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“I know. I just…I kind of miss you.”
“You do?”
“I know we
never talked much but when we did, it was…good. Do you think we could keep talking? Now and then?”
She smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.”
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday afternoon was so dull and boring, I actually found myself looking up UCSC’s Creative Writing program requirements and application process. The deadlines had all passed but there were summer programs and spring admissions.
The requirements looked easy enough. For shits and giggles, I’d taken the SAT and passed with a 1590. (I shaved a little off the top so the other students wouldn’t feel bad about themselves.) My AP exams were all perfect and I could write the UCSC application essay with my eyes closed.
And if they didn’t like my essay, I could get in the old-fashioned way and donate my way in.
For a moment, I let myself have a different life than the one I was set on. According to one colorful page, the university had a “vibrant LGBTQA+ community.” The page was accompanied by a photo of beautiful, happy queer students, laughing in the bright California sun. I even let my cursor wander to the mental health services department. That’s how bored I was.
You’re going to walk around campus like an average schmuck? You’re going to sit in a stuffy classroom, taking notes, and letting someone with half your IQ judge your writing?
Wow, my ego was bitchy today. I compared the scholastic life in Santa Cruz to my vision of Parisian parties, fountains of champagne, writing in a garret overlooking the Seine, and having meaningless sex until my dick fell off.
In the past, I’d have said no contest, but now…
How about this: You’re going to let amateurs poke and prod at your PTSD until it wakes up and devours you?
I shut the laptop and told myself the small pang in my chest was only my imagination.
I called James and had him take me to the parking lot closest to the Cliffs. I trudged the rocky, unforgiving path to the Shack, hoping Miller or Ronan or both would be there. Miller worked every Saturday, but maybe I’d get lucky and he’d have the day off. Maybe he’d play a song for me and I’d get out of my head for a while.
As I drew close to the Shack, I heard voices. One low and deep, one soft and smooth. I peeked into the window and found Ronan with Shiloh Barrera, Violet’s best friend and more frequent guest at our nightly bonfires. I didn’t know her well, but her sharp tongue and lack of bullshit made me an instant fan.
“Is she okay?” Ronan was asking.
“She’s okay. Miller’s with her now.”
“About time.”
“Agree, but those two are giving me an ulcer. Literally hours before, River Whitmore asked Violet to Prom. As friends. And Violet, the dummy, said yes.”
My heart dropped to the sand as jealousy rampaged through me, green and sour like nausea.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” Ronan said. “If Miller’s with Violet now, he won’t let her slip away again.”
“I just wonder what River’s endgame is.”
To be accepted. To not be alone. To have a normal life.
My initial stab of jealousy mellowed to a dull ache. I waited with breath held for Ronan to spill everything I’d told him about River and me in private.
“River asked her to Prom as a friend, right?” Ronan shrugged. “Maybe that’s what he needs. A friend.” He moved close to Shiloh with an intimacy that said this wasn’t the first time they’d been in each other’s space. “And maybe it’s none of our fucking business.”
And that, Ronan Wentz, is why I love you.
Shiloh smiled appreciatively. Seductively. “Good answer.”
