Page 19 of When There Was You
My crazed schedule of working three jobs and spending time with Mick help distract me. I’m thrilled learning and absorbing the inner workings of a magazine, from how they determine their editorial calendar to what happens in the art department to the crucial role of advertising. I gulp it down like iced tea on a blistering day. As an intern, I’m exposed to slivers of each department, and throw myself into every task, even gofering.
The salon gig also yields unexpected dividends. The camaraderie of the stylists lifts my spirits as they take me under their wing and into the fold. They eye my hair like it’s spun gold and beg to cut it, add highlights, try new things. Surprising myself, I let them. They take what I thought was already a fabulous asset and turn me into a supermodel.
Mick’s tongue practically hangs out of his mouth at each iteration, and he can’t stop staring…or keep his hands to himself. That’s fine by me. Maybe we’ve finally leveled the playing field, if that’s even possible.
By the end of a hectic summer, I’m clearer about my path in the writing realm and the direction my career can take if I pursue a magazine job. It’s massively appealing. I’m also hella better at styling my hair.
The sting dulls over the Three Musketeers fallout, even though tension remains.
Ten
Fall semester begins, heralding my final year in college. The finish line is in sight, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
Mick whisks me away for an early birthday celebration over Labor Day. We take four days and drive to the northeast corner of the state to Lassen Volcanic National Park, where we camp, hike to the top of Mt. Lassen, frolic in the unusually warm Bathtub Lake, check out the fumaroles, mud pots, and boiling pools, and bask in each other’s company. There is no place I’d rather be than in Mick’s orbit, especially when Mr. Nature is in his element.
Remy’s November nuptials loom large—the point of no return. Not that I expect anything from that chickenshit, self-absorbed asshole at this juncture. Any thoughts I once harbored of speaking with him—let alone attempting any sort of platonic friendship—evaporated after how callously he’s treated me.
Obviously, I won’t be Mick’s plus-one at the wedding, a fact that both grinds and relieves. He should be free to bring his girlfriend. Even if she formerly banged the groom. And despite that Mrs. Remington would throw me out on my ass.But how excruciating (and awkward) would it be watching Remy get married…especially with our unfinished business? And how would his new wife take the news if she caught wind of our triad? It’s an impossible situation.
Mick provides the barest details when pressed—and morbid curiosity keeps me pressing—even when it leads to petty arguments.
“It’s justunfair you don’t get a say. I’m your girlfriend. I should be your date.” Bringing this up postcoitally probably isn’t my best timing.
“Jax,” Mick groans. “We’ve been over this.”
I roll away from him and light a cigarette, sitting up against his headboard and puffing with ferocity.
“Do you evenwantto be there?” he asks.
No, but I bristle at the exclusion. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? Just forget it.”
He sighs and guilt washes through me.
“Don’t you agree this whole wedding is a sham? Remy’s not even able to stay sober. He has no business getting married.”
Mick sits up and lights a Marlboro. “I’m surprised it’s gone this far, but it’s happening, and I hope for both their sakes that it lasts.”
“What about us, Mick?” It pops out before I can stop it.
His gaze snaps my direction. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just…your time is already spread so thin. Between our schedules, jobs, and you spending time with Remy in Oakland while I’m in San Jose… how long can we keep going like this?”
His eyes burn into mine. “And what, exactly, do you propose? I’m doing my fucking level best to manage this shit situation. Are you saying you want to call it quits?”
“No!” I squeeze my eyes shut take a deep breath. I need tochill. I’m not helping matters but goddamn it, I’m choking with irritation.
“Then what do you expect me to do?”
Good question. I suck the last of the nicotine into my lungs and smash the embers into the ashtray. “I’m sorry. I’m frustrated.”
He threads his hand through mine. “Baby, so am I, but it is what it is. There’s no manual for this, so please try and understand.”
The wedding promisesto be a grand affair held at the palatial Claremont Hotel in Berkeley. The sprawling, pristine white, Tudor-style hotel reeks of old-school elegance and only the grossly wealthy book it. The Remingtons surely want to broadcast and boast to their friends and enemies alike with this event. Honestly, I have a hard time picturing Remy being alright with it all…he’s never been about those kinds of trappings.
Then again, maybe the newly reformed Remy isn’t anyone I’d recognize.
Mick’s already sporadic companionship becomes sparser as the Big Day nears.
