Chapter 27 Ronan
Twenty-Seven
Ronan
“Holden’s not answering,” Miller said and hung up his phone. The flames of the bonfire lit up his worried expression. “He’s been a mess since prom.”
“Can you blame him?” I said, thinking of how my night with Shiloh had been fucking perfect in every way, while Holden’s night with River had been a nightmare. He hadn’t even told us how bad it was the morning after when we kicked Chet to the curb.
“He’s leaving the country,” Miller said. “Did he tell you that?”
“No,” I said, a sudden, heavy weight settling in my chest. “He fucking did not.”
That hurt more than I expected. That hurt a lot.
Miller shook his head and strummed his guitar absently. You wouldn’t know by looking at him that he’d signed a deal with a major label and was gearing up to move to Los Angeles to record his first album.
They’re both leaving.
That hurt too.
The hour grew late. Shiloh and Violet had gone out for a girls’ night. Graduation was coming up, and Violet was going to school in Texas a week later.
“Everyone’s scattering to the winds,” Shiloh had said the other night in my bed. “Except you and me.”
Damn straight. I wasn’t going anywhere. I’d promised to watch over Miller’s mom until he could move her to LA, and a lawyer had contacted me to say he was sorting out Uncle Nelson’s shit.
I’d keep taking care of the Cliffside apartments until then, but I was probably going to have to find a new place to live. Get a job and think about my future.
I couldn’t see what was in it, except Shiloh.
Eventually, Miller called it a night and packed up his stuff.
“You staying?” he asked.
“For a while.”
“Text me if you hear from Parish.”
“I will. Same.”
We clasped hands, and he took off. I sat in front of the fire, in no hurry to go.
Watching the flames and listening to the ocean crash.
Despite my worry for Holden, I felt more content than I had in years.
Shiloh’s love had sunk in deep, quieting that gnawing hunger that had plagued me for years.
For the first time since Mom died, I felt closer to what I wanted to be instead of living in the shadows of him.
Even the nightmares had backed off a little.
I still woke up now and then drenched in sweat, my throat hoarse from a scream, but they were coming less and less frequently. And never when Shiloh slept over.
I settled deeper in my chair and had started to doze when I heard a muttered curse.
Holden appeared, looking pale, his usually perfect silver hair a mess. Dark circles ringed his eyes; his expensive clothes looked slept in.
“Ocupado,” he muttered. “I was hoping for some alone time, Wentz.”
I sat up. “Tough shit. Where have you been?”
He slumped against one of the boulders that ringed the bonfire. “Busy. Very busy. Lots of plans to make, plane tickets to buy, vodka to drink.”
He took a long pull from his flask as if to prove his point.
I turned away quickly and put my own beer to my lips. “Were you ever going to fucking tell me? Or just split without a goddamn word?”
“Does it matter?”
I glared. “Yeah, it fucking matters.”
He recoiled, guilt in his eyes. And shock. As if he still couldn’t believe he meant something to me.
“I leave in a few weeks,” he said. “After graduation. I have to have the damn diploma in my hand before the walking pus bags known as my parents relinquish my trust. Then I’m gone.”
“Where?”
He shrugged. “Paris, maybe.”
“You going to say goodbye to River or just ghost him too?”
“I said goodbye to him. At the hospital.”
“And that was enough?”
His silence answered for him.
“Fuck,” I muttered into my beer.
“Oh, you have thoughts on my situation, do you?” Holden spat, pushing unsteadily to his feet. “Tell me, o wise one, how you, who up until a few weeks ago had never been in a relationship that lasted longer than the time it took you to finish, are suddenly an expert.”
“At least I’m trying,” I said darkly. “I’m doing my fucking best, and I’ll keep trying to do right by her. You’re giving up.”
Holden sagged. “I tried too. I failed.”
“Try harder.”
He smiled wanly and pushed himself off the rock. “Tough love from Ronan Wentz. You’re one of the good ones. The best. I hope Shiloh knows how lucky she is.”
He gave me a little salute and wandered back the way he came.
