Page 31 of When There Was You
My tasks help keep my thoughts off Mick, Remy, and whatever’s going down, but like weeds growing through the cracks, they’re pervasive. It’s 10:30 p.m. when I clock out, and the sky is a blackish indigo, clouds floating across a nearly full moon. Will Mick call tonight? If not, I’ll go out of my mind.
It turns out, my answer is sitting in my driveway in a blue Mustang fastback.
My heart leaps in elation, then sinks with dread.
Calming my whirring insides, I pull alongside Mick and kill the engine. I can’t see him well; the streetlight casts us both in shadow. But as we exit our cars and I draw near, I’m startled by his bloodshot eyes. Has he been crying?
What happened?
I wrap him in my arms. He offers no words, but clings to me like a life preserver.
We part and I stare into those gray eyes. “Are you?—”
“Let’s go inside,” he murmurs.
I open the door to the condo, grateful my roommates are still in Oakland for a few more days. Mick throws the deadbolt as I kick off my shoes, drop my purse, and practically bite my tongue waiting for him to speak. I’m in unfamiliar territory, and it physically hurts to see him so plainly hurting.
He slips his arms around my waist from behind and rests his chin on my shoulder, then lets loose an audible breath followed by a hitch. I hear the torment in it.
My head whips. “Mick, what hap?—”
“Baby, I’m fucking exhausted, and…” A heavy pause stretches out. “What I need is to hold you close and crash. Can we do that? I know you have questions. I just… tomorrow, I’ll tell you everything.”
His cheek nestles against mine, rough from not shaving, his ocean scent faintly present, his arms so familiar around my waist. It calms me, settles me.
“Please,” he rasps.
“Okay,” I whisper, swiveling in his grasp to kiss him tenderly.
I lead him by the hand to my bedroom, and we shrug off our clothes and spoon our naked bodies together underneath the covers. Mick’s arm binds me closer. His breathing soon evens out, my distraught prince succumbing to temporary peace. An anxious undercurrent churns through my bloodstream, but before long, exhaustion drags me under.
Sixteen
When my eyes open, Mick’s staring at me intently. A canvas of indecipherable emotion swirls in those gray pools. Sharp spikes of adrenaline pump through my veins, yanking me into consciousness.
Mick extends a hand, lightly stroking my face from forehead to chin. His gaze fastens on mine, as if etching this moment into his memory.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
His eyes close, a furrow forming in the valley of his brows, making the scar splitting his right brow more obvious. “It’s not good.”
He heaves out a frustrated sigh, hoisting himself to sitting. He pulls his jeans off the floor and fishes out his Marlboros. Clamping a cigarette between his lips, he flicks his Zippo twice to ignite it, a stream of smoke following. “But it’s bigger than that. This whole shitshow has blown up to epic fucking proportions.”
“What happened with the Remingtons?” I fumble for my pack.
Mick’s at the ready with his lighter and the burn of nicotine down my throat has never been more welcome.
“Virginia and Rick are at their wits’ end, and it’s totally understandable.” Mick draws one of his knees up to rest his forearm against it. “Remy’s in full fuck-up mode, and that affects everyone in his universe.”
Don’t I know it.
We both take long drags as I wait excruciating seconds to understand why he’s so shaken. Why hecriedthe night before.
“They asked me for a big fucking favor,” he says low, his head hanging.
“What kind of favor?” It’s an effort to keep my voice level.
He takes three more pulls, burning his cigarette down to the filter, then violently stubs it against the ashtray, avoiding my gaze. His throat undulates like he just swallowed a hard-boiled egg. “They want Remy to live with me so I can help him get clean?—”
