Page 73 of Wilder Love
“What does Shane need?” I asked quietly.
“Someone to hold his hand and help him through this.”
I would hold his hand and walk through fire with Shane. I would follow him to the pits of hell. If only he’d let me. But he hadn’t let me back then and I didn’t think he’d changed that much to believe he’d let me help him now.
“He needs to get back out there and start living again.”
“He still surfs,” I said, defending Shane.
“Uh huh. And that’s an hour or two out of his day. The rest of the time he spends working or hanging out with me.”
“He wants to spend time with you.”
“I know he does. And I want to spend time with him. But he needs to stop hovering. He’s like a helicopter parent.”
I laughed. “Because he’s worried. Because he loves you. So much.”
Jimmy averted his head and nodded. “I know. And I love him. That’s why I need to see him happy.”
My heart hurt for Jimmy and for Shane. For seven years, I had tried to move on with my life. I had smiled for the cameras, strutted the catwalk. I had gone to parties at trendy clubs, traveled the world, dined at some of the best restaurants. But no matter what I’d done or where I’d been, I had never once stopped thinking about Shane. And I had never loved anyone the way I loved him.
What was hard though, was being back here and not knowing if Shane even wanted me in his life. That was before I knew about Jimmy. This changed everything. If I believed in fate, I’d take this as a sign. I was supposed to come back. I was supposed to be here.
I would do whatever I could for Jimmy. And I would try to help Shane. Even if he tried to push me away, I would be there for him the same way he’d always tried to be there for me.
Jimmy’s eyelids were heavy, like he was fighting sleep, so I sat in silence for a while until he drifted off. When his breathing was deep and even, I ventured down the small hallway and used the bathroom. Then I opened the door to Shane’s childhood bedroom and stood in the doorway for a moment. This was as bad as reading someone’s mail.
I breathed in his scent as I looked around Shane’s childhood bedroom. Everything was neat and tidy, the bed made, and the dresser top clear. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, I opened the bedside table drawer, my heart sinking when I saw a box of condoms. Well, what did you expect? That he’d live like a monk? I closed the drawer, hating that the thought of him with another woman made my stomach churn. That old jealousy rearing its ugly head.
He was mine.Mine.
Except that he wasn’t and never really had been.
I opened the dresser drawers, confirming that Shane’s clothes were in them. Folded T-shirts and board shorts. Sweatshirts and jeans. I closed each drawer, telling myself I would stop after the next drawer. I shouldn’t be in here. I shouldn’t be searching for clues about the man I used to know. Touching his things. Holding his pillow to my nose and inhaling deeply as if it would bring him closer to me. This was stalker mode.
But I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I wanted to know who he was now. I was searching for clues that would enlighten me. I opened the closet door and looked at the collection of shoes lined up on the floor—Nikes, flip-flops, Vans, work boots. Flannels, jackets, and hoodies on hangers, all of which I recognized. Nothing new here.
My eye caught on three shoeboxes on the shelf above the hanging rail. I knew I wouldn’t find Nikes inside. I waited a few seconds, listening for signs of movement. The house was quiet.
No, Remy. Don’t do it. You have crossed a line.
I did it. I pushed aside the beanies and baseball caps and pulled one of the boxes down from the shelf. Then I sat on the edge of his bed, took a deep breath and lifted the lid. Ignoring the twinge of guilt, my hands shook as I sifted through the photos. Some of them were taken with the Polaroid Jimmy had given me. Photos of Shane. Photos of us. Photos of me. Underneath the photos was a stack of letters I’d sent him in prison. The rest of them must be in the other two shoeboxes. I’d written him so many letters and had never once gotten a reply. I rifled through them. They’d all been opened. I had told myself that he hadn’t received them. But he had. And here they were.
“The fuck are you doing in here?”
I startled. The box crashed to the floor, photos and memories spilling across the braided rug. I got on my hands and knees, trying to gather them up, return them to the box. Shane put his hands under my arms and hauled me to my feet. “Get out of my room.”
“Shane—”
“Go.” He pointed to the door, his teeth gritted.
“No. I’m not leaving.” I planted my hands on my hips like I had the right to be here. Like I had any right at all to push back when I was clearly in the wrong here. But that was me, wasn’t it? “Not until we talk about everything. You keep avoiding me. I was trying to find out who you are now.”
He let out a harsh laugh. “So you thought the answer was to come into my room and go through my shit?”
“You cut me out of your life.”
“What the fuck was I supposed to do, Remy? I was in prison formanslaughter.”
