Chapter 3
Three
R emy doesn’t arrive that night. Or the next morning.
When there’s still no word by noon, I’ve traded pissed for distraught.
My stomach is either in knots or flipping cartwheels.
We hang out indoors in case he calls or shows up—reading, listening to albums, aimlessly watching television.
My imagination runs wild with grim scenarios flashing in my mind. Even Mick appears uneasy.
When the phone jangles at five o’clock that afternoon, we both jump, leaping to our feet and racing toward the black wall unit near the kitchen. Mick answers and I hover.
“I’ll accept the charges.” A collect call. He gives me a nod that it’s Remy, and I desperately want to rip the receiver out of his hand.
“What?” Pause. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
It’s all agonizing one-sided replies. I shift from one leg to the other, straining to hear.
What happened?
“Fuck,” Mick mutters, sliding a hand through his hair. “What can I do, man?”
Something is very, very wrong.
I pace. Patience is not one of my strong suits .
“Christ, Remy…whatever you need, you know I’ll do it, brother.”
What does he need?
“I’m sorry. And I want to give you a ration of shit, but I won’t.”
Pause.
“Do what you have to…and don’t fuck around. This could be good for you.”
What could?
“Yeah, man. I will. Keep in touch if you can.”
If?
“Later.”
Mick hangs up, and I’m dumbfounded he didn’t fork over the phone to let me talk with Remy. “Why didn’t you?—”
Mick’s head bows before his gaze swings to mine. “He didn’t have time.”
“But…but…”
“He risked some shit to make that collect call, Jax,” he mutters, one of his hands cupping the back of his neck. “Remy’s at the Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage.”
“What the hell?”
“He got busted with coke, and his parents bailed him out of jail and pulled their magical purse strings to work some deal.”
Mick yanks open the fridge, grabs a beer and wastes no time draining half.
I stand, expectant, the ground shifting under my feet as viscerally as an actual earthquake. “How much coke?”
“A crap ton. Enough to charge him with possession and intent to sell, a felony with almost assured prison time.”
“ Goddamn him.” I knew the blow had gotten out of hand—the all-nighters, the reckless attitude. “So now he’s in rehab?”
“Apparently. But in exchange, Mom and Dad are running the show, and he’s not sure how long he’s going to be there. It could be months.”
I struggle for what to say. “He…he didn’t want to talk to me?”
“He wasn’t even supposed to call. Said he has zero phone privileges, but he wanted us to know what happened and that he’s sorry.”
“He’s sorry? ” I sink into a nearby chair. Remy’s just…gone? For however long his parents deem necessary?
A part of me can’t help thinking how happy they must be to hold those marionette strings he so readily cut from their grasp. Now, he’s back to being their puppet.
And I know exactly where that leaves me.
Mick speaks, but it all sounds like buzzing in my ears—and no amount of sitting around talking will change matters or stem the tidal wave pulling me under.
“I need to go,” I say, standing up from the couch where we’ve been parked for the last hour. “I’ve got homework.”
Trudging upstairs, I collect my belongings.
My movements are stiff as memories flash.
The day I met Remy. My first ride in his fast Camaro Z/28.
How he called me “New Girl.” His charm, flirtatiousness, those mischievous sapphire eyes.
The way he welcomed me into the fold like I’d always belonged.
How he saved me, cared for me, after the robbery. Our first kiss. More.
Mick pulls me in for a long embrace, plants a kiss on my forehead, and peers into my face, his own creased with worry. “Call me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
I nod, chewing on my lower lip.
He walks me to my VW Bug and opens the door. Its condition mirrors my emotional state: dented and scratched, the seams splitting open on the seats. “I love you,” he says, those mesmerizing gray eyes fixated on me .
My answer comes out hoarse. “I love you, too. So much.”
The driver’s seat squeaks when my butt slides onto it. He gently shuts the door, and I crank the ignition, the familiar rattle of the engine resounding. My eyes flick to the rearview as my tires crunch along the lengthy gravel drive. Mick tracks me until I’m out of sight.
Once I’m on the road, the floodgates open in a tidal wave of sorrow and self-pity.
Whatever’s happening to Remy has shifted our course, placing us firmly in the unknown.
I’m no fortuneteller, but this seems like a death knell.
It’s impossible not to circle back to Mrs. Remington’s long game.
She wanted me out of the picture, never believing I was good enough for her son.
She tried her damnedest to get rid of me by threatening to revoke Remy’s trust fund, then set him up on dates with “respectable” women, not “ tramps ” like me.
She must know Remy’s bucked her wishes and eschewed her meddling.
Now she’s got the upper hand, the muscles to flex, the get-out-of-jail-free card.
If his mother has her way—which she’s now in the position to—it could be months before I see him again.
I don’t deny Remy needs help. He’s been off the rails too many times. Something terrible was bound to happen. Maybe, hopefully, rehab will straighten him out.
Of course, his wealthy parents placed him in the best rehab in the country, the renowned Betty Ford program.
If memory serves, Rancho Mirage is near Palm Springs, playground for the rich and famous.
And while treatment anywhere surely isn’t a picnic, doing it at a swanky resort facility probably beats slumming it in downtown Oakland.
I vacillate between resentment, selfishness, and the unshakable, foreboding dread I’m losing Remy .
My heart seems altered, like it knows he’s already gone from my life.
And maybe he is.