When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys, #2)

by Emma Scott

I don’t swim in pools anymore.

“You’re not physically cold,” said the Ghost of Therapy Sessions Past. “It’s a psychological manifestation of the trauma you endured during the conversion therapy.”

I honed my body into a temple of lean muscle for future lovers, and because I’d be fucked if I let anyone overpower me again.

He wasn’t stylish in the slightest or even interesting-looking. Merely classically, epically handsome. All-American. Superman in a T-shirt and jeans. His face was a straightforward arrangement of perfect features—thick, dark brows over blue eyes fringed with long lashes. A strong nose over a luscious mouth and a cleft in his chin even more impressive than mine.

But once our gazes found each other, I fell into the surprising depth of him. There was weight behind his eyes, and his casual smile looked like his own brand of armor.

He was fucking beautiful. Heart-stoppingly, jaw-droppingly hot. There was no way around it. My eyes, mind, and body all came to the same conclusion and I was helpless to deny it.

“The problem is that the guy in question is not my type, to put it mildly. An All-American good boy. Warm, gooey, everyone loves him. He’s the human equivalent of a grilled cheese sandwich.”

It’s not possible to change the fundamental being-ness of a person.

“It sucks not talking to you,” I said as Miller strummed the first chords of the song. “I don’t know why. You’re arrogant as fuck.” “Fair. You’re a grilled cheese sandwich.” I snorted. “A what?” “Shh,” Holden said. “Listen. This is our song.” Our song. Nothing was ours. There was no us. But Miller sang that if you never try, you’ll never know, and the words pierced me like arrows.

For a few delirious moments, I drowned in River; his scent, his skin, and the taste of him—clean and minty—in my mouth.

The woman patted Holden’s cheek, then turned and went back to the main house. Holden watched her go, then touched his fingers where her hand had been. My heart swelled at the sight. Whoever that woman was, I loved her already.

“I love you, Holden. That’s real. It’s the most fucking real thing I’ll ever know.”

And that’s not why I came here. I came to tell you that even thousands of miles away, I’m still here for you. I can’t make you believe me when I say that I love you, but I do. I think you love me too, and when you come back to me, I’ll be waiting.

Finally, Holden raised his head, hair tousled, eyes shining. “I’m about to say something extremely emotional and honest. Don’t hold it against me.” “You can say anything to me.” He swallowed hard. “Thank you for loving me when I didn’t.”

“Thank you for giving me back to myself,” I said, tears in my own eyes. “And I’m sorry.” “For what?” “When you left, I thought the loneliness would kill me. But I realized today at the Shack that I’d made you lonely, too. I made you lonely while we were still together, when my stupid fears and self-doubt kept us in hiding. I’m so sorry for that, Holden. You deserve to be loved out loud.”

“Yes, River. I’ll marry you.” My heart clenches as he touches my cheek, no protective wit or deflective joke. “I don’t know how I made it through all the days until this one,” he says, echoing my words from a year ago on that beach. The day he came back to me.

“My River,”

I kiss Holden Parish, my love for him pulsing through me with fierce pride. Because he made it. He’s here. He’s finally home.