Page 28 of When There Was You
“Remy?”
“I found him. Finally. It’s not good, Jax.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s doing crack.”
I sag against the counter. Crack cocaine is sweeping Oakland like a wildfire, and people are falling fast. It’s reportedly as addictive as heroin. “Oh, Mick. That’s…bad.” Andgoddamn it,Remy.
“Yeah. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Where are you now?”
“The Remingtons’ annual Christmas Eve bash,” he says ruefully.
That brings on an instantaneous round of flashing memories. “Adult-man-sitting?”
“Something like that. How are things going there?” His Zippo flicks, followed by an exhale.
“Surprisingly okay…even nice at times. But I’m relieved to hear from you. I was worried.”
He pauses, like there’s so much he could say but isn’t. “I know it’s difficult with your parents, so ‘nice’ is high praise.”
My eyes well and I gulp down the emotion. “We still on for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, baby. Come up to the house whenever you’re ready—after you open presents and can steal away.”
Thank god. “I can do that.”
“I’m sorry…again.”
“Don’t,” I whisper, wanting him to hear—and believe—me. “Don’t ever apologize for being a good person, a good friend,a good man. I would never want you to change.”
He huffs out a long breath. “I don’t deserve you.”
I hate it when he says that. It always harpoons a piece ofmy heart. “You deserve all of me, Mick Callahan. I’m yours and always will be.”
“Spoken like true heroin.”
If anyone’s a drug, it’s him, not me. A thought that fades as we both go quiet, quickly sobered by his comment as we circle back to Remy and his drug problems. Now, even more serious than before.
“Not the best word choice today, is it?” he murmurs.
“No,” I whisper.
It effectively ends our conversation after we promise to see each other tomorrow.
The unknowns echo between us, unspoken yet so very loud.
A dreary rainfalls Christmas morning, providing a gray backdrop to the modest festivities. Our gifts are opened within an hour, after which I clean up the debris and join my mother in making breakfast. We’re having French toast with cinnamon and a sprinkling of powdered sugar, sausage links, and fresh fruit.
All I can think about is escaping to Mick’s.
Even though yesterday was bearable, being in this house is stifling, and I’m using every ounce of my tolerance reserves to get through the minutes.
My relationship with my parents is set in a foundation of lies and neglect. They stopped parenting me in elementary school. Well, aside from my father’s heavy-handed efforts to keep me in whatever line he draws at his whim—arbitrary lines about things like curfews and grades—all while drinking too much and cheating on my mother. As for dear old mom, she continues fading, spending her days in a drug-addled haze since my older sister drowned. She looks one step closer to death every time I see her.
Over our meal, I alert my parents to my plans to “seefriends,” promising to be back in time to help with dinner. Surprisingly, there’s no griping or heavy-handed comments. They still have no idea Mick is my boyfriend, let alone the love of my fucking life, and I see no reason to tell them about it after my father made it clear he wasn’t good enough for me. He didn’t even know Mick when he told him that bullshit. This secret is problematic the longer we stay together. I don’t let myself wonder if we won’t.
