When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

“Why would I do that? The beauty of hotel living is that it comes with all the furniture and they bring you food.” I tapped ash into the little ashtray between us. “Not to mention, I’ve never been much of a home-dweller.”

River didn’t smile. “I was going to ask you how you’ve been, but I think I have an idea.”

“How much did you read?”

“Not much. I don’t think you sent them for me to read.”

“Is that a fact?” I asked, trying to keep my cold front up while River’s innate warmth and kindness was working to melt it down. “That’s interesting, given I don’t know why I sent them.”

“You sent them because you want help.”

“Says you,” I sniffed. “Maybe I was testing the efficiency of the French postal service.”

“Holden…”

The waiter returned and placed my drink—blackberry liqueur in white wine—on the table beside River’s sturdy glass of beer. For some dumb reason that juxtaposition was stark and punched me in the chest. How badly I missed him crashed over me so hard I was amazed I didn’t fall out of my chair. But this wasn’t fair to him. I’d cheated, broke my own rules meant to protect him.

He can’t be here. His family needs him.

My defense mechanism shifted from Aloof to Asshole.

“Look at you and your beer,” I said, shaking my head, my voice dripping with derision. “You stick out like a sore thumb. A big, dumb American in your jeans and scuffed boots and your unstylish jacket.”

River’s eyes widened, then darkened. “I don’t actually give a shit what people think. And you’re American too, in case you forgot.”

“I look the part,” I said, gesturing at my clothes. “I can speak the language. You don’t belong here. If I took you to one of my parties…”

If I took River to a party, he’d stand out in every way that mattered. Current tragedies in the world would make the rounds like a waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. The people would nibble on genocide or war or famine, chew it up, and spit it out like an olive pit. But River would actually care. He wouldn’t shake his head solemnly or quote some blog post and then forget all about it the second someone came by with champagne.

River would give a shit and goddamn, I love this big dumb American…

“I don’t want to go to one of your parties,” River said darkly. “In fact, that’s the last fucking thing I want to do.”

“What do you want?”

“To help. Or…I don’t know, Holden. I don’t know what the hell to do.”

“Sounds familiar,” I said int

o my glass. “I don’t know was always your thing.”

“Why are you being such a prick?” he spat, his voice and eyes hard. River leaned across the small table. “I came all this way. Say one fucking thing to me that’s honest. One fucking thing.”

I opened my mouth, a bitchy comeback on my lips, then snapped it shut. My throat had gone dry. I tossed back the rest of my drink, the bite stinging the back of my throat, making my eyes water.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

River’s hard expression softened, his forgiveness instant. “Me too.”

His hand reached to cover mine and I wanted to cry. Our fingers twined together, and we sat quietly, watching the people pass. I held perfectly still, not wanting to move for fear of breaking the perfect moment or losing the feel of his skin on mine.

But the waiter came back, and River withdrew his hand self-consciously and finished his beer.

“La meme chose?”

I started to say yes when I felt River’s eyes on me.

“Non, merci,” I said, and he left. “How long are you here?”