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Chapter Nine
I strode through the house, through the yard and past the pool, to my guesthouse. Everything River and I had said and done that night chased me home. My cracked brain ripped through every memory, replaying every one of his concerned expressions as I told my story.
You don’t feel like a stranger anymore.
“Shit.”
I banged into the guesthouse, flopped on my bed, and flung my arm over my eyes. I’d spent the better part of the night attempting to reduce River to the sum of his perfect parts. To keep my attraction to him physical, but he was a damn iceberg. There was more to him than he revealed on the surface. He was smarter than probably anyone knew. Humble and kind. My stupid, shriveled little heart felt like it was reaching for everything he was…and that I was not.
“It was a mistake,” I said, echoing River’s words. They stabbed me in the chest, but he was right. It’d been a mistake to tell him about Alaska. A mistake to let him put his hand on my face and promise pain to anyone who hurt me…
That was a joke, whispered an insidious voice. He doesn’t care about you. Why would he? Why would anyone?
“Why would anyone?” I whispered, nodding.
Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I angrily blinked them away. My hand slipped under the waistband of my pants and I gripped myself, ready to mentally fuck River Whitmore out of my system.
I muted our intimate conversation and concentrated on the vision of him stripping out of that black tux. I recalled every hard muscle, every sleek line of his body contoured by moonlight. I redrew him in my memory—his chiseled jaw, the smooth planes of his chest, his torso packed with abs, and a V that directed my gaze to the impressive bulge in his underwear.
I stroked myself, hard and fast, but the spark never caught fire, and a terrible fear told me that I’d already let him in too deep.
I hate that they did that to you. I’d kill anyone who tried to do it again…
“Goddamn you, River.”
The tears threatened again, and I kept my eyes buried tight in the crook of my elbow. Nothing could happen between us or ever would. I’d been born a wreck; the conversion therapy had finished the job.
There was nothing more to know.
Monday morning, I dragged my hungover ass to school.
I still reeked of booze and popped an Altoid or ten for Ms. Watkins’s English Lit class. She watched me take my seat with narrowed eyes, but she didn’t call me out. I made it through the hour and thought I was home free until the bell rang and she stopped me at the door.
“Holden? Can I have a word?”
“Cough syrup,” I blurted.
“Excuse me?”
“I have a cold…never mind. What did you want to see me about?”
She rifled through some papers on her desk and singled out mine. “Your essay on Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking was excellent. Truly moving and emotional for what’s essentially a book report. I’m excited to read more from you. Have you always been a writer?”
“I’ve always written. Can’t say that makes me a writer.”
“I’d have to disagree. I think this essay is one of the best things I’ve read in my fifteen years on the job.”
Christ, between her, Beatriz, and Aunt Mags, I had nice ladies coming out of my eyeballs. I itched to go.
“Have you thought about pursuing a degree, Holden? An MFA?”
“No.”
“What about your parents? What do they think?”
“They don’t get a say,” I said. “And no offense, but neither do you. Can I go now?”
I hated how my words hit her. Her smile dropped but the concern never left her eyes.
