When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

“Name?”

“Holden Parish.”

“Well, Mr. Parish, I hate to disappoint you, but we mail those out the week after the ceremony—”

“I’m not walking in the ceremony. I’m leaving town.”

“We will mail them to you. That is standard.”

I clenched my teeth. “I won’t have an address. I’ll be…backpacking across Europe.”

I heard that was something normal people did. And I wasn’t lying about being in Europe, so I had that going for me.

Ms. Reed arched a dubious brow. “I can’t release these records to you, but if you’re going to be at a different address than what we currently have on file, give it to me and I will make sure it’s sent there as fast as possible.”

“Fine.” I fished in my coat pocket for my wallet. I pulled out the card of my family’s lawyer, Albert Bernard, and wrote my name on the back. “This is who you send it to. His office in Paris.”

Ms. Reed took the card and peered at it.

“You got that? Albert Bernard. Paris.”

“I can read, dear,” Ms. Reed said, then smiled thinly. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

“Thank you. You’ve been a huge help,” I muttered bitterly and stormed out.

I was nearly free when Ms. Watkins’s voice sounded from behind me.

“Holden? Holden wait—”

I walked faster but the woman was persistent; her heels clopped on the sidewalk as I strode back to the parking lot.

“Holden, please…”

I ground out a curse and whirled around. “What is it? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“I never heard back from you about the MFA program at the university.”

“Something else has come up.”

“You mean you’re running away.” She cocked her head, concern painted all over her face. “Are you really going to leave the country? By yourself?”

“Safer for all involved.”

Ms. Watkins’s face was irritatingly sweet in its concern. “I disagree. I’m worried about you. I don’t think it’s healthy. You need stability. Community—”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me. It’s been tried. It failed. You’re a teacher. A great teacher, Ms. W.” I walked backward toward the car. “The best I’ve ever had.”

“Holden, wait—”

“But let’s not make our relationship more than what it is,” I said with a cold sneer, because she was still trying, goddamn it. “That’s all you are to me. A high school English teacher.”

She stopped short, the hurt coming over her face like a slap.

“Bye, Ms. Watkins.”

I climbed in the car and shut the door. The self-loathing burrowed a little deeper as we drove away, leaving her standing on the curb.

So what? Let her be the savior for someone worth saving.