The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)

I’m really trying not to be the clingy, needy girlfriend waiting for her man by the phone. Not that Miller makes me feel that way. He never misses our nightly call unless he’s on a plane. His schedule is grueling but then so is mine. Last January I couldn’t be with him as he accepted his Best New Artist Grammy because I had a massive research paper due. I watched it on TV. He took his mom as his date and in his speech he thanked me. Not by name; we avoid that to keep from paparazzi showing up on my doorstep.

He called me the girl in his love songs.

I cried so hard my roommate, Veronica, thought I was having a stroke. Tears for missing him, tears for loving him so much that every second we were apart was starting to feel like we were going against the natural order of the universe.

Veronica comforted me with a quote she likes: Change is hard in the beginning, messy in the middle, and beautiful at the end. I don’t know if this is the beginning or the middle. It’s hard and messy. It’s long stretches of not seeing each other punctuated by a stolen weekend here and there that ends with another heartbreaking goodbye.

I can only hope she’s right, that all this heartache is worth it and that it’ll be beautiful in the end.

October—

I haven’t written much in here lately. I’ve been too busy; my studies get harder with every passing semester. But being that busy helps keep me occupied, so I don’t spend every waking hours missing Miller.

Of course that’s not true. I miss him always. Every minute is colored slightly by not having him. I probably sound dramatic, writing stuff like that, but this is my outlet. Miller’s is his music. As everyone predicted, his first full-length album, Out of Reach, went triple platinum. It’s beautiful and I can hear us in it. Our distance and our hard goodbyes.

He’s in Europe now, headlining his own world tour. The last time I saw him was a month ago. The label set him free for an entire weekend before kickoff. We hid away in a cabin in Lake Tahoe to avoid the press, desperate to make the most of those forty-eight hours. He looked so tired. Exhausted. He loves his fans and playing live but the rest of it is overwhelming. I told him he was allowed to enjoy his success and take care of himself better, but he’s determined to do this tour. He’s negotiated that half of his profits will go to a charity that feeds the homeless and helps find them housing.

I do this and it all makes sense, he told me. Then I can look myself in the mirror every morning.

I loved him for that, even more than I thought possible. He asked me to wait for him and I promised him I would. Of course, I did. Because I’m the one who has to do the waiting. I can’t jet off with him; I have my own work and my own goals to accomplish so I can be proud of myself.

We kissed and made love, and then he was gone again, and now there’s nothing I can do but wait.

Chapter Twenty-Five

March

“Violet, order up!”

Chef Benito—who everyone called ‘Papa’—set two plates of eggs, bacon, and hash browns in the window. He banged on the bell, then disappeared again.

I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, finished taking a table’s order, and hurried to the window to stick the ticket. Two other tables needed coffee refills, but nothing got cold faster than eggs. I’d learned that the hard way when I got hired at Mack’s Diner two years ago.

I grabbed the plates Papa had set out, refilled coffee, dropped a check. When the breakfast rush ended, I had a moment to catch my breath.

“Hey, V.” Dean, another server, sidled up and flashed me one of his trademark charming smiles. “There’s an art exhibit opening downtown tonight. Want to check it out?”

“Can’t,” I said, marrying two ketchup bottles. “Have to study.”

“How did I know you were going to say that?”

“Because for two years you’ve been asking me to go out with you, and for two years I’ve said no.”

He grinned. “Make me sound pathetic, why don’t you?”

I gave him a tired smile. “You know how it is.”

“I know that all work and no fun is bad for your health.” Dean leaned over the counter and whipped a lock of sandy blond hair off his brow. He nudged my arm softly, his fingers lingering on my skin. “I worry about you.”

“Oh please,” I said with a wry laugh, then dropped my glance to where he was touching me and back to him, brows arched.

He pulled his hand away and stood straight, grinning. “I don’t understand how you can stay immune to my considerable charm. It’s not like you have a boyfriend, right?”

I winced and busied myself with the ketchup. “Right.” I gave him a look. “Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe I just don’t like you?”

His eyes widened innocently. “Me? Nah.”

Papa appeared in the kitchen window. “Violet! Order up.” He banged the bell.