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River Whitmore was on my mind. I could still feel him everywhere on me. Inside me. Christ, I’d considered myself somewhat experienced on the sexual front, but River had obliterated everyone that came before him and probably everyone who’d come after.
I was already ruined, and he ruined me all over again. In the best way.
Ms. Watkins delicately cleared her throat.
“Right, yes, the business at hand.” I leaned back, all casual laziness. “So let’s say—hypothetically, mind you—that someone was curious about the application process for UCSC’s MFA writing program?”
She set down the Red Pen of Death she used for grading papers and folded her hands on her desk. “This person is interested in skipping the BA program altogether?”
“Indeed. The boredom would kill him if he had to attend classes like Commas and Margins 101.” I examined my nails. “This person is something of a prodigy in the brains department.”
“I see.” Ms. Watkins looked like she was holding back her smile.
“Not that it’s relevant,” I added, my throat suddenly thick, “but this person has also not had a drop of booze in months. Except for beer, but we all know that doesn’t count.”
“That’s debatable, but…” Ms. Watkins touched a hand to her heart. “That’s wonderful, Holden.”
“So…what do you think?”
“I think if this person were serious, some meetings could be arranged with the English Department at the university. Is he serious?”
I drummed my fingers on the desk, thinking, cautioning myself like I had been all weekend not to let post-sex glow go straight to my head. And heart.
Just because River fucks as if he loves me…
I hauled myself out of the desk and toward the door. “He’ll get back to you.”
Ms. Watkins smiled into her work as she picked up her Red Pen of Death. “I sincerely hope he does.”
Outside, I lounged against the brick wall and lit a clove cigarette to calm my nerves. It was reckless and stupid to let one night change things. Except it wasn’t one night. It’d been months of nights with River, each kiss and touch and deep conversation erasing the distance we tried to keep between us. But in a few short weeks, that distance was going to be real.
“Unless…” I murmured, exhaling the word on a plume of smoke. It was no secret River dreaded his departure as much as I did.
You think he’s going to throw his life in the NFL away and crush his dad’s hopes? For you? asked a snide voice in my head, sounding suspiciously like my own father.
A shiver wracked me, and the cigarette dropped out of my numb fingers. I ground it out just as Mr. Chouder strolled by. He stopped and sniffed the air, then turned to me, eyes narrowed.
I twiddled my fingers at him and blew him a kiss.
He huffed and kept walking.
I lit a new smoke and pondered my options, alarmed to discover there was only one.
Tell River.
The chorus of chattering voices in my head laughed at the idea. To stand naked in front of him and ask him to choose me…
“It could happen,” I murmured. “It worked for Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant.”
A pair of girls passing by gave me a weird look.
I curled my lip at them. “Oh, like you haven’t seen Notting Hill a hundred times.”
The bell rang and I chucked my smoke, Ronan’s words ringing in my head, louder than the chittering voices. To fight for River and maybe for myself, too.
At lunch, I went to the band room as usual, but it was empty. A text came in on my phone from River.
I’m at the bleachers. Meet me.
