When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

After a promising start with English, it was downhill from there, with the classes being ungodly simple and pointless. I made it through the day without burning the school down—a minor victory. But as I approached my last class—Calculus—my stomach twisted with an unfamiliar sensation.

I am not nervous over a guy. Not me. Not ever.

After all we’d been through together, I couldn’t allow my heart even the slightest injury. That it was still pumping was asking enough. But goddamn, the second I laid eyes on River Whitmore, my pulse kicked up a notch and a little thrill zipped down my spine. Like a tiny reminder of what it meant to be alive.

I took the empty seat beside him again, keeping my bandaged hand in my coat pocket. He refused to talk to me or even look my way, yet I felt his attention on me; his tapping pencil and jouncing leg like Morse code that I was getting under his skin.

I behaved myself for forty-five torturous minutes, basking in River’s nearness. His scent. A woodsy cologne underscored by eau d’gasoline. The combination was a potent, heady mixture that gave me inappropriate thoughts.

More than usual.

Do one good thing. Just one. And maybe the nightmares will leave you alone.

I tossed a small, perfectly geometrically folded piece of paper onto River’s desk.

“What the hell is this?” he whispered.

“Pop quiz,” I said. “Do you like me? Check yes or no.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Relax. It’s my phone number.”

River did not, in fact, relax. His eyes widened and an actual blush crept up his muscled neck.

“What the hell for?” he demanded, though his voice sounded thicker than it had a moment before.

“In case you need tutoring. Say your grades start slipping and you’re in danger of being cut from the team. You call the hot new guy to help you ace the test, just in time for the big game.”

River crunched the paper in a fist, and I thought he might throw it back at me.

“Nice stereotyping. Do you actively try to piss people off or does it come naturally?”

“I’m naturally gifted. Endowed, some might say.”

River was not amused.

I huffed a breath. “Look, I’m obviously bad at this. I want to talk to you. Apologize. But I’m leaving it up to you,” I said quickly when he started to protest. “You have my number so you can call if you feel like hearing what I have to say. Or if you want to…talk. About anything.”

River turned the folded paper over and over in his fingers, his expression stormy.

“Or you can throw it away,” I said. “Or burn it. Or write it on the boys’ bathroom wall under: For a good time, call… Advertising is everything these days.”

River stared at me as if I’d grown a second head, then laughed. “You’re crazy.”

“That’s the word on the street,” I said, his smile making me smile.

The bell rang, clanging through the moment. The class began gathering their things while Mr. Reynolds droned about upcoming homework. River collected his stuff. He didn’t say another word but put on his letterman jacket.

My phone number went into the pocket.

Miller watched me wedge a wing-back chair into the Shack’s doorway with a frown.

“It’ll never fit.”

“That’s what he said,” I replied and angled the huge, white chair until it slipped through the small door. I sat down, beaming at my friends. “Perfect, right?”

Ronan and Miller exchanged looks, both of them sandy and sweaty from spending the better part of that afternoon helping me carry the chair from a side street nearest the beach to the Shack.