“Holden, wait.”
But he was already slipping into the night. I thought about following him, but then what? Lock him up in the shack until he listened to reason?
“Shit.” I tossed my beer bottle into the fire and pulled out my phone.
Just saw H. Doesn’t look good.
Miller’s reply was almost instant. What do we do?
I had no clue, hating how hopeless I felt.
But doing nothing wasn’t an option.
***
On the last Wednesday of school, I hunted the quad for River Whitmore. I found Frankie Dowd first. Or he found me.
He stepped in front of my path—at a safe distance—looking like shit. Unwashed, stained clothes, eyes red-rimmed, like he hadn’t slept in weeks.
“You happy, fucker? My dad lost his job thanks to you. He’s going to jail thanks to you.”
I crossed my arms. “Good.”
“Good?” Frankie cried, drawing looks from students passing by, most with yearbooks tucked under their arms. “They gave him a year. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“Not my problem,” I said.
A year wasn’t forever, but it was long enough. I pushed past Frankie.
“We’re not done with you yet,” he screeched after me. “You hear me, Wentz? You’ll pay. In the way that hurts you the most.”
I spun around and gripped Frankie by the front of his dirty T-shirt. We had onlookers now. A ring of students, some with cell phones out.
“I’m done fucking with you, Dowd,” I said, my gaze boring into Frankie’s pale-blue eyes. “You come near me or anyone I care about, and I will fuck your shit up. You get me?”
He nodded frantically, his eyes wide.
I let him go with a shove. “Now fuck off. You stink.”
He stumbled and slunk away, muttering to himself, and I spied Whitmore walking with Violet across the quad. His left arm was in a sling, and he had a bandage on his temple but otherwise looked okay. I strode to them, leaving a trail of whispers behind me.
“Hey,” I said to Violet. “I need to talk to Whitmore. Alone.”
“Sure.” She pecked his cheek. “See you soon, River. And tell your mom I’m thinking of her. Always.”
“I will,” he said. She left, and he jerked his chin at me. “What’s happening?”
“It’s Holden.”
“I figured. What about him? Is he okay?”
“He’s a mess. He’d already be in Paris or fucking who knows where, except he’s waiting on some cash. Then he’s gone.”
Whitmore’s jaw clenched, his eyes flooding with pain. “Just like that? No saying goodbye?”
“He told me he said goodbye to you at the hospital.”
“That doesn’t fucking count.”
I agreed. “Look. I know him. He needs…help. Or I don’t know what. He needs you.”
Whitmore nodded. “I need him too. Just as much.”
“Show him.”
“How? He won’t talk to me. He won’t answer my calls, and my mom is sick. I can’t be camping out on Holden’s goddamn porch for hours.” He cursed with frustration. “I want to do whatever he needs but…fuck. My life’s about to have a bomb dropped on it.”
I knew how he felt. Losing a mother was like a bomb dropping, blasting the life you knew to little pieces.
“There’s a parking lot near the cliffs,” I said. “Not much to it. A utility shed at the west end. Go there today. Four o’clock. And keep out of sight.”
“Dude, I don’t have time for some cloak-and-dagger bullshit—”
“Do you want to see him or not?” I snapped. “Be there. I’ll handle the rest.”
***
After school that day, I walked with Shiloh to the student parking lot. I’d squeaked out a C-minus in history, though I suspected Baskin hadn’t wanted to give me that much.
“He’s an ass,” Shiloh said, fingers twined in mine. “Your last paper on the Cold War was brilliant.”
“Don’t know about that.”
She kissed my chin. “I typed it, so I do.” We arrived at her Buick, and she ran her hands up my chest. “I have a free afternoon, if you catch my drift. Want a ride to your place?”
“Can’t. Tonight?”
“A man of few words. Tonight will have to do.” She kissed me softly. “Love you.”
“Love you,” I said and watched her go, still trying to believe that girl was mine.
I started for home while typing a text.
Meet me at the shack. 4 o’clock.
I waited and walked, praying Holden would answer. Relief gusted out of me when he did.
