Page 18 of When There Was You
His gaze softens, a tear sliding down his cheek, and he opens his arms.
I fall into them, gripping him tight as he pulls me into his grasp. We cling to each other as sorrow, regret, and love flow between us.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, my words muffled by his shirt.
He kisses my forehead. “Me, too.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Mick.”
“You won’t,” he rasps.
“I love you.”
“I love you so fucking much.”
Our mouths meet in a raw, earnest kiss, our pain swirling with honesty, our hearts desperate to stay fused.
Nine
Imake it through finals, begin my internship, and toggle between my other two jobs. Mick and I steal time where we can. Surfing. Hiking. Sailing. Making love.
We mostly avoid discussions about Remy.
In private, grief and anger hijack my thoughts at random, and I apply fresh bandages to my wounded ego. My emotions fluctuate wildly, sometimes turning self-flagellating for believing Remy was ever a genuine friend. I can’t rectify the coldness in which he’s discarded me and moved on.
The urge to charge over to the Remington palace-turned-prison and confront Remy pulls with gale-wind force. I deserve answers, respect, and at the very least, a proper, dignified breakup…but I won’t stoop to embarrassing myself or allowing Remy’s parents to diminish me further. Been there, done that, and nope. The motherfucker should grow a pair and call me.
True confession: I’ve caved and tried calling. Seven times. Okay, twelve. Mostly answered by his bitch mother, the other few by his sleazy father. I chickened out and hung up every time, swallowing the ugly words poised for release. My heartraced so loudly, my breathing labored—and I probably sounded like a perverted crank caller.
Worse, damn if I also don’tmissRemy. His affable exuberance, ability to make me laugh, salacious smiles, the affection in his voice when he called me sweetheart. He’s one of the Three Musketeers.
Was. Was. Was.
There is no moreus.
Mick, who’s always had a chokehold on my heart, makes it easier to distance whatever portion I’d devoted to Randolph Remington III. And being able to give ourselves to each other fully is potent, heady, and beautiful. I cannot imagine a day I won’t beconsumedwith Mick Callahan.
Still, underneath it all lurks questions, unease, trepidation. Howisthis going to play out? Mick and Remy are best friends. The kind who’ve lived through thick and thin, the kind who watch each other’s backs, the kind who will be linked forever. This triad worked when we shared the love, but I’m still the “new girl” in this equation, and Remy has put nuclear distance between himself and me. If Mick, Remy, and I can’t ever hang out together—and right now, that sounds like an impossible bridge to cross—how can Mick and I live happily ever after?
It’s almost painful watching Mick balance on a teeter-totter weighed on either side by his best friend and girlfriend. It only makes me love him deeper and see the genuine goodness nestled at his core.
While I’ve done a bang-up job keeping my thoughts internalized, I can’t help myself from asking Mick random questions when I reach a tipping point.
What’s Remy’s fiancée’s name? Sherry.
Do you like her? She seems nice.
Is she pretty? Silent reproach.
Where’s the wedding: The Claremont. (The most pretentious hotel in the area.)
What are you doing for the bachelor party? I don’t know.
Does she know about the three of us? No.
How’s his recovery going? He’s drinking a lot. His parents believed him when he said alcohol wasn’t his problem. He’s in a new outpatient program now.
Does he ask about me? No. (Ouch.)
