Chapter 5 Shiloh
Five
Shiloh
The weekend rolled around with no word from Violet. My texts went unanswered. Phone calls went to voicemail. At history class on Monday, she was late. Violet was never late. Fear and guilt that something terrible had gone down at the party racked me.
Baskin called roll.
“Watson?”
“Here.”
“Wentz?”
“Here.”
I froze as the single syllable dropped into the air behind me, spoken in that deep, unpolished voice. Somehow, I’d missed him coming in. A shiver danced up my spine.
You are not this ridiculous.
Yet I couldn’t keep myself from peering over my shoulder, like Molly Ringwald’s character in Sixteen Candles stealing a peek at Jake Ryan. Ronan was slouched in the corner seat, last row, arms crossed, eyes flat and guarded at all the attention. I wasn’t the only one who’d turned to stare.
Ronan’s gray gaze met mine. When I offered a small wave in greeting, he glanced away.
Okay. Good talk.
Baskin finished calling roll, and Violet hurried into the room. I breathed a sigh of relief. She looked like herself, if a little tired.
“McNamara…” Baskin intoned.
“Sorry!” She caught sight of Ronan as she hung her bag on the back of her chair. “He’s real,” she whispered to me.
You can say that again.
“He’s also the guy Bibi hired to build my work shed,” I whispered back. “Which you would know if you had answered my texts this weekend.”
“Yeah, sorry. I was…really tired, recovering from the party. But for real? He’s working at your house?”
“Forget him,” I said, wishing it were that damn easy. “I was worried about you.”
“I’m fine, promise,” Violet said. She glanced at Baskin, who was still at his desk organizing his notes and muttering to himself. “But the party got crazy. The new guy, Holden, caused a major scene. He smashed a bottle on the Blaylocks’ dining table and then tap-danced all over it.”
“I like him already.”
“Chance doesn’t feel the same.” Violet giggled.
“And you’ll never believe it, but Miller played for the first time…
to an entire houseful of people. He sang our song.
‘Yellow.’” Her deep-blue eyes swam for a moment, and I knew instantly what she was recovering from.
“According to Evelyn, it got even crazier after I left. A knife fight or something.”
“A knife fight?”
“Between Frankie, Holden, and your new handyman.”
It took everything I had not to steal another glance at Ronan. Even rows away, I swore I could feel him—his presence, solid and strong behind me.
A small voice wondered if he was hurt.
Oh, stop. If anything, it’s Frankie you should be worried about.
“Sounds like I missed all the action.”
“You could say that. River asked me to homecoming.”
I frowned at Violet’s unsure expression. “That’s good, isn’t it? Part of your grand plan?”
She smiled faintly. “Yes, exactly. My grand plan.”
Baskin took the podium at the front of the class. I faced forward, thinking about my own grand plan that had no one in it.
“Your first major assignment of the year is a paper on the Russian Revolution,” Baskin said. “I’ll leave the exact focus to you, but the paper must be ten pages, minimum. Typed, single-spaced.”
The class collectively groaned.
“A warning. This paper will account for 50 percent of your first-semester grade.” He eyed us over his glasses. “So it had better be good.”
***
After class, we headed out quickly. I needed to get away from Ronan Wentz and all the unsolicited thoughts that came with him, and Violet had to get to the Whitmore house where she was a patient care volunteer.
She’d been assigned to help take care of River’s mom three afternoons a week through the medical program at UCSC.
“Nancy has liver cancer,” Violet said as we made our way to the student parking lot. “It doesn’t look good.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “It sounds like a lot to handle. You up for it?”
“I have to be. I’ll never make it as a doctor if I don’t do all the hard things.” She gave me a hug. “Call me tonight, and let’s catch up. You can tell me all about Ronan. I saw him hanging with Miller earlier today. I guess they’re friends now. Holden too. Evelyn calls them the Lost Boys.”
“Evelyn needs a hobby.”
“I’m just glad Miller has someone. Or someone’s…friends.”
“The so-called Lost Boys can’t replace you. Your friendship is special, and Miller knows that.”
She smiled faintly, unconvinced. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her she could turn her friendship with Miller into something more with one word, but it was none of my business. Not to mention I was completely unqualified to give advice on relationships.
You have to believe in them first.
We parted ways—her to her white SUV that was manufactured in this decade and me to Bibi’s Buick that was…not.
On the drive home, I cranked “Let Me Blow Ya Mind.” Violet and I used to go nuts over the song when we were kids. She liked to say she was the Gwen Stefani to my Eve.
I can’t replace her either.
