he still couldn’t believe he meant something to me.
“I leave in a few weeks,” he said. “After graduation. I have to have the damn diploma in my hand before the walking pus-bags known as my parents relinquish my trust. Then I’m gone.”
“Where?”
He shrugged. “Paris, maybe.”
“You going to say goodbye to River or just ghost him too?”
“I said goodbye to him. At the hospital.”
“And that was enough?”
His silence answered for him.
“Fuck,” I muttered into my beer.
“Oh, you have thoughts on my situation, do you?” Holden spat, pushing unsteadily to his feet. “Tell me—O wise one—how you, who, up until a few weeks ago, had never been in a relationship that lasted longer than the time it took you to finish, are suddenly an expert.”
“At least I’m trying,” I said darkly. “I’m doing my fucking best, and I’ll keep trying to do right by her. You’re giving up.”
Holden sagged. “I tried too. I failed.”
“Try harder.”
He smiled wanly and pushed himself off the rock. “Tough love from Ronan Wentz. You’re one of the good ones. The best. I hope Shiloh knows how lucky she is.”
He gave me a little salute and wandered back the way came.
“Holden, wait…”
But he was already slipping into the night. I thought about following him but then what? Lock him up in the Shack until he listened to reason?
“Shit.” I tossed my beer bottle into the fire and pulled out my phone.
Just saw H. Doesn’t look good.
Miller’s reply was almost instant. What do we do?
I had no clue, hating how fucking hopeless I felt.
But doing nothing wasn’t an option.
On the last Wednesday of school, I hunted the quad for River Whitmore. I found Frankie Dowd first. Or he found me.
He stepped in front of my path—at a safe distance—looking like shit. Unwashed, stained clothes, eyes red rimmed, like he hadn’t slept in weeks.
“You happy, fucker? My dad lost his job thanks to you. He’s going to jail thanks to you.”
I crossed my arms. “Good.”
“Good?” Frankie cried, drawing looks from students passing by, most with yearbooks tucked under their arms. “They gave him a year. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“Not my problem,” I said.
A year wasn’t forever but it was long enough. I pushed past Frankie.
“We’re not done with you yet,” he screeched after me. “You hear me, Wentz? You’ll pay. In the way that hurts you the most.”
I spun around and gripped Frankie by the front of his dirty T-shirt. We had onlookers now. A ring of students, some with cell phones out.
“I’m done fucking with you, Dowd,” I said, my gaze boring into Frankie’s pale blue eyes. “You come near me or anyone I care about, and I will fuck your shit up. You get me?” He nodded frantically, his eyes wide. I let him go with a shove. “Now fuck off. You stink.”
He stumbled and slunk away, muttering to himself, and I spied Whitmore walking with Violet across the quad. His left arm was in a sling and he had a bandage on his temple but otherwise looked okay. I strode to them, leaving a trail of whispers behind me.
“Hey,” I said to Violet. “I need to talk to Whitmore. Alone.”
“Sure.” She pecked his cheek. “See you soon, River. And tell your mom I’m thinking of her. Always.”
“I will,” he said. She left and he jerked his chin at me. “What’s happening?”
“It’s Holden.”
“I figured. What about him? Is he okay?”
“He’s a mess. He’d already be in Paris or fucking who-knows-where except he’s waiting on some cash. Then he’s gone.”
Whitmore’s jaw clenched, his eyes flooding with pain. “Just like that? No saying goodbye?”
“He told me he said goodbye to you at the hospital.”
“That doesn’t fucking count.”
I agreed. “Look. I know him. He needs…help. Or I don’t know what. He needs you.”
Whitmore nodded. “I need him too. Just as much.”
“Show him.”
“How? He won’t talk to me. He won’t answer my calls, and my mom is sick. I can’t be camping out on his goddamn porch for hours…” He cursed with frustration. “I want to do whatever he needs but…fuck. My life’s about to have a bomb dropped on it.”
I knew how he felt. Losing a mother was like a bomb dropping, blasting the life you knew to little pieces.
“There’s a parking lot near the Cliffs,” I said. “Not much to it. A utility shed at the west end. Go there today. Four o’clock. And keep out of sight.”
“Dude, I don’t have time for some cloak and dagger bullshit—”
“Do you want to see him or not?” I snapped. “Be there. I’ll handle the rest.”
After school that day, I walked with Shiloh to the student parking lot. I’d squeaked out a C-minus in History, though I suspected Baskin hadn’t wanted to give me that much.