Page 1 of When There Was You
Prologue
1989
Despite a restless night plagued by memories better left in the past, I damn near spring out of bed like a released jack-in-the-box when the hotel phone trills. My wake-up call. Through a fog of fatigue, I shuffle into the bathroom and into a hot shower, closing my eyes for a precious minute as water cascades across my skin.
As I reach for the miniature bar of soap, my gaze snags on the diamond sparkling on my ring finger and emotion lodges in my throat. Washing the planes of my body, I soon disappear into another memory…one where Mick caresses every inch with his strong, callused fingers, massaging shampoo into my hair, and whisperingYou’re perfectandI love youwith reverence.
I’ve got a whole cadre of shower memories with both Mick and Remy, many X-rated. When they attempt to surface in all their glory, I shoot them down with a mental Photon Torpedo from the starshipEnterprise.
But the echo of their faces persists—their enigmatic smiles, the glint in their eyes, the cigarettes clamped between their sexy lips—and with it, a piercing pain I haven’t experiencedfully in years. With Mick, it’s disappointment. With Remy, lingering anger.
But today isn’t about them. It’s about the friend we lost before his time. The lesson is stark and jarring:There but for the grace of God go us.
A bitter huff escapes me. I turn off the shower, retrieve a bath towel, and haul it back behind the curtain. Clinging to the remaining steamy warmth, I wrap the coarse material around me tightly, a physical attempt to keep the memories from soaking through my skin. Shaking my head, I rub the towel vigorously against my body, the truth refusing to be smothered.
Today is very much about Mick and Remy. And me.
One
1984
Mick teases me with a sticky marshmallow he just pulled from the fire. I arc toward his hand as he brings it closer to my lips only to jerk the treat away.
I strike again, and his smile turns mischievous. When I tumble against his legs, he laughs. The next time, victory is mine, and the golden cube of sugary goodness melts on my tongue as I let out a garbled “Ha!”
Those gray pools with the darker outer ring fixate on me, full of mirth, until I grab his fingers and pull them to my mouth. Sucking them clean, I watch the storm brew in those glorious eyes, and a slow smile dances on my lips.
“Fucking heroin,” he groans, calling me one of two pet names I never tire of hearing him say.
We’re on the private beach beneath the totally cool cottage he rents in Half Moon Bay, the fire warming us on this nippy March evening. The stars blaze a path overhead, the Milky Way visible out here in no man’s land, my favorite place on earth—aside from being in Mick Callahan’s arms.
Mr. Fine and All Mine flips me onto my back against the blanket, the weight of his sturdy frame pinning me as hekisses me breathless, our tongues tangling in the flickering light and igniting a whole different kind of flame.
I’m putty in his hands, my insides akin to the very marshmallow just consumed.
“I love you,” I breathe.Forever.
He hovers over me, his long chestnut hair fluttering in the breeze. “I love you, baby.”
Mick resettles beside me, spooning my body with his, his signature salty aroma mixing with the ocean’s. We’re quiet in the easy, organic way we often are, letting the Pacific’s crashing waves provide the soundtrack, a hint of woodsmoke and caramelized sugar lingering in the air. The fire emits a loud pop, spitting sparks upward, and when my gaze follows one heavenward, a shooting star performs its swan song in the midnight sky.
It’s a beautiful, perfect evening, one that feels like a hit of pure oxygen in my lungs. I’m unsure I could breathe without Mick anymore—or exit his orbit.
His callused hand travels up my arm, the tips of his fingers trailing lightly and sending ripples across my skin. “Remy’s not coming until tomorrow around dinnertime,” he says. “What do you want to do with our Saturday?”
I’m contemplative at first, but soon my blood races thinking about the three of us together. It’s a potent combination—one that will likely feature a delirious, sextastic threesome. Or as my roommate Kit likes to call it, “a sandwich.”
It’s only happened twice. The first time was last October, on the boat. I thought our trio was capsizing for good, and then everything turned on a dime. We’d all shared our feelings, wants, and needs, and then somehow, agreed to share each other. And share each other we did that day.Whew.
The second time was just before Christmas. Suffice it to say,theywere my best gift. Still are.
Our arrangement haspotentially disastrousstamped all over it, I know. Yet it’s been anything but. I see Mick a lot.Remy less. Getting the three of us together has proven challenging. We live in different cities around the Bay Area. I’m a junior at San Jose State and in class five days a week, plus work part-time as a hostess for a local restaurant. Remy’s still a mechanic at the Chevron in Oakland and has a overbearing mother to placate. Mick works at the boatyard in a supervisory role. His abusive father passed away in January after a prolonged, emotional shitshow surrounding his deteriorating health, which became Mick’s responsibility to manage. He hasn’t jumped ship or made any noise about moving to Florida—as he planned before his father rerouted his life—and I’m selfishly hopeful he won’t.
When the three of us finagle time under one roof, it’s a homecoming, since that’s how our friendship began. The original Three Musketeers.
Until we complicated it.
I’m impressed with how we’ve managed. No jealousy or angst or petty bullshit drama. Together or separate, we’re sharing the love…literally.
