Page 131 of Romeo

He grinned.

That was probably as close as Massacre and I were ever going to get to a touching farewell.

They rode toward the gate, Amber lifting one hand before they disappeared onto the road.

For a few seconds, nobody said much.

Then somebody behind me asked where the beer was. Jack told him he was standing ten feet from the clubhouse and could find it his damn self, and the world started moving again.

I looked once more toward the empty gate.

Amber hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know.

Maybe I’d simply needed someone to say it differently.

Being careful with Fiona didn’t mean pretending I didn’t know what I wanted.

It meant making damn sure she had room to decide whether she wanted it too.

The Rosewood High gymnasium smelled like hairspray, flowers, and enough cheap cologne to violate several health codes. Families crowded onto the bleachers while graduating seniors filed into rows of folding chairs in blue and gold gowns, and I stayed near the back wall where I could see without becoming part of the show.

I hadn’t told Fiona I was coming.

For once, the surprise had nothing to do with making some grand gesture. Graduation belonged to her. Granny, Georgie, Frank, and the rest of her family had earned the right to crowd around her today without me turning up and becoming the center of attention.

I only wanted to see her walk across that stage.

That was what I’d told myself during the long ride to Virginia.

The graduates settled into their seats, and I searched the rows until I found light brown hair beneath a slightly crooked cap.

There she was.

Third row from the front.

Fiona sat between two girls I didn’t recognize, twisting the tassel around one finger while the principal welcomed everyone. She looked nervous enough that one foot kept moving beneath her chair, but every so often one of the girls beside her whispered something and Fiona smiled.

The sight of it made every mile worth it.

The speeches went on forever. Something about futures. Potential. Taking risks. Probably excellent advice if you were eighteen and eager to hear it.

I barely listened.

Every so often, Fiona’s gaze traveled over the crowd.

Maybe she was looking for Granny.

Maybe Georgie.

Maybe nobody in particular.

The third time she did it, I caught myself straightening away from the wall as if that would somehow help her find me.

Easy, asshole. She doesn’t know you’re here.

When the principal finally began reading names, I moved where I had a clearer view of the stage.

“Fiona Mitchell-Steiner.”