The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)

River moved a tiny bit closer; I could smell his cologne—woodsy and clean, mixed with a faint scent of motor oil. His voice grew low. Private. “So listen…”

I swallowed. “Yes?

“My mom said it was awesome meeting you.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You made her happy and that’s a big deal to me. So, thanks for that.”

“Of course. She’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, she is.” His eyes shone, and he quickly took a pull from his solo cup. Chance and a couple of guys called to him from the next room, pulling their king to the beer pong table. “So…maybe we can talk more later?” he asked. Almost shyly.

“Sure. Yes. I’d like that.”

He gave me a final smile. “Don’t drink the punch.”

My heart ached for him; he seemed a little bit like an imposter too. The most popular guy having to pretend to have a good time at a party while there was fear and pain waiting for him at home.

The party ebbed and flowed around me. I finished my beer, and someone gave me another. I finished that too, and the ground tipped under my feet a little as Evelyn took me by the hand to make the rounds. She was effortlessly popular, confident, perfectly flirty—everything I was not.

Outside, by the pool, I pulled her aside. “I have to ask. How come you and River…?”

“Never hooked up?” She shrugged. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? But I don’t know. There’s something about him I can’t figure out. We’re not on the same wavelength.”

I wondered if that was code for, I tried but he shot me down. But I’d grown close to Evelyn; she bullshitted so much, she was easier to read when she wasn’t.

“But hey, my loss is your gain,” she said. “You guys looked pretty cozy in the kitchen earlier.”

“He’s sweet.”

“Sweet. Uh huh. Did he ask you to Homecoming yet?”

“No. But he’s going through some heavy stuff.”

“Truth. The poor boy needs a distraction, don’t you think? And a little nudge?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Leave it to me.” Her mischievous smile collapsed as she spied something over my shoulder. “God. Your lost boy is here.”

I swung around to see Miller sitting on a lounger, his guitar case at his feet, talking with a big, dark-haired guy who sat on a deck chair beside him.

“Ooh, it looks like he brought his bodyguard,” Evelyn said. “That’s Ronan, I’ll bet. The guy who broke Frankie’s nose.” She took in the new guy appreciatively. “God, look at those arms. Yummy. Loving the ink, too, but…not my scene. He looks like he just broke out of jail.”

Miller met my eye, and I waved. He didn’t wave back but said something to Ronan, who nodded. Then Miller left his guitar and approached.

“Uh oh,” Evelyn said. “Now is not the time to let River see you with another guy.”

“That’s silly. It’s just Miller.”

The words tasted funny in my mouth. It’s just Miller. Like saying it’s just air; always there but essential to live.

“Hey,” he said, giving Evelyn a nod.

“I’m so glad you came,” I said, hugging him.

His scent was so different from River’s—cigarette smoke he carried from home mixed with the cleaner scents of bonfire smoke and the salt of the ocean. Tension hummed in him, vibrating in his body like a current.