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“The first one, of course.”
“You’ve seen it a hundred times.”
“Then it must be really good.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
As if I’d say no to her, anyway.
I ordered pizza and curled up next to Bibi on the couch, my eyes straying from the movie to the door where Ronan had gone, taking his quiet strength with him. As Bibi cackled at Tyler Perry’s antics, I tried not to think about the time when that laugh would be forever silent. The pain would break me into a thousand pieces.
And I’d have no one to put me back together but me.
Chapter Six
Saturday afternoon, Miller and I lugged a tall wingback chair from the parking lot nearest the path to the beach, all the way to the Shack, hauling it over boulders and sweating under a relentless sun.
His Lordship directed and guided us along, not breaking a sweat. Once there, Holden wedged the chair inside the little cabin and flounced into it, grinning at us.
“Perfect, right?”
Not remotely. It was too fucking big, for one thing, but since we’d brought Holden to the Shack last week, he’d wasted no time filling it with upgrades. Like a mini fridge and a generator to run it. The fridge stored my beer and Holden’s vodka, but I knew he’d bought it for Miller’s snacks and juices to keep his blood sugars even.
Holden had also brought a trunk big enough to store Miller’s guitar so he wouldn’t have to haul it around wherever he went.
What was a chair to that?
Miller smiled gratefully at Holden, likely the same thoughts running through his mind. “The chair’s not so bad.” He shouldered his backpack for his job at the arcade down at the Boardwalk. “I’m off at ten.”
“We’ll meet you,” Holden said, and I nodded.
Most nights, the three of us walked the Boardwalk, getting stares and whispers from Central High students. None of us gave a shit. Since the night of Chance’s party, Holden had become one of us, and now our weird circle felt complete.
That night, around the bonfire, he’d told us a little about his past. About some “wilderness camp” his parents had sent him to in Alaska when he was fifteen. Whatever the camp was, it had fucked him up. Hard. He’d spent a year in some fancy Swiss sanitarium to recover, but the effects stuck with him. Holden wore coats, scarves, and sweaters no matter the weather. As if whatever happened had been imbedded into him like a permanent frost.
I made sure to keep the bonfire high for him from then on.
That afternoon, he sat in one of the three beach chairs around the pit while I gathered wood.
“What about you?” he asked after Miller had gone. “Do you work?”
“I do odd jobs.”
“You’re a freelancer.”
“Sure.”
“And you live with your uncle?”
I didn’t look at him but concentrated on the fire.
“The reason I ask,” Holden continued, “is because I also used to live with my parents and now live with my aunt and uncle. We’re twinsies.”
I could’ve laughed. Holden was a billionaire, had an IQ pushing 150, and clothes that cost more than anything I’d ever owned in my entire life. We could not be more different…until I remembered him baring his chest to Frankie and daring him to stab him in the heart.
“Shit happened in Wisconsin,” I said. “I had to get out of there.”
Holden nodded, thinking, and raised the ever-present vodka flask to his mouth. The knuckles of his left hand were wrapped in white bandages. Automatically, my fingers went to the cut on my arm that Shiloh had cleaned up. She’d done a good job; it was healing fast. I hoped it’d leave a scar to remind me. Not where Frankie had cut me open but where Shiloh had put me back together.
