Chapter 52
Fifty-Two
ANDREA
“Maybe we hopped timelines. Or fell through a wormhole,” I muse, sucking down the dregs of my spicy margarita.
After sitting in my apartment staring at that damned notebook for hours, I eventually decided not to read it and get drunk instead.
Because that’s totally a healthy coping mechanism.
Since I refuse to drink alone, I forced Remy to join me at our favorite hole-in-the-wall beach bar, Lolita’s.
It’s dead as a doornail thanks to the encroaching storm clouds threatening a torrential downpour any second.
I’m three monster margs deep and still can’t wrap my head around it. Cade. In Fort Manor. Looking better than I’ve ever seen him and offering me all the answers I spent years praying for.
I need another drink.
At least it’s happy hour and Remy’s buying. Except he’s barely touched his margarita. I eye it greedily. Without looking up from his phone, he slides it over.
“You sure?”
“Go for it,” he shrugs, “One of us has to drive.”
I groan and slump on the bar. “I don’t want responsible Remy. Spiral with me, dammit.”
He pats the top of my head like I’m his cat, Mitz. “We vowed years ago not to both have mental breakdowns at the same time.”
“Well, we’re doing shit at that, aren’t we?” I grumble, snatching a new paper umbrella from behind the bar and twirling it between my pointer and thumb. It’s blue. Like Cade’s paintings.
Christ, I’m hopeless.
“Another round?” asks the bartender, Freddy, who went to Kingsbury with us.
“Absolutely not,” Remy laughs, tucking some cash into the glass cup with our tab. Freddy chuckles and returns to the girls at the other side of the bar. I throw the paper umbrella at my best friend.
“You're no fun, son.”
He plucks it out of his hair. “Whatever you say, Dreezy Drea.”
I hiccup a laugh at the old nickname. The summer I lived with him was the summer I got drunk for the first time. The night ended in a three-hour karaoke-turned-rap battle that was outrageously embarrassing.
Grinning at the memory, I sigh, “We were so dumb.”
“Yeah.” His gaze drifts inward. It was a dark time for him. For me too. Darker in hindsight; seeped in abandonment and shame. We scraped through it by our teeth. Now we wear invisible scars.
My buzz takes a nosedive.
Suddenly, Remy grabs my arm and yanks me off the stool, dragging me to the exit.
“Whoa!” My feet tangle— I trip on my boots and almost twist my ankle. “What the fuck, Rem?”
“Code Stalker,” he hisses.
I crane my neck, scanning the faces until, sure enough, I spot a mess of black hair and sad grey eyes.
But this isn’t the skinny emo kid with a violin I met years ago.
This man’s lean arms are decorated with patchwork tattoos that extend down his hands, his coal-lined gaze focused in a way I’ve never seen.
Six years ago, Win Rhodes looked at Remy with wistful adoration. Now, all I see is determination and open longing.
“Your stalker is staring at your ass,” I giggle.
“This isn’t funny, Drea,” Remy snaps. Each of his strides takes four of mine.
“It kind of is.”
Hazel eyes might as well be lasers. I throw my hands up and squeak, “Ok, not in the tiniest bit funny. Not even his stank face at me for leaving with you.”
“Bullshit,” He scoffs. Then checks over his shoulder. “Is it just me, or did he get scary?”
“Winston Rhodes? Scary?” I laugh. “Nah, I can take him.”
“Yeah, but you’re also scary.”
I gasp. “That might be the best compliment you’ve ever given me.”
His scowl finally cracks as he unlocks his truck. “Get in.”
“Ay-ay, Captain.”
Once I’m slumped in the passenger seat, I kick my boots up on the dash and recline the seat.
Remy peels out of the tiny parking lot, headed for campus.
I was supposed to be working on my thesis article this evening, not drinking myself into oblivion.
Investigative journalism might be my passion, but school work is school work.
I’d rather spend my precious energy on projects that’ll expose piece of shit humans doing piece of shit human things.
Like what’s been going on at FMU lately.
“You know, they still haven’t found out who jumped the poor bastard at that party last month,” I say. “Of course, no one’s talking. Athletes, man, they’re almost as culty as the church.”
Remy shakes his head and drifts into the turn lane. Headlights flash in the rearview mirror. I twist in my seat. Sure enough, a familiar Range Rover pulls up on our ass.
I’ll give it to him: Win is a persistent fucker.
“Is that—”
“Sure is,” I sigh. “Want me to slash his tires?”
Remy groans. “No, it’s his mom’s car.”
I cock a brow. “And?”
I’m given a warning glare. My hands fly up again. “Alright, alright, I’m backing off. But just say the word and I’ll castrate him.”
Remy’s eyes widen in horror. I can’t help laughing. He grumbles something under his breath, sounding like, “ What is my life?” Two minutes later, he shifts into park in front of my apartment and the weight of everything I’ve been running from drops on me like an anvil.
Because I’ve been running since that night. From God. From home. From Lilly. From Seba. From Cade, when he needed me most. Now the past has caught up to me and I’m out of breath, a stitch in my side, my feet bloody and bruised.
The alcohol in my bloodstream loosens my tongue.
“I’m tired of it,” I whisper.
“Of what?” Remy asks.
Fat raindrops smack the windshield.
“Running. Hiding. Pretending everything is fine. It's exhausting.”
“Then stop.”
I shake my head. “You know it’s not that easy.”
His hands slide from the wheel. “Nothing worth it is.”
The rain picks up. The truck’s wipers kick on. A pop ballad drifts from the speakers. But beneath it all, I hear the call of the notebook upstairs, burning a hole through my bed.
This is gonna hurt like a bitch.