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A few days later, Ronan, Shiloh, Violet and I gathered at the Shack to say goodbye to Miller. Evelyn’s videos of him on her vlog had caught the attention of a bigwig at Gold Line Records. Miller was flying down to Los Angeles that evening.
He was going to get signed, I was sure of it. Everyone was sure of it except for Miller. I added how much I was going to miss him to my teetering stack of pain and took another pull from the flask I’d been sucking on all day.
Ronan and Shiloh were already there. Ronan was building a fire, stopping in his work to gently touch her face. The sight of them made me want to puke.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I snapped, making my way across thick sand to the firepit. “Those pieces are too wet. They’ll never catch.”
Both Ronan and Shiloh gave me perplexed looks. I ignored them and started throwing pieces of driftwood out of the pit.
Ronan stared. “The hell…?”
“Your solution to everything is to drown it in lighter fluid and set it on fire,” I said, falling more than sitting down in my foldout chair. “Try building something with your own two hands for a goddamn change.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ronan’s hard gaze narrowed on me. “Are you okay?”
Before I could answer, Violet and Miller emerged from the Shack. My stomach clenched to see bloody abrasions on Miller’s cheek and bruises in the shape of fingerprints darkening on his neck.
I shot to my feet, fear and worry making me sober.
Miller held up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. My mom’s boyfriend is a dick. Let’s leave it at that.”
I shook my head. “But fucking hell, Miller…”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll deal with him when I get back.”
Ronan’s hands balled into fists as he drew close to Miller, his voice low and hard as he spoke. “When you get back, we’re going to handle it. Okay?”
Miller’s eyes swam. He nodded. “Okay.”
“Good.” Ronan gripped his shoulder for a moment, then looked to me, questioningly. I nodded to show I’d heard him and understanding passed between us. We’d burn it all down for Miller.
For a few hours, I forgot about my own heartache and concentrated on cheering Miller up. While Ronan cooked us up some hotdogs, I regaled them all with tales of my incarceration at the sanitarium.
The group laughed as I spoke, but Violet, who was on a path to be a doctor, watched me with a clinician’s gentle concern. The following night was Prom. Since Miller would be in LA, she was still going with River. I tried to hate her and couldn’t.
The sun sank and it was time for Miller to go. It should have been the most exciting time of his life, but Miller’s hope was struggling under the worry that the executives at Gold Line would take one look at him—poor, bruised, and beaten—and take a pass.
I rose unsteadily and planted my hands on his shoulders, giving him my hardest, this-is-fucking-serious look.
“Listen to me. If you get to this meeting and start to panic or freak the fuck out, I have a sure-fire solution that I use when I get in tough spots.”
“What’s that?” Miller asked skeptically.
“I ask myself one question and one question only… What would Jeff Goldblum do?”
Miller smirked. “Thank you, that’s super helpful.”
My gaze dropped down to those bruises, purple and stark, on his skin. I unwound my knit scarf and slipped it loosely around his neck.
“You don’t have to explain anything to them, okay? Not a goddamn thing.”
“Dammit, Parish.” He blinked hard and pulled me in for a hug. “Thanks, man.”
I held on tight, eyes squeezed shut.
Thank you, Miller. For giving me a place in the world for a little while.
At home, my aunt and uncle were sitting at the patio table, clearly waiting for me. They jumped to their feet to intercept me before I could slip into the guesthouse.
