Chapter 9
Nine
I make it through finals, begin my internship, and toggle between my other two jobs. Mick and I steal time where we can. Surfing. Hiking. Sailing. Making love.
We mostly avoid discussions about Remy.
In private, grief and anger hijack my thoughts at random, and I apply fresh bandages to my wounded ego. My emotions fluctuate wildly, sometimes turning self-flagellating for believing Remy was ever a genuine friend. I can’t rectify the coldness in which he’s discarded me and moved on.
The urge to charge over to the Remington palace-turned-prison and confront Remy pulls with gale-wind force.
I deserve answers, respect, and at the very least, a proper, dignified breakup…
but I won’t stoop to embarrassing myself or allowing Remy’s parents to diminish me further.
Been there, done that, and nope. The motherfucker should grow a pair and call me.
True confession: I’ve caved and tried calling.
Seven times. Okay, twelve. Mostly answered by his bitch mother, the other few by his sleazy father.
I chickened out and hung up every time, swallowing the ugly words poised for release.
My heart raced so loudly, my breathing labored—and I probably sounded like a perverted crank caller.
Worse, damn if I also don’t miss Remy. His affable exuberance, ability to make me laugh, salacious smiles, the affection in his voice when he called me sweetheart. He’s one of the Three Musketeers.
Was. Was. Was.
There is no more us .
Mick, who’s always had a chokehold on my heart, makes it easier to distance whatever portion I’d devoted to Randolph Remington III. And being able to give ourselves to each other fully is potent, heady, and beautiful. I cannot imagine a day I won’t be consumed with Mick Callahan.
Still, underneath it all lurks questions, unease, trepidation.
How is this going to play out? Mick and Remy are best friends.
The kind who’ve lived through thick and thin, the kind who watch each other’s backs, the kind who will be linked forever.
This triad worked when we shared the love, but I’m still the “new girl” in this equation, and Remy has put nuclear distance between himself and me.
If Mick, Remy, and I can’t ever hang out together—and right now, that sounds like an impossible bridge to cross—how can Mick and I live happily ever after?
It’s almost painful watching Mick balance on a teeter-totter weighed on either side by his best friend and girlfriend. It only makes me love him deeper and see the genuine goodness nestled at his core.
While I’ve done a bang-up job keeping my thoughts internalized, I can’t help myself from asking Mick random questions when I reach a tipping point.
What’s Remy’s fiancée’s name? Sherry.
Do you like her? She seems nice.
Is she pretty? Silent reproach.
Where’s the wedding: The Claremont. (The most pretentious hotel in the area. )
What are you doing for the bachelor party? I don’t know.
Does she know about the three of us? No.
How’s his recovery going? He’s drinking a lot. His parents believed him when he said alcohol wasn’t his problem. He’s in a new outpatient program now.
Does he ask about me? No. (Ouch.)
My crazed schedule of working three jobs and spending time with Mick help distract me.
I’m thrilled learning and absorbing the inner workings of a magazine, from how they determine their editorial calendar to what happens in the art department to the crucial role of advertising.
I gulp it down like iced tea on a blistering day.
As an intern, I’m exposed to slivers of each department, and throw myself into every task, even gofering.
The salon gig also yields unexpected dividends.
The camaraderie of the stylists lifts my spirits as they take me under their wing and into the fold.
They eye my hair like it’s spun gold and beg to cut it, add highlights, try new things.
Surprising myself, I let them. They take what I thought was already a fabulous asset and turn me into a supermodel.
Mick’s tongue practically hangs out of his mouth at each iteration, and he can’t stop staring…or keep his hands to himself. That’s fine by me. Maybe we’ve finally leveled the playing field, if that’s even possible.
By the end of a hectic summer, I’m clearer about my path in the writing realm and the direction my career can take if I pursue a magazine job. It’s massively appealing. I’m also hella better at styling my hair.
The sting dulls over the Three Musketeers fallout, even though tension remains.