43. Remy
43
Remy
“ Hey, it’s Win. Not here… obviously. Leave a message if you want .”
Oh hell no.
“Winston motherfucking Rhodes, call me back right this fucking second and explain why the hell you just broke into my fucking apartment or I swear to god I’m never touching your pretty dick again!”
With a growl, I instantly redial.
Voicemail.
Again.
I’m going to castrate him.
Slamming on the gas pedal, I whip my truck out of Andrea’s complex. Thank fuck her place is right up the road from mine. My phone vibrates in my palm. I pull it away from my face, eyes darting to the screen.
Not an incoming call— another fucking doorbell notification.
“ Asshole !” I howl and yank the wheel right, cutting off a slow Honda. My thumb clumsily taps at the screen, bringing up the video.
Someone honks.
I swerve back into my lane and cringe.
Ten out of ten don’t recommend driving while looking at video clips of your psychotic boyfriend leaving your apartment with a smug ass smirk on his face as he wiggles his fingers at the damn camera.
The tires squeal as I make the world's sharpest turn into my apartment’s parking lot, eyes scanning the array of vehicles for a white Rover. There’s no way he beat me out of here…
My head nearly hits the roof when the truck jerks to a halt in the closest parking spot. I cut the engine and immediately sprint for my building.
“Fucking menace… bane of my existence… demonic psycho,” I pant, my thighs burning as I take the stairs two at a time to the second floor—
No troublemaking boyfriend in sight.
I’m down the hall and jamming my key into the lock in half a second, exploding through the door to find my apartment exactly as I’d left it. Well, except for one thing in the middle of the kitchen counter. Beside my cat sits a slim dark brown box and cream envelope.
I march up to investigate—
“C hocolate ?” I screech. “He broke in here to leave me gourmet fucking chocolate?”
Mitz blinks once.
I flip her off and rip the note out of the envelope. Even fuming, I can’t help the little skip in my heartbeat at the sight of his jagged print.
My Sunshine,
646 Ferris Lane at 7 p.m.
Use the key in the envelope to enter through the back door and… dress up for me? Please?
Oh, and before you murder me for breaking and entering, eat some chocolate.
xxx Your Starlight
Butterflies and pissed-off bees battle in my chest. Muttering curses to myself, I tear into the chocolate (I’m sure as shit not wasting it) and pop a truffle in my mouth.
Fuck that’s good.
Sucking the sugar from my teeth, I side-eye Mitz. “He’s gonna be the death of me, you know.”
Her ears flatten.
“What? It’s true! He gives me heart attacks daily. I should give him one back and stay home.”
She swats the lid off the counter.
“Really?” I deadpan.
Her tail twitches and I swear I can hear her threatening to murder me with her needle teeth. My eyes roll to the ceiling.
“Jesus fuck, calm down, I’m going, alright?”
I’m given another warning look that says, You will do exactly as Prince Winston says or you will meet a painful end, Cretin. She sniffs in my direction, then wrinkles her nose. And clean yourself, you reek.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” I sigh, sneaking another chocolate from the box. She loafs with a content smirk on her face. Around a mouthful of truffle, I hiss, “He’s my boyfriend, bitch,” and stomp past to the bathroom.
But not without sending off a text.
I could strangle you.
I’ve barely started the shower and stepped out of my jeans when my phone rattles on the counter. Kicking my boxers aside, I swipe open the screen.
Like in a murdery way or a kinky way? Because I’m not the biggest fan of choking unless it’s on your cock.
Instantly, I’m hard. This idiot has me utterly dick-whipped.
I should murder your ass just for making everything into an innuendo.
Is that a promise?
Jesus christ. What am I gonna do with you?
Keep me forever :)
You’re lucky you’re cute.
Wait. Does that mean the bribe worked?
Dark chocolate truffles might’ve bailed you out this time but don’t get any stupid ideas like pulling this shit again.
Mmm, but I love when you taste like chocolate.
Chills ripple across my body in sheets. All I can see are two words: I love . They’re so close to the words I never got to say to him back then. A deep ache wells in the back of my throat. I don’t know if those words scare me to death or bring me to life.
Maybe they do both simultaneously. Because the innocent flame of what I’d felt for him back then seems dim compared to the out-of-control wildfire consuming me now.
Maybe you’ll get lucky and taste me at 7
God I hope I do 3
Carefully, I set the phone down.
A heart.
He’s never sent a solid red heart. It’s always the kissy emoji or the heart eyes. (Or the eggplant.)
I’m reading too deep into this. Getting in my fucking head and overthinking and hyper-fixating and— oh my god he sent me a fucking red heart and I’m having a mental breakdown.
Slapping my cheeks, I step beneath the hot water, taking my time to clean… everywhere.
I’m allowed to be horny and hopeful.
