Page 63 of Forever Never
Artist Alessandra Ballard and socialite Camille Vorhees enjoy a night out at Chef Michael Matsui’s new restaurant.
Camille. His attention snagged on the name, and he skimmed the short article.
Designer dresses? Photographers taking her picture outside restaurants? Was that who Remi wanted to be? Some goddess with mysterious eyes and scores of admirers.
She couldn’t be that here.
The truth twisted in his gut like a knife. She had big dreams, the kind that he could never keep up with. The kind that could never be satisfied here, on their quiet little island. Even if she chose him. She’d end up resenting the roots he’d forced her to plant. And he’d never be happy in some city, surrounded by strangers. Not even if it meant having Remi.
This wasn’t an opportunity to win her. This was simply a chance to patch her up and release her back into the world where big dreams flourished and new adventures awaited.
He would never be enough for her. It was time he remembered that.
“You look like you want to put a fist through that screen.”
Ken Pacquiao was a man of contradictions. He had an affinity for sweater vests, but as the island’s barber, his black hair was cut and styled into a faux hawk with indigo tips. He was a loud, proud vegetarian, but his favorite boots were made from ostrich leather. Where his boyfriend Darius was hard-bodied and outgoing, Ken was softer, quieter. But his deadpan observations usually had the power to surprise a laugh out of any audience.
Brick closed the laptop abruptly.
“Also, you’re due for a haircut and a shave, my friend,” Ken observed, sweeping him with a judgmental look. “What’s with everyone on this island channeling the Sasquatch over the winter?”
“He’s just jealous because he can’t grow a beard,” Darius said, leaning over the bar and squeezing Ken’s baby-smooth cheeks.
“I’m not jealous. I’m dedicated to my craft,” Ken sniffed.
“I’ll make an appointment,” Brick said grudgingly.
“Tomorrow. Eleven a.m.” Ken announced.
Brick didn’t see much reason to make the effort since the only woman he’d ever wanted would be leaving him here to go back to her glamorous and exciting life hundreds of miles away. But he was also very slightly afraid of Ken. So he’d keep the appointment. But he wasn’t buying any more of that stupid beard balm, damn it.
“You’re probably out of beard balm by now anyway,” Ken said, reading his mind.
Before he could formulate a response, Brick’s phone rang on the bar.
Remi.
“Hey,” he said, sliding off the stool and trying to look casual as he stepped away from the bar.
“Before I say anything else. We’re both totally fine. Mostly.”
Brick gripped the phone so hard he worried it might crack.
“What happened? Where are you?”
“It’s just a little scratch, but you know how head wounds are,” she said. “But the real bad news is your snowmobile.”
“Remi, wherethe fuckare you?”
* * *
Squintingagainst the sun and ice, he spotted the orange of Spence’s snowsuit, prone on the ice. The red dot next to him that made Brick feel rage just looking at it had to be Remi. He gunned the department’s Polaris and rocketed toward them.
The ice bridge was the strip of lake that froze solid—most years—connecting the island to the mainland in the winter. It was a relatively safe mode of travel as long as riders stayed between the dead Christmas trees that acted as pavement markings.
Apparently Spencer and Remi had not heeded the ice bridge rules. Seeing as how they were a few hundred feet out of bounds. His snowmobile, an ancient Yamaha that he’d bought third hand a decade ago, was nowhere to be seen.
As he got closer, he saw that Spencer was lying down, his head in Remi’s lap. That put a tic in his jaw. His brother had lost that privilege years ago. Yet despite their breakup, somehow Spencer still remained close to her. They probably traded emails or texts. Probably aligned their summer visits and made plans to see each other on the island. His gloved grip on the handlebar tightened.
