The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

“What’s that all about?” I asked, taking a seat and nodding at Holden’s hand.

“Oh, this?” He waggled his injured fingers. “Or are you wondering why today is a vodka day?”

“Seems like every day is a vodka day.” Along with the cold that wracked Holden in seventy-five-degree heat, he also seemed to have a pretty solid drinking problem.

“Today’s been extra special.” He glanced at me, unsure. “You want to hear this?”

“If you want to tell it.”

He looked to the ocean that crashed on shore a good twenty yards from us. “Alcohol keeps me warm because Alaska stole something from me. It stole something and left me with nightmares—memories—to remind me I’ll never get it back.”

“The camp?”

He nodded. “It fucked me up, and I wasn’t entirely solid to begin with. There were seven of us. It broke us down until we were nearly dead. Or wanted to die.”

I listened, my jaw tight.

“Anyway, that’s why most days are vodka days. And why I sometimes put my fist through bathroom mirrors.” He coughed. “Or why I dare people to stab me in the chest at parties.”

He glanced at me again, doubt in his eyes. The same doubt I’d had when I told Miller my story. As if Holden were afraid I’d kick him out of our group. I didn’t have the words to tell him that would never happen.

But I could give him something back.

“I don’t live with my parents because they’re dead.”

Holden had started to sip from his flask. His hand dropped into his lap. “What happened?”

I told him. He listened, hardly moving, though I kept the details to a minimum.

“I was pretty messed up,” I said, watching the fire. “I had to repeat fourth grade and did ten years in foster care. Eventually, social services tracked down my dad’s brother. That’s how I ended up here.”

Holden was quiet for a minute then said, “I’m so sorry about your mother, Ronan.”

I nodded, and we didn’t say much for a while but watched the sun sink toward the ocean.

“Well, aren’t we a jolly pair,” Holden said just at the right time, before the quiet got too heavy. “Tell me something good that happened to you today, Wentz. Anything. Before I throw myself into the ocean.”

Shiloh Barrera happened.

I tossed a rock into the fire. Cut that shit out.

Impossible. I remembered every damn word of our conversation, which was longer than any I’d had with anyone in years. I remembered every glance of her brown eyes and where they skimmed over me. I remembered every time she touched me and where. I could feel her gentle fingers on my skin and the sting of alcohol while she cleaned my wound. Like her—sharp and soft at the same time…

She was something good, but I had to leave her alone to make sure she stayed that way.

“I didn’t get suspended,” I said finally.

“Hey, there you go! A two-day streak.”

Holden offered his non-injured hand in a high-five. I hated high fives. I slapped his palm hard and he hissed with pain, laughing.

“Easy, tiger.”

“Your turn. Something good.”

“Hmm, don’t know that it’s good so much as doomed and hopeless but…” He sighed dramatically. “There’s a guy.”

“Okay.”