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

taking so long, most of us are already drinking. “...the chocolate pie Georgia made, because I’m gonna eat it all.”

People chuckle and sound agreement. Clara goes, then Wes, before all eyes swing to me.

I clear my throat. My social meter’s approaching zero, so public speaking is the last thing I want to do.

The first thing? An encore performance of the spectacular display of filth Ruby and I just put on upstairs.

My brain clicks out of the Dirty Tab and into the Clean One when, in my useless silence, Wes elbows me.

“The cabin,” I say quickly, “and...new friends.”

“New friends,” Clara sings quietly from the other side of Wes, dragging out the word. Georgia does the exact same thing, at the exact same time, from her side of the table. But considerably louder.

“Yes,” I relent, motioning to Ruby. “And new friends.”

Everyone laughs again, then looks at Ruby, who’s last. Judging from her blush, my little gratitude speech put her brain into Dirty mode, too.

“New friends,” she nods, shifting in her seat to bump my hip. “And good food. If I wasn’t here right now, I’d be eating a Powerbar in my car’s backseat during a ten-minute break or something. This is a definite upgrade.”

With that, everyone lifts their glasses again, and we cheers.

Another no-phone rule was instated, but I’ve got mine out under the table. I open my Messages for the third time since I sat down. Empty.

When I look back up, Wes is watching me.

“Don’t tell Georgia. I don’t want to fish it out of the rain gutter.”

He gives me a pity laugh, then tongues his cheek. “Your dad still hasn’t texted or called?”

I shake my head. The family thread has messages from Uncle Sterling and Aunt Billie, plus responses from all us kids, but absolute silence from Dad.

“He forgot the holiday,” Wes whispers, hitting my leg with the back of his hand. “Not you.”

“Yeah.” I turn it off and slide it back under my thigh.

Wes is right. I just don’t know if that fact is better or worse.

And honestly, I don’t want Dad to acknowledge the holiday for my sake, at least not completely: I want to know whether or not he invited Kimberly to the winter house, or if he’s still chained to his desk right this minute, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Ruby passes me the sweet potatoes after putting a tiny portion on her plate, almost not worth having at all. When I pass it to Wes after serving myself, he does the same.

“Shit, guys, is there something wrong with the potatoes that you know but I don’t?” I look at the appropriately excessive mountain on my plate, and the tiny orange blobs on theirs.

“Saving my calories for dessert,” Wes says. Leaning back to see Ruby, he tells her, “I used to be fat.”

She laughs and motions to her potatoes. “Same.”

While Wes passes the dish on, I look at her. “You never told me that.”

“Well….” She drags her fork through some gravy. “Now I have.”

I blink and go back to my food, telling myself it’s crazy to feel slighted. We’ve been together for less than a weekend: of course we’re still learning new things about each other.

But it’s not what I’m learning that feels weird. It’s how she acts when she reveals those kinds of details. Like it’s not happening organically, but because she’s backed into a corner.

Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. The echo rings through my head in Wes’s voice, because he’d tell me the exact same thing. I’m overthinking. Overreacting. And of all the topics to use as a jumping-off point for this conversation, a girl’s weight definitely isn’t one of them.

I see a flash of something under the table; Ruby’s checking her phone, too. Her face is serious.

She angles the phone away from me as she types.

What the fuck?

I let out a breath, hoping some of this sudden jealousy will go with it. It’s not a good feeling, and I know showing it wouldn’t be a good look.

I finish my plate before anyone else, despite being one of the last to start eating. Shoving food in my mouth keeps it from asking stupid shit.

So she wants privacy while texting. That’s not a crime.

Problem is, she still hasn’t recovered from whatever the exchange was. I see tension in her neck, her entire body, every time she stops eating and zones out.

By the time desserts make their rounds, I can’t help it anymore.

“Callum?” I say it while my mouth is getting scrubbed to death by my napkin. It’s mostly so she can’t hear the edge in my voice. I know it doesn’t belong there.

The flash of fear when she looks at me makes me suddenly unsure.

“Loose ends,” she says, forcing a smile and shrug. “He’s still got stuff at my place. Refused to take it with him for weeks, and now out of nowhere he swears he ‘needs it.’ You know how it goes.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, with a smile that looks even less convincing than hers.

29

“Shit, man. You sound like me.”

“I know.” I fall back against my wicker egg chair hard enough to send it spinning. The metal spring suspending it from the ceiling groans, until I plunk my feet down and stop to face Wes, who’s slumped in the other chair.

“Half of me feels like an asshole, and half feels totally justified. Am I out of line here, not wanting her to talk to him at all?”

Wes inhales through his teeth while he tunes his guitar. “You realize you’ve picked the worst person on earth to ask that question, right?”

“Your bias is also why you’re the only person I want to ask.” I motion to the door of the