When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

“I’m supposed to give a reading of Gods of Midnight, but I’ve changed my mind. If you’ve read the book, you’ll be bored. If you haven’t, I’ll spoiler it. Plus, I don’t need to read my own stuff out loud. I can—and do—jerk myself off any time I want; no need to do it with an audience.”

More laughter and a few whistles.

“Instead of reading, I’m just going to skip right to the question and answer.”

A hundred hands went up.

“If your question is about the ending, put your hand down.”

Ninety percent of the hands went down.

I laughed. “You have your ending. I’m not telling you mine. Next question.”

A few good-natured boos and laughs went through the crowd, and then a guy in the back wearing a dark jacket and baseball cap raised his hand.

“Jules suffers through pretty intense drug and alcohol addiction,” he said. His voice sounded vaguely familiar. “You’ve said that this book is a fictional memoir. If it’s not too personal, is any of that character based on real experience?”

“Art is personal. And yes, my little joke at the beginning isn’t much of a joke. I’m an alcoholic, but I’ve been sober for two years.”

Applause ripped through the auditorium making my eyes sting. I tried to get a better look at the guy but someone else was asking a question. More followed: about my ideas, my inspiration, and how someone as young as twenty-one could write with such depth.

“When you go down into the abyss,” I answered, “you come back out with something to say.”

When the Q&A was over, the attendees lined up to have their books signed. Mette and Elliot flanked me to assist in keeping the chain of books moving.

I signed my signature and scribbled out a note to each reader; their names already spelled out on Post-It notes to ensure I didn’t fuck up the inscription. Many attendees told me how much what I’d written had meant to them. I didn’t know what to do with compliments, but I muddled through, being as grateful and gracious as possible.

Finally, we came to the last attendee. A book slid in front of me. The Post-It read Silas.

I froze, then slowly lifted my gaze to Silas Marsh.

He wore a blue shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap that he took off as he gave me a tentative smile. Silas’s hair was the same chrome blond I’d remembered in Alaska only instead of ragged and dirty and hanging in his face, it was cut short and swept off his brow. He’d been nearly eighteen then, stronger and bigger than me. Now he glowed with health, his body filling out his clothes, standing tall when he’d been so broken in Alaska.

“Silas,” I managed.

“Hey, Holden,” his own voice thick. “It’s been awhile.”

I rose on shaking legs, part of me wanting to run away as the demons of Alaska whispered. Memories returning, one on top of the other. But now I had tools. Weapons to fight back. It had taken two years and the work wasn’t done yet—it might never be done. But when the cold reached for me with icy fingers, I remembered Silas’s kindness instead. When I shivered in that drafty cabin until I thought my bones would shatter, he’d lain on that hard floor and put his arms around me, sharing what little warmth he had. For a few moments, I’d been safe.

Silas tried for a grin, but his eyes were shining, and suddenly I was rushing around the table at him. We embraced hard; he held my shaking shoulders and I felt his chest hitch with shallow breaths.

We pulled away quickly, wiped our eyes, laughing and crying and then hugging again.

“Shit, it’s good to see you, Holden. You look great.”

“So do you. I feel like I’m dreaming. What are you doing here?”

“I was searching online for something to read and saw your name. I couldn’t believe it was you; I even doubted the author photo on the back. But then I read your book and—holy shit—I cried like a goddamn baby. Alaska was all there. Even in the scenes where it wasn’t.”

“I had to get it out.”

“Did you?”

“It will always be a part of me. I’m just getting better at not letting it control my every waking fucking moment. You?”

“Same, but it’s been a goddamn journey.”

“Tell me about it. My parents disowned me about eight seconds before I took the stage.”