By the time I decide what to wear, my entire closet is a bomb site. My hair takes a hundred years to fix. Apparently I don’t own matching socks. I almost forget to spray cologne. It takes four laps of frantic searching before I realize my keys are in the back pocket of the jeans I wore earlier. The panic search repeats for my phone which is on the counter right next to Win’s note. Then my Maps App states that my destination is in the neighboring town, meaning if I don’t leave right this fucking second, I’ll be late.
Looks like speed limit signs are just conservative suggestions.
I’m flying over the Causeway bridge when the GPS calmly informs me to turn left in three hundred feet. I’m in the far right lane. Hitting my blinker I try to squeeze in the gap.
A bitchy snowbird in a Buick refuses to let me over.
“Come on! ”
My new ETA is ten minutes after seven.
Win’s gonna think I stood him up.
Shitshitshit .
Finally, a nervous teen driver waves me into the turn lane and I floor it toward Downtown Cannon. The streets switch from wide open multi-lane stretches to cramped one-way bricked mazes. I make two wrong turns and add another five minutes to my arrival time solidifying me as Worst Boyfriend of All Time.
“Your destination is on the right,” the useless navigation states.
The only building on my right looks closed. And a little run down. If I got Screwgled I’m going to explode. Crowding the steering wheel, I creep down the narrow road leading to a small parking lot. All spaces are vacant except for a white Range Rover tucked into the back corner. Relief cascades through me. I park beside it and hop out.
Taking the key from the envelope, I approach the back door. The lock clicks open, the hinges squealing as I cautiously enter. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. I’m in a carpeted hallway, yellow light trickling from the far end like a beacon.
The air is thick with tangible anticipation like whatever waits for me on the other side of this hall might break and remake me.
I can taste my heart beat as I walk through the open double doors—
My lungs burn like I’ve been running for hours.
My hands shake.
My eyes blur.
Rows of velvet seats descend toward a small stage lit by a singular spotlight, highlighting the lithe figure perched on a stool in the center. An angel wrapped in darkness. The sheer black lace of his shirt shifts to tease the pale inked skin beneath as he rises and smooths out his tailored black slacks. In one hand, he clutches the neck of his violin, the other loosely dangles the bow. smoky eyes lined in coal round with relieved elation.
Win .
My beautiful Win.
“You made it,” he breathes; it sounds as if he’s whispering in my ear. Shivers descend over my scalp. Down my spine.
Words are lost to me, so I nod.
Pink tints his cheeks as he gestures at the empty rows.
“Take a seat.”
I drift down the aisle in a trance, sinking into a space in the middle to maintain the full view. Biting his bottom lip, he resumes his place on the stool and clears his throat.
“Music has always been the easiest way for me to communicate,” he murmurs. “Maybe you were aware when you sent me songs that reminded you of us. Or maybe you weren’t, but either way, you were the only one who spoke my language. Those songs were more than lyrics and melodies— they were conversations. Windows to our souls. So when I left, I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t create. I couldn’t allow myself to feel because I didn’t deserve to. I spent years in forced silence, drowning out the music. Muted and misunderstood. Until I saw you again… ”
He shakes his head. “It’s like you turned the volume back on. After so long locked away, you set it free. At first, it was so loud and overpowering that it hurt . But as my ears adjusted, I allowed that secret language to pour out of me until the harsh notes of pain became harmonies. The more I immersed myself in it, the braver I got. So even though I’m struggling to open up about… everything, I thought I’d try speaking to you this way.”
The ache is a noose, strangling me. I can do nothing but watch as he tucks V under his chin, his entire demeanor transforming. Nervousness vanishes; calm, confidence straightens his spine, eyes focused on a fixed point somewhere in the distance.
The moment the bow touches V’s strings, I know I’m done for. It takes less than three notes for me to know exactly which song he’s playing.
The last one I dedicated to him.
To us.
Hot tears carve down my cheeks as my lips soundlessly mouth the lyrics. The mournful, delicate melody is a needle piercing the tattered muscles of my heart, stitching it back together. It’s excruciating. It’s cathartic. It’s healing.
And I can’t look away. His eyes remain closed while every emotion of the music plays across his face. When the song comes to a close, he doesn’t stop as I expect. Instead, he effortlessly moves into another. One after the next after the next, alternating between songs I sent him and others I don’t recognize but understand all the same. They’re full of longing. Remorse. Fear. Loneliness. Pain. But slowly, they veer toward hopeful. They become sweeter. Softer. Pleading.
When the final note fades out, he sets V down.
Wet grey eyes meet mine.
I’m on my feet and moving in an instant; the need to get to him is so all-consuming that I completely forego the stairs. He chokes on a laugh as I climb onto the stage and barrel into him. His entire body trembles; I hold him tighter. It’s not enough. I kiss his temple, cradling the back of his head, breathing him in.
“I hear you,” I whisper into his hair. “I’ll always hear you."