Page 7 of When There Was You
He walks me to my VW Bug and opens the door. Its condition mirrors my emotional state: dented and scratched, the seams splitting open on the seats. “I love you,” he says, those mesmerizing gray eyes fixated on me.
My answer comes out hoarse. “I love you, too. So much.”
The driver’s seat squeaks when my butt slides onto it. He gently shuts the door, and I crank the ignition, the familiar rattle of the engine resounding. My eyes flick to the rearview as my tires crunch along the lengthy gravel drive. Mick tracks me until I’m out of sight.
Once I’m on the road, the floodgates open in a tidal wave of sorrow and self-pity. Whatever’s happening to Remy has shifted our course, placing us firmly in the unknown. I’m no fortuneteller, but this seems like a death knell. It’s impossible not to circle back to Mrs. Remington’s long game. She wanted me out of the picture, never believing I was good enough for her son. She tried her damnedest to get rid of me by threatening to revoke Remy’s trust fund, then set him up on dates with “respectable” women, not “tramps” like me. She must know Remy’s bucked her wishes and eschewed her meddling. Now she’s got the upper hand, the muscles to flex, the get-out-of-jail-free card. If his mother has her way—which she’s now in the position to—it could be months before I see him again.
I don’t deny Remy needs help. He’s been off the rails too many times. Something terrible was bound to happen. Maybe, hopefully, rehab will straighten him out.
Of course, his wealthy parents placed him in the best rehab in the country, the renowned Betty Ford program. If memory serves, Rancho Mirage is near Palm Springs, playground for the rich and famous. And while treatment anywhere surely isn’t a picnic, doing it at a swanky resort facility probably beats slumming it in downtown Oakland.
I vacillate between resentment, selfishness, and the unshakable, foreboding dread I’m losing Remy.
My heart seems altered, like it knows he’s already gone from my life.
And maybe he is.
Four
Idial Mick’s number, pressing thoughts churning in my mind. He answers on the third ring, and I drag the phone onto my balcony and light a smoke.
“You okay?” he asks.
No.“I’ve been thinking.”
“About Remy?”
“About all of us, really,” I murmur. “But one thing specifically. I don’t want to do any more drugs.”
Mick exhales loudly. “I had the same thought. With everything happening with Remy…if it wasn’t clear before now, that shit is poison.”
Relief spreads through me. I was unsure how important partying was to Mick, and this confirms it’s not. “Watching Remy get hooked liked that…seeing where he is now…scares me. I don’t want it to happen to me. Or you.”
He hums then I hear his Zippo flick as he lights a cigarette, visualizing just the way his head tilts as he does it. “I think some are prone to it, maybe? Meaning, hardwired. Remy’s never had boundaries. He’s always been the life of the party, the instigator, the master of ceremonies.”
“No brakes.” I take a long pull and the cherry burns brightly.
“Exactly,” he mutters. “And he was—is—a difficult, stubborn motherfucker to rein in.”
“Tell me about it.” Whenever I tried, he lashed out, blew me off, or worse, made me out to be a nag.
“I figured he’d grow out of it. I assumed we all would.”
This is precisely what I’ve realized in the past twenty-four hours. “It was wearing thin. In hindsight, my attitude about it was stupid. I made those same assumptions…that I’d wake up one day andboom, have my shit together, act like a responsible adult. And after watching my father abuse alcohol and my mother become addicted to pills, you’d think I’d have the sense to steer clear.”
“You’re on your way now, baby.”
“Yup. Not looking back. No more drugs.”
“No more drugs,” Mick agrees. “But I’m hanging onto this bad smoking habit a bit longer,” he adds, inhaling another audible drag.
I groan, gazing at the dwindling cigarette still trapped between my two fingers. “Not quite ready for prime time there yet either. But someday.”
He chuckles. “Someday.”
Weeks passwithout another word from Randolph Remington III. I’ve never been more grateful for Mick’s presence, and we spend every available second together. He’s extremely good at distracting me…surf lessons, fires on the beach, dinners at sunset, languid lovemaking.
It’s what our relationship would have been like if Remy and I had never gotten romantically involved. Despite the numbing pain the absence of my red-haired, blue-eyed lover brings, I’m okay. More than okay. I’m madly in love withMick Callahan and have been from the moment I laid eyes on his perfect lips, haunting eyes, scarred eyebrow, and droolworthy hardbody.
