Page 38 of Forever Never
She hadn’t hated it. She’d found something different, something special in the yoga classes that taught her to harness her energy and her breath. To move her body in ways that felt like honor rather than torture.
The breath was an anchor, and she’d clearly lost hers. Now she was adrift. And alone.
The song cut off, and her phone’s ringtone filled the living space.Pain in My Ass.Ugh. She hit ignore, sending the call to voicemail again.
On a wheezy groan, she switched playlists, cueing up some Lizzo girl power. Pinks and purples instantly billowed around her in pretty, vibrant clouds as she forced herself to sit and breathe in one of the swivel chairs in front of the window.
She glared out at nature’s perfection.
It had been premature and stupid to borrow studio space from Brick if she wasn’t even going to be able to use it. Thankfully she hadn’t tried this little failure of an experiment at his place. The idea that he could catch her in a moment so pathetically vulnerable made her want to barf like a finisher of a boot camp class.
If he caught her in the midst of a life crisis, he wouldn’t stop until he’d pried the story out of her. Then, he’d do what he’d always done, ride to her rescue.
And this time, it could get him killed.
There was no rescue. No hero to swoop in and clean up her mess. She’d gone too far. And the consequences due were hers alone.
“I’ll end her. And you’ll know it was because of you.”
The threat echoed in her head, and she did her best to breathe through it.
She just needed to push through. What she wouldn’t give for a sweaty sun salutation or a marathon painting session to get her head right again. She needed to find a way through the fear, back to the Remi who wouldn’t just roll over and let a monster win.
The tightness in her chest demanded her attention.
She drew in a breath, holding it when she’d hit capacity, then exhaled with control.Breathe in. Breathe out.
The familiar scents of her oil paints, the brush cleaner, the bread she’d baked that morning grounded her, blocked out the memories of the metallic smell of blood and smoke.
She wasn’t going to sit here, wallowing in the what-ifs, and give herself a goddamn asthma attack.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
She sat still, breathing deeply until the tightness in her chest loosened, until her yoga instructor back in Chicago would be proud.
Crisis averted, for now. She decided to unearth her inhaler and keep it handy just in case. But just as she started to work up the energy to get her ass off the chair and start digging through her hastily packed luggage, a familiar jingle on the street caught her attention.
Remi threw on her coat and slippers and jogged out to the gate just in time to see Mickey Mulvaney and his trusty steeds Murphy and Rupert clip-clop into view, the dray wagon stacked with boxes and bins.
“Mickey Mulvaney, haven’t you retired yet?” she teased. The man had been running package and freight deliveries over the island for practically her entire life.
The man beamed down at her from his perch behind the Clydesdales. Brown eyes peered out at her between a wool cap and thick scarf. “Well, if it isn’t little Remi Ford!” he crowed. “I’ll retire when I’m dead. How’s big city living?”
“Not as good as island life. Packages show up there in these things called trucks.”
“Those mainlanders don’t know what they’re missing.” He cackled as he hopped into the flatbed to paw through envelopes and packages. Mickey and Murphy were fixtures on the island, running mail and deliveries all year long.
“Got something here for you,” he said, triumphantly snatching a thick envelope from one of his satchels.
“For me?” That was a surprise. The only people who knew she was here were the ones on Mackinac. And for them, it would be easier to just knock on the door rather than send a package.
He handed it over. Her name was written across the white envelope in a harsh, black scrawl. Her mind adding a pink shimmer to the E’s. There was no return address.
“You planning to fix a little hockey action while you’re back? I heard Red Wings are down a couple so far this season.”
Mackinac’s main form of entertainment in the winter was the two-team street hockey league. Every Wednesday for nine weeks in the coldest stretch of winter, the Mackinac Island Red Wings and St. Ignace Storm faced off downtown on Lake Shore Drive. No skates, no pads, no helmets. Just stir-crazy residents wanting to beat the crap out of an orange ball—or each other—with a hockey stick.
High school sophomore Remi had orchestrated a ruse that made it look like their star forward had a leg injury and couldn’t compete in the Bynoe Championship Cup. She’d made $300 on the bet with his “miraculous recovery.” Until her mother made her give it all back.