Why?
I hesitated over a response. It had to be good. Holden was too fucking smart; he’d see through bullshit immediately.
I have something 4 u.
Sounds romantic.
I rolled my eyes. It’s important. And if you don’t take it, I’ll never speak to you again.
Too late, I realized that might be exactly what Holden wanted.
I see what you did there, he replied. I don’t need new boots.
Just come. Please.
Please? Is this still Ronan Wentz, or did someone steal his phone?
I bit out a curse and was typing something a lot worse than please when another text came.
I’ll be there.
I sighed again. Christ, he’s more work than Shiloh. The thought made me smile, and then it faded instantly because the fucker was leaving.
But I’d done what I could. I didn’t know if it was enough, but it wasn’t nothing. That was something.
I walked home and arrived at my complex to see a thin old guy in a gray suit outside my door. He knocked, peered in the side window, and then started for the stairs to leave.
“Hey,” I said when he came down. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Ronan Wentz?”
“Yeah.” I crossed my arms, tensing.
“I’m Joel Barker, your uncle Nelson’s attorney. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, right.”
“Can we go inside and talk?”
“Sure.”
We went into my place, and I offered him a seat at the kitchen table. “Beer?”
“Thank you, no.” Joel Barker was a short guy, bristly gray mustache, rumpled suit. He pulled out a worn briefcase and set it on the table. “I’m very sorry to hear of Nelson’s untimely passing. I’ve represented him for years. Can’t say he was a friend, but… My condolences.”
I sat down across from him as he unlatched the briefcase. “Did they find out what happened?”
“Pulmonary embolism,” Barker said, withdrawing some papers. “Fortunately, they don’t think he suffered.”
Maybe not, but he died alone. That was the part I hated.
“I am the executor of your late uncle’s will,” Barker was saying. “He made modifications to it back in March. You are his sole beneficiary.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he left you everything.” Barker put on glasses and peered at the will. “‘I, Nelson Kenneth Wentz, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath to my nephew, Ronan August Wentz, all of my earthly belongings to be disposed of, sold, or kept as he sees fit.’”
I thought of the mountain of shit in his apartment that I’d now have to wade through.
“‘Also bequeathed to my nephew, the residential complexes, Bluffs and Cliffside—’”
My head shot up. “Wait, hold on. He left me the buildings?”
“Indeed. May I continue?”
I sat back in the chair, my thoughts going a mile a minute.
“‘I also do hereby bequeath to him all liquid assets in my bank accounts, personal and business, in amounts totaling $63,976.’”
I stared. “Dollars?”
He smiled. “Cold hard cash.”
I thought about the state of Nelson’s apartment, how miserly he was with the tenants and his own well-being.
“He has that much?”
“Had,” Barker said. “It’s yours now. Just sign here. The check will be issued to you within thirty business days. As for your uncle’s remains, he has requested to be cremated.”
“And then what?”
“He did not specify.” Barker adjusted his glasses.
“Business with the apartment buildings is a bit more complicated. I’m in contact with the city and will help officiate the transfer of property deeds, permits, and so forth into your name.
” He folded his hands. “That’s quite a big responsibility.
I’m sure the city would be very eager—especially in the case of the Bluffs complex—to purchase the land from you. ”
“And do what with it?”
“Knock the buildings down and turn them into condos, I’d imagine. The land is valuable. That would be another rather large windfall, young man, if I may say. Congratulations.”
I nodded vaguely, thinking the tenants who would have to move out wouldn’t see it that way. But holy shit.
I signed where Barker needed me to sign, and he shook my hand. “We’ll be in touch.”
I sat in the quiet of my kitchen for a long time—until the shadows started to creep across the floor—thinking about what Nelson had done. I replayed every conversation, every phone call. There weren’t many and few that had meant anything.
Except one. When I’d demanded to know where he’d been while I was rotting in foster care. His response echoed in my head.
We’re here now, aren’t we?
He was right. Because right now was all anyone was guaranteed…and the easiest thing to forget.