“You’ve never asked me for anything, and you never will. Yeah, I remember your little mantra.”
I stared back, desperate to harden myself against him. “What do you want? Why are you here? To bring me back with you?”
“Why not? What are you doing here except drinking yourself stupid and fucking everything that moves?”
“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”
River scrubbed his face. “Christ…Holden.”
“What am I supposed to do, River?” I shouted. “Go back with you and do what? I’ll be the same mess there I am here.”
“You can get help. You can try again.”
“Yeah, and while I’m stumbling around, flailing and falling down, what are you doing? You’re picking me up while taking care of your sister and dad and keeping the shop running at the same time. Like fucking Atlas, carrying all of us on your back. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re doing the same old shit too. Boxing up your feelings and stowing them for later. When has that ever worked out for you?”
“At least I’m doing something. At least I’mtrying.”
He has you there, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Beatriz. Or Ms. Watkins with a Portuguese accent.
We stared each other down for a few more moments, and then I sank onto a wrought iron bench against the side of the bookstore, feeling tired down to my bones. Tired of the old pain that wouldn’t leave me alone. Tired of missing him.
River stood with his hands on his hips, his gaze on the ground. “Do you love him?”
“Of course not. He’s a distraction. They all are.”
He’s not you.
River nodded and sat down on the bench beside me. “What’s happening tonight?”
“Another party.”
“On your dime?”
“Of course.”
“Cancel it. Text your so-called friends and tell them you’re not coming.”
“What am I doing?”
“You look tired, Holden. Let’s get something to eat and go back to my hotel.”
I mustered an arched brow and a sly smile for old time’s sake. “That sounds promising.”
“We’re not sleeping together. You need to get actual sleep.” River sighed. “I do too.”
I nodded and then tilted into him, rested my head on his shoulder. After a moment, River moved to put his arm around me. I could have slept right there, listening to the beat of his heart and nothing else. But night was falling.
Eventually, we hauled ourselves off the bench and went back to the eighth arrondissement to a little bistro near his hotel. Over chicken Kiev and beef bourguignon, he told me about his first car restoration.
“It’s slow, it costs more money than it’s making—so far—but I love it.”
“If you need help with anything,” I began. “A little start-up cash?”
“No,” he said, stabbing his chicken with a fork. “I got this.”
