Lost King by Piper Lennox (best self help books to read .TXT) 📕

tightens. He stares out at the empty ice ahead of us. “Everything.”

I don’t know why I feel the need to argue this. Surely Theo knew his mother, and her blog, better than I could, having only just learned about either one.

Maybe it’s because it completely clashes with what I’ve always taken as gospel: that Theo Durham had a perfect, problem-free life.

“Poop schedule,” I venture.

“Not a schedule, per se, but yeah. Potty training videos were all over that fucking site.” He pushes off from the wall and slides in front of me, arms folded. “Go on, name another one.”

“Girlfriends?”

“Every last crush I ever mentioned got slapped into a blog post.”

“Nude photos?”

“More bathtub shots than even my grandmothers cared to see.”

“That time you sprained your ass?”

“Caught a photo of me sobbing underneath that busted hammock,” he says, “before she even bothered to ask if I was okay.”

I draw a sharp breath. “Oof. All right, I believe you. Sounds like she was a real piece of work.”

“That she is.”

I was about to start for the gate—Marcus flashed a light overhead, signaling that he’ll need to leave soon—but now I skid to a stop and wait for Theo to catch up. “Is?”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughs darkly, “I guarantee she hasn’t changed one bit.”

I shake my head, trying to fit this new info where it belongs. “You said she’s not around anymore, so I just assumed—”

“Poor phrasing on my part, sorry.” He stumbles, then uses my shoulders to catch himself as we clunk our way through the gate. “I meant it literally. She’s not around.”

His voice drops off, suddenly. I stare at him while he turns away on the bench, unlacing his skates with too much concentration.

There are so many more questions I want to ask. Like how deep that wound went, the day his mother left for good.

But I don’t. First: I already know the answer, because the guy who was supposed to step up and be my father did the same to me.

And second...I can’t do it.

I can’t let this connect us. I refuse. Theo Durham may have more pain than I ever predicted, and a life far less enviable than it seems, but I won’t allow those things to change everything else I know about him.

He’s still that boy who destroyed my life with a few clicks of some buttons. He still deserves heartache.

But the longer I watch him, memorizing all the shadows that betray that mask of a smile, the more I think, Maybe he’s had enough. Even if none of it came from me.

“You okay?”

I blink and tear my eyes back to my skates. He’s already in his shoes, while I’ve yet to undo a single knot.

“Yeah,” I say quickly, digging my nails into the laces. “Just tied them too tight.”

“Here, I’ll get it.”

Theo kneels in front of me. While he undoes the mess I’ve made, I stare at his hair. I want to run my fingers through it. To pull his head against my chest and hold him, and tell him I’m sorry we’ve got so many of the same scars.

And when he looks up at me with that smile, slipping my skates off and my shoes on like some Cinderella fantasy I probably used to have, I feel my heart flutter at the thought of actually telling him that.

Then I feel my stomach turn, because I know my heart shouldn’t flutter for him.

“Please tell me,” he says, tying my shoes for me, “my birthday celebration isn’t over just yet.”

In the hurricane of all these fluttering, turning organs, I find my voice. “It’s not.”

“Good. I don’t want to go home.” Theo kisses me as he rises, effortlessly drawing me up with him and pulling me close. “Unless, of course, you’re coming with me.”

16

“That’s it: I’m calling in sick tomorrow.”

Grinning, I watch Ruby throw back another shot, then do the same. “I think we crossed that bridge the second you picked this place.”

The dive she chose is swarming with people and noise. It’s got the kind of atmosphere you just know will linger in your head all night and make sleeping tough. Or, in my case, not even worth attempting.

She sets her shot glass upside-down on the runner without so much as a wince. We’ve been drinking straight Swedish Fish-flavored vodka the last few rounds, her choice. It’s so fucking weird and leaves my mouth feeling fuzzy, like eating the skin of a peach but none of the actual fruit.

“Please tell me this isn’t your favorite drink,” I shout.

“Oh, God, no.” Ruby swats me when I melt against the bar with fake relief. “Tequila’s my poison of choice, no question.”

I motion to our empty glasses as the bartender sweeps them away, most likely praying to the powers that be we’ll request something normal, next time. “Then why are we drinking these?”

“Tradition. Swedish Fish are my favorite candy, so my mom gives me boxes of them every year on my birthday. The same amount as my age.”

“I see.” As soon as a barstool opens up, I steer her to it by her waist and help her up, then stand in front of her. I like this crowd. It’s constantly moving. Constantly shoving me close to her. “So now you associate Swedish Fish with all birthdays?”

“Yep.”

“At least tell me I don’t have to drink twenty-three of those things. That’d be torture.”

“One more round,” she promises, flagging the bartender over her shoulder. The poor guy’s soul actually leaves his body for a second, but comes back when she calls to him, “After that, two Miller Lites, please.”

The crowd shifts again, bumping me forward so her knees hit my stomach. When I cough, she laughs and apologizes.

“Not your fault.” My back arches