Page 90 of Wilder Love
I still wanted Remy, that hadn’t changed, but I was scared to let myself love her again. I’d lost so much already, and if I let her in only to lose her again, my heart couldn’t handle it.
We were in limbo, caught between our tumultuous past and our uncertain future. What did I have to offer a girl like Remy St. Clair? I worked manual labor for a demolition company, slept in my childhood bedroom, and couldn’t even get a bank loan because I was a convicted felon. She was rolling in money with the world at her feet, living with a rock star in New York City.
I had nothing left to give her. Not even myself.
“It’s not going to work,” my dad said later, after Remy left and my dad and I were still sitting outside on the patio.
“What’s not going to work?” I asked, watching the moon being chased away by the clouds.
“You can’t keep lying to yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” I knew what he was talking about. My dad had this uncanny ability of getting to the heart of a problem without being given the details. His observational skills were still on point.
“Remy. You still love her. She still loves you.”
“I don’t remember you getting so involved in my love life in the past.”
“I never did. I always stayed out of it. But times have changed. I refuse to die until I see you happy.”
As if he had the power to decide when he would die. That was optimism taken to a whole new level. And with that, he stood up, clapped me on the shoulder and left me alone on the patio.
I retreated to my shaping bay in the garage—I’d painted the walls midnight blue—and trained the lights on the board I was making. It was for Dylan St. Clair, of all people. I’d watched him surfing. He was a goofy-footer and charged hard. Dylan had actually spoken to me and communicated his needs. He wanted something fast that would turn hard and fit into the tighter transitions, so that was what I was going for. The board I was making for him, a shortboard—five-foot-eight—would be snappy and maneuverable. Skatey when you wanted to generate some speed, but you could step back on the tail and hammer some vertical wall.
By the time I stopped working, it was after midnight, and I had a missed call from Remy.
I called her back, watching the stars reel in the night sky from my spot in the hammock that used to be mine. The hammock where I’d had countless phone conversations with Remy not to mention all the other things we’d done in this hammock back when we were still trying not to cross lines. Nine years ago. Eight years ago. Seven years ago.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
We both laughed and then we were quiet for a few moments, just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing.
“What’s on your mind, Firefly?”
“You. What else?”
“What about me?”
“Can you… will you come over?”
I scrubbed my hand over my face. “Why?”
“Dylan’s not home. He’s gone to Cabo for a long weekend. With Sienna.”
“They’re still together?” I asked, surprised.
She huffed out a laugh. “Who knows? He doesn’t share much. He said it’s complicated.”
“I can relate.”
Remy didn’t comment on that. “I just thought… maybe we can spend some time together and… I don’t know…”
“What would we do with our time?”
“Oh, you know… things.”
I stifled a laugh. “What you’re trying to say is that you’re horny and this is a booty call.”
