“Who is he?” River asked, his voice low.
“You really want to talk about him?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“He’s no one. A good guy,” I amended. “But he won’t last. Like the others.”
“Others.”
“Yes, others. Lots of others. Because that’s what I do.”
My words struck River hard and I hated myself more.
He stared at me, then barked a short laugh. “God, I’m a fucking idiot. I thought maybe you needed me. That it meant something that you sent me your books. But no, nothing’s changed. Except you’re over here living it up while I’ve been a goddamn monk, jerking off to you every night.”
I sucked in a breath, the truth hitting me as hard as mine had hit him. “No one?” I gritted my teeth. “I never asked you not to see anyone. I’ll never—”
“You’ve never asked me for anything, and you never will. Yeah, I remember your little mantra.”
I stared back, desperate to harden myself against him. “What do you want? Why are you here? To bring me back with you?”
“Why not? What are you doing here, except drinking yourself stupid and fucking everything that moves?”
“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”
River scrubbed his face. “Christ…Holden.”
“What am I supposed to do, River?” I shouted. “Go back with you and do what? I’ll be the same mess there I am here.”
“You can get help. You can try again.”
“Yeah and while I’m stumbling around, flailing and falling down, what are you doing? You’re picking me up while taking care of your sister and dad and keeping the shop running at the same time. Like fucking Atlas, carrying all of us on your back. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re doing the same old shit too. Boxing up your feelings and stowing them for later. When has that ever worked out for you?”
“At least I’m doing something. At least I’m trying.”
He has you there, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Beatriz. Or Ms. Watkins with a Portuguese accent.
We stared each other down for a few more moments, and then I sank onto a wrought iron bench against the side of the bookstore, feeling tired down to my bones. Tired of the old pain that wouldn’t leave me alone. Tired of missing him.
River stood with his hands on his hips, his gaze on the ground. “Do you love him?”
“Of course not. He’s a distraction. They all are.”
He’s not you.
River nodded and sat down on the bench beside me. “What’s happening tonight?”
“Another party.”
“On your dime?”
“Of course.”
“Cancel it. Text your so-called friends and tell them you’re not coming.”
“What am I doing?”
“You look tired, Holden. Let’s get something to eat and go back to my hotel.”
I mustered an arched brow and a sly smile for old time’s sake. “That sounds promising.”
“We’re not sleeping together. You need to get actual sleep.” River sighed. “I do too.”
I nodded and then tilted into him, rested my head on his shoulder. After a moment, River moved to put his arm around me. I could have slept right there, listening to the beat of his heart and nothing else. But night was falling.
Eventually, we hauled ourselves off the bench and went back to the 8th Arrondissement to a little bistro near his hotel. Over chicken Kiev and beef bourguignon, he told me about his first car restoration.
“It’s slow, it costs more money than it’s making—so far—but I love it.”
“If you need help with anything,” I began. “A little start-up cash…?”
“No,” he said, stabbing his chicken with a fork. “I got this.”
I rolled my eyes. “Christ, people are so damn weird about money. I’ve pissed away enough to build you a state-of-the-art garage six times over.”
River grinned. “I have a sneaking feeling I’ll appreciate my state-of-the-art state garage more if I build it with my own two hands.”
“Duly noted.” I poked at my food. “It may come as a shock, but I actually have some idea of what you’re talking about.”
He shot me a dubious grin. “Are you telling me Holden Parish actually got a job?”
I snorted. “Let’s not be crazy. But yes, I’ve earned a couple of paychecks. Two of my stories have been published in magazines.”
River’s face lit up with pure happiness. “No shit? That’s awesome. Congratulations.”
“Okay, okay.” I waved my hands. “The point is, I understand what you mean about working for something. The pay is a drop in the bucket, but seeing those checks with my name on them felt a million times better than when my inheritance came in. That money still feels like it belongs to my parents. The magazine money is mine. I earned it. What a concept.”
“Do you think you’ll ever speak to your parents again?” River asked in a quiet tone.
“Never. They’re the reason you’re in Santa Cruz and I’m here.”
“Doesn’t have to be this way.”
“Yes, it does. You’ve seen me at my worst.” I swallowed hard. “I’ve seen you in a banged-up car with blood trickling out of your ear.”
River’s fork clattered to his plate. “That accident was not your fault.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I do understand. It’s that goddamn conversion therapy, Holden. Every goddamn word of it was bullshit.”
“Logically, I know that. But it goes deeper than thought. What they did…it burrows down into the marrow of your bones so that you’re cold even when the sun is shining.” I blinked hard. “So when the person you love says he loves you too, the first inclination is to call him a liar. Your second is to run away. Your third is to fuck someone else. And your fourth is to drink and make it all go away.”
“How long can you do that for?”
“What’s the alternative? I was in a sanitarium for an
