River crunched the paper in a fist, and I thought he might throw it back at me.
“Nice stereotyping. Do you actively try to piss people off, or does it come naturally?”
“I’m naturally gifted.Endowed, some might say.”
River was not amused.
I huffed a breath. “Look, I’m obviously bad at this. I want to talk to you. Apologize. But I’m leaving it up to you,” I said quickly when he started to protest. “You have my number so you can call if you feel like hearing what I have to say. Or if you want to…talk. About anything.”
River turned the folded paper over and over in his fingers, his expression stormy.
“Or you can throw it away,” I said. “Or burn it. Or write it on the boys’ bathroom wall under:For a good time, call…Advertising is everything these days.”
River stared at me as if I’d grown a second head, then laughed. “You’re crazy.”
“That’s the word on the street,” I said, his smile making me smile.
The bell rang, clanging through the moment. The class began gathering their things while Mr. Reynolds droned about upcoming homework. River collected his stuff. He didn’t say another word but put on his letterman jacket.
My phone number went into the pocket.
***
Miller watched me wedge a wing-backed chair into the shack’s doorway with a frown.
“It’ll never fit.”
“That’s what he said,” I replied and angled the huge white chair until it slipped through the small door. I sat down, beaming at my friends. “Perfect, right?”
Ronan and Miller exchanged looks, both of them sandy and sweaty from spending the better part of that afternoon helping me carry the chair from a side street nearest the beach to the shack.
“What do you need a chair for anyway?” Ronan asked. “We have the bench.”
“I’m not sitting on a splintered slab of wood that some pirate probably pissed on a hundred years ago.”
Miller rolled his eyes. “Can’t argue with that logic.”
The three of us sized up our little haven. The chair took up quite a lot of real estate in the shack, but there was still plenty of room, even with the rest of the upgrades I’d been making over the last few days: a heavy-duty camping lantern, a mini fridge with a generator for booze and the snacks Miller needed to keep his blood sugars even, and an old trunk with a padlock.
Miller’s gaze lingered on the trunk the longest. His mom’s new boyfriend was a douchebag with a capitaldouche, and he feared for his guitar’s safety after he caught Chet messing with it the other day. I’d bought the trunk so Miller could keep the instrument safe and not have to lug it around wherever he went.
He looked to me gratefully. “The chair’s not so bad.”
Warmth flooded me, and I looked away. I still wasn’t used to having real friends and had to constantly remind myself not to get too attached. It’d only been a few days. Still plenty early for Miller and Ronan to come to their senses.
“Beer?” Ronan asked, his huge frame bent over the mini fridge.
I tapped the flask in my pocket. “I’m in a vodka mood today.”
“Stratton?”
“Can’t. Have to work,” Miller said. “I’m off at ten.”
He worked at an arcade down at the boardwalk, and we’d made a habit of meeting up with him and strolling amid the games and rideslike the fabulous trio of degenerates we were.
“We’ll meet you,” I said, and Ronan nodded.
Miller’s grateful expression came back as he shouldered his backpack and headed out. I suspected he hadn’t had many friends either. I learned he’d once been homeless, living out of his car with his mother. Kids at school had spent the last four years bullying him for it, Frankie Dowd in particular. Hence the ugly little scene at Chance’s party.
