My words died as both Dad and Amelia stared at me. Dad’s fork clattered to his plate.
“You want to move out?”
He looked at me as if I’d said I wanted to be the first to colonize Mars. He and Amelia exchanged glances, both equally terrified of a future in which they’d be alone with each other in this house.
“Well…at some point, yeah. I’m going on twenty years old, and I feel like I need—”
“Do you already have a place in mind?” Dad asked, looking close to panic. “Is this something you’ve been planning for a while?”
“No, I was just thinking—”
Amelia slammed her glass down on the table, spilling soda onto the wood, and abruptly pushed her chair away. She shot me a stricken look and hurried to her room.
Dad sat back in his chair, his mouth hanging open a little in shock. “Are you serious about this, River?”
“Well, yeah, but it doesn’t have to be any time soon. I guess it can wait.”
“Don’t scare me like that,” he said with a rough chuckle, his hand on his chest as if I’d played a prank on him. “If you left… I don’t know what we’d do without you, but it wouldn’t be pretty.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Leave the mess. I’ll clean it up later.” He rose to his feet, his hand resting for a moment on the back of Mom’s empty chair, then he went out.
I sighed. “It was just an idea.”
Twenty-Seven
Holden
I lounged back in my chair at the head of the table in the private room at the Epicure restaurant in Le Bristol Hotel—my current residence—and took in the scene. The long, oval table was littered with the residue of a three-star Michelin dinner. All that remained were plates of half-eaten tarte tatin and crème brûlée, cups of coffee, and empty bottles of champagne.
“Wait, wait, silencieux!”
Alexandre Caron, the ringleader of tonight’s party, motioned for silence.
Fifteen of my closest friends—a few of whom I met that day—slowly quieted their laughing, drunk conversations in a handful of different languages. Tonight’s party was comprised of French, Germans, Italians, Britons, my Lebanese shopping BFF, one Russian, an American man I didn’t recognize, and a beautiful Swiss man.
Tonight’s target.
If the artist Basquiat and the actor Michael B. Jordan had had a love child, it would be this guy—perfectly smooth brown skin and a sprig of dreadlocks tied at the top of his head. I’d been making eyes at him all night, but he hadn’t taken me up on my unspoken offer.
Yet.
“Let us raise a toast to our patron saint of the endless party and author extraordinaire,” Alexandre was saying, lifting a glass ofchampagne. He was sharp like an arrow—slender, with an angular face and a harsh beaked nose. Fortunately, he was straight and unadventurous. Otherwise, he’d be relegated to the long list of our mutual acquaintances whom I’d slept with and never spoken to again.
Alexandre grabbed two magazines and lifted them in his other hand. “To Holden—oh, pardonnez-moi, to Gordon Charles. The first writer to have stories published inThe New YorkerandThe Paris Reviewat the same time!”
Cheers went up, glasses were raised, and the room toasted to my success. The American—a pale, wiry guy with strawberry-blond hair and glasses—met my eye with a look that said he had an agenda.
Too late, my friend. Basquiat B. Jordan is tonight’s dessert.
Or so I hoped. I glanced at the Swiss man and was pleased to finally see a flirty smile dance over his lips. Tonight, I’d get lost in those lips, that mouth, and every other part of him in my continued quest to erase River Whitmore from my body’s memory.
If only.
None of my old tricks—alcohol and meaningless sex—were working when it came to River. Each night spent in a desperate clutch with someone that wasn’t him only embedded him deeper into my sense memories. Despite fleeting moments of pleasure, my skin and cells and sinews cried out for him. My fucking heartscreamedfor him, a never-ending howl that refused to be silenced by alcohol or the sweaty, writhing bodies of strangers.
But I’m no quitter.I reached for more champagne and shot the Swiss man a wink.
