After class, we headed out quickly. I needed to get away from Ronan Wentz and all the unsolicited thoughts that came with him, and Violet had to get to the Whitmore house where she was a Patient Care Volunteer. She’d been assigned to help take care of River’s mom three afternoons a week through the medical program at UCSC.
“Nancy has liver cancer,” Violet said as we made our way to the student parking lot. “It doesn’t look good.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “It sounds like a lot to handle. You up for it?”
“I have to be. I’ll never make it as a doctor if I don’t do all the hard things.” She gave me a hug. “Call me tonight and let’s catch up. You can tell me all about Ronan. I saw him hanging with Miller earlier today. I guess they’re friends now. Holden too. Evelyn calls them the Lost Boys.”
“Evelyn needs a hobby.”
“I’m just glad Miller has someone. Or someones…friends.”
“The so-called Lost Boys can’t replace you. Your friendship is special, and Miller knows that.”
She smiled faintly, unconvinced. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her she could turn her friendship with Miller into something more with one word, but it was none of my business. Not to mention, I was completely unqualified to give advice on relationships.
You have to believe in them first.
We parted ways—her to her white SUV that was manufactured in this decade and me to Bibi’s Buick that was…not.
On the drive home, I cranked “Let Me Blow Ya Mind.” Violet and I u
sed to go nuts over the song when we were kids. She liked to say she was the Gwen Stefani to my Eve.
I can’t replace her either.
But she might be replacing me with Evelyn Gonzalez. I vowed to call Violet and tell her all about Ronan building my shed. Maybe I’d even share that I’d been thinking about him a little bit this weekend.
A little bit.
Apparently, the universe was testing me. A tall, dark-haired figure came up on the right side of the road wearing jeans, boots, a plain white T-shirt. A denim jacket with fleece lining around the collar was hooked on his finger and slung over his shoulder.
Shit.
Ronan Wentz walked casually but not slow. Steady. Eyes straight ahead. I got the strange impression he was a hitchhiker on an endless cross-country trip, waiting for someone to pick him up but not expecting anyone would.
Then I realized he was probably on his way to my house.
Shit again.
“Do all the hard things,” I muttered and pulled over a few feet ahead of Ronan. I turned down the music and cranked the passenger side window down. “Hey. Do you need a ride?”
Ronan stopped, stared. A peculiar expression came over his face, his thick brows furrowed. “I don’t need a ride.”
“How about, do you want one?”
He considered the road in front of him.
“You’re going to my house, right?”
He nodded.
“So how’s it going to look if I arrive home and you walk in twenty minutes later—in this heat—and I didn’t give you a lift? Bibi’s going to think I’m a major asshole.”
Ronan hesitated for a second more, then climbed into the car. Immediately, the space was filled with him. The scents of his generic soap and, fainter, campfire smoke. The sheer masculinity of him washed over me, and I gripped the wheel tighter.
I thoroughly regret this decision.
“Thanks,” Ronan said.