Page 49 of Wilder Love
Life went on. Without Shane. And I told myself he was better off without me. Because it was true.
I used to love my job at Jimmy’s Surf Shack but now I dreaded that too. It was just another reminder of the life I had before. I had to physically restrain myself from slashing a knife through every HartCore wetsuit and piece of surfing apparel in the shop.
“Do you want to talk about it, kiddo?” Jimmy asked one Saturday when I was restocking the shelves with sunscreen. The scent reminded me of Shane but then, what didn’t remind me of him?
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
I didn’t know how much Shane had confided in Jimmy. They were close, but I didn’t think Shane would have told his dad about his sex life. Or about his relationship with me. Although Jimmy wasn’t stupid. He’d drawn his own conclusions. Shane had taken me over to Jimmy’s house for dinners and barbecues a few times and the three of us had hung out laughing and talking on the back patio until it got dark. Shane had kissed me once when his dad was in the kitchen and had kept his hand on my thigh all through dinner. Like it belonged there. Which it had.
“Funny,” Jimmy said. “That’s what Shane said when I asked.”
He gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “If it’s meant to be, you’ll find your way back to each other.”
“Do you really believe that’s possible? Even if… you hurt someone so badly they’ll never forgive you?”
“I didn’t say how long it would take. I just said you’ll find your way back.”
My hand wrapped around the medallion hanging from the gold chain around my neck.
For Firefly, so you never lose your way home.
One time I ran into Shane at the grocery store. He was buying leafy greens, mangoes, and avocadoes. He ate avocadoes with a spoon. I’d never even tried an avocado before I met him. Dylan and I had a cart full of frozen pizzas and microwave meals. That said it all, really, just how different our lives were. Shane and I met in the peanut butter aisle. He was buying nut butter—the all-natural kind. Almond, I think. We were buying Skippy, with the added sugar and oil. I looked up and there he was, watching me. Our eyes met and for a few moments, we just stood there, staring at each other. He looked so good. With his golden tan, his honey-brown hair bleached lighter by the sun and saltwater. In surf shorts and a faded orange T-shirt that said Life is Good. Was it? Was his life good?
How unfair that he appeared to be thriving while I withered away. But this was what I had wanted for him. My sacrifice, my foolish choices and stupidity, couldn’t all be in vain.
“Are you okay?” he asked. Even after everything I’d done to him, those were his words. Are you okay?
“I’m good. How are you?”
He shook his head and didn’t answer.
I wanted to tell him the truth, all about Tristan, and what I’d done and why I’d done it and beg for his understanding. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and breathe in his ocean scent. But I couldn’t do that to him. Shane deserved so much better.
So, I walked away without saying another word. Just as if my heart wasn’t breaking and my world wasn’t cold and lonely without him.
I rode my bike everywhere. To and from work. Late at night when sleep wouldn’t come. Down quiet streets in sleepy neighborhoods, the air desert dry and warm, scented with forgotten dreams and broken promises.
Late one night, about a week after I ran into him in the grocery store, I was locking up my bike when his motorcycle pulled up in front of his house. I watched a leggy blonde climb off the back. He saw me watching. I knew he did. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Unable to look away, I watched him kissing her right there on the street like he couldn’t wait until they got inside. His hands on her body. His lips on hers. His tongue in her mouth. And she was taking it all for granted.
I wanted to scream at her.He’s mine. You can’t have him.
To torture myself, I sifted through all my photos of him. I cried big, fat, silent tears. More tears. Would they never end?
At the lowest point in my life, I got scouted by a modeling agency. Tragic chic must be all the rage.
Funny how I never wanted to be defined by my looks. Funny how my mom’s words had once again come true.
“A beautiful girl like you, you can have anything you want. You’ll see. You’ll see how far beauty can take you in this world.”
20
Remy
Dylan and I skipped our high school graduation. Neither of us wanted to wear the cap and gown or go on the stage in front of all those people to accept our diplomas. Nobody would be in the audience to cheer us on anyway. Instead, we’d spent the day clearing out the apartment and packing up our belongings.
I tossed the pizza crust in the box and looked around the apartment that we’d lived in for two years. Now it was bare, and we were sitting on the floor, our duffel bags and liquor boxes packed and ready to go. It was our eighteenth birthday. Funny how I’d been counting down the months and days until it arrived, and now it hardly seemed to matter.
“Let’s go up to the roof,” Dylan said, holding a joint between his thumb and index finger.