But she might be replacing me with Evelyn Gonzalez. I vowed to call Violet and tell her all about Ronan building my shed. Maybe I’d even share that I’d been thinking about him a little bit this weekend.
A little bit.
Apparently, the universe was testing me. A tall, dark-haired figure came up on the right side of the road wearing jeans, boots, and a plain white T-shirt. A denim jacket with fleece lining around the collar was hooked on his finger and slung over his shoulder.
Shit.
Ronan Wentz walked casually but not slowly. Steady. Eyes straight ahead. I got the strange impression he was a hitchhiker on an endless cross-country trip, waiting for someone to pick him up but not expecting anyone would.
Then I realized he was probably on his way to my house.
Shit again.
“Do all the hard things,” I muttered and pulled over a few feet ahead of Ronan. I turned down the music and cranked the passenger side window down. “Hey. Do you need a ride?”
Ronan stopped, stared. A peculiar expression came over his face, his thick brows furrowed. “I don’t need a ride.”
“How about do you want one?”
He considered the road in front of him.
“You’re going to my house, right?”
He nodded.
“So how’s it going to look if I arrive home and you walk in twenty minutes later—in this heat—and I didn’t give you a lift? Bibi’s going to think I’m a major asshole.”
Ronan hesitated for a second more, then climbed into the car. Immediately, the space was filled with him. The scents of his generic soap and, fainter, campfire smoke. The sheer masculinity of him washed over me, and I gripped the wheel tighter.
I thoroughly regret this decision.
“Thanks,” Ronan said.
“It’s more a favor to me. I’d prefer my great-grandmother not think I’m an asshole.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t look at me at all.
“You care if I roll down the window?” he asked after a minute.
“Be my guest.”
He used the hand crank—nothing automatic here—wearing a small smirk.
“Something on your mind?” I inquired, brows arched.
“Sweet ride,” Ronan deadpanned. “What is it? An ’82?”
“It’s an ’84, if you must know, and still going.”
“Pretty sure I was walking faster.”
A shocked laugh burst out of me. It didn’t seem possible that Ronan Wentz had a sense of humor, but there we were.
“Did you just dis my vehicle?”
“Yes.”
I shot him a stern look, trying not to laugh. “You’ll have to take up your complaints with Bibi. This sweet ride is hers, technically, though she’s not allowed to drive it anymore.”
“Because it belongs in a museum?”
“Hilarious. You didn’t have to accept a ride if my boat is so offensive to your automotive sensibilities.”
“Yeah, I did. So Bibi doesn’t think you’re an asshole.”
“So you did it out of pity.”
“There’s nothing pitiful about you.”
Ronan stiffened as if the words had escaped him without thinking. A sudden tenseness filled the car, killing the light mood, even as a warm glow bloomed in my chest against my will.
I quickly put my eyes back on the road, but a maroon slash of dried blood on the top of Ronan’s left forearm caught my eye. The cut was nearly six inches long and curved like a hook. Two Band-Aids were laid clumsily over it, like bridges over a thin red river.
He’s hurt.
I gave myself a mental shake for being so soft. It was probably just the type A personality in me demanding I take care of him.
It. Take care of it. Not him.
“I heard the party got a little crazy on Saturday,” I said.
“You could say that.”
I nodded at the cut. “Is that a souvenir?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing. And it’s getting red around—”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”
I expected my hackles to rise, but the aura of loneliness I’d noticed the first time we met lurked beneath his rough tone. Like he wasn’t used to people giving a shit.
I let it go and pulled into my drive. We entered the kitchen from the garage, Ronan behind me.
“Bibi, we’re home. I mean…I’m home. With Ronan.”
God, girl…
No answer. I crept down the hall and saw Bibi’s bedroom door was closed, which meant she was taking a nap. By the time I came back to the living room, Ronan was already in the backyard raking a smooth space where he’d torn up all the weeds.
I needed to get my ass to work too and focus on what mattered—my eventual business. But Ronan’s raking was kicking up dust and dirt, and my eyes couldn’t stay off that cut on his arm with its smears of dried blood and its sad little Band-Aids.
“The big dummy didn’t even clean it properly,” I murmured.
Without letting my old guards and protections talk me out of it, I grabbed rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, gauze, medical tape, and antibiotic ointment from my bathroom. In the yard, I dumped the supplies on the patio table.
Ronan stopped and narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s all that for?”
“Your cut’s getting infected.”
“You don’t have to, Shiloh,” he said in a low voice.
“I don’t have to, but why wouldn’t I?”