Chapter 11
Eleven
I ’m working at the salon and can only be classified as a train wreck. My thoughts are off the rails, my heart virtually in pieces. It’s November tenth, the day Remy marries another. A woman I’ve never met. A wedding to which I’m not invited or welcome.
A lot’s changed between three best friends in less than a year.
I haven’t spoken to Mick in two days, as he’s been inundated with wedding activities and responsibilities.
I’ve been so fucking pleasant. Causing zero waves.
Trying to lessen the guilt he lugs around for being trapped in the middle.
It’s not his fault, and I never want him to feel inferior or not enough again.
My chest eases a tad thinking about him. All that he is to me.
This isn’t about me not wholly loving Mick. It’s about residual angst.
An unsatisfying, unresolved equation. Or a baffling word problem.
If Jacqui has two apples and one rots, how many apples can she technically eat ?
Jacqui would like to throw the rotten apple against a wall and watch it get attacked by worms. Or at least examine the apple to understand why it rotted. Maybe talk about the benefits of making applesauce before it’s too late.
Jesus. This is why math and I are not friends.
I tap my pen absently against the pages of the appointment book.
No closure.
No closure.
No closure.
How can I get that when one party refuses to provide it?
Then it hits me.
I can get closure.
By doing one thing to give it to myself.
Despite agreeing not to.
An inelegant huff leaves my lips. I’m my own woman, and this one is driving to the Claremont Hotel to get her fucking closure.
It’s dark when I arrive. The nuptials are long over, uttered in some nearby church, and not something I wanted to witness. No, I just need to lay eyes on Remy with his wife. And yeah, if I’m honest, Mick in his tuxedo. I’m not going to make a scene or even make my presence known…I don’t think.
I didn’t bother dressing for the occasion.
Glancing at my jeans and sweater, a small smile inches up my lips at how Mrs. Remington would sneer at me, the “tramp”, if I were to crash her precious son’s wedding. I chuckle, despite the pounding of my heart. That would be worth the price of admission.
Unfamiliar as I am with this swanky resort, I don’t know how I’ll accomplish my task, but there’s nothing like false bravado with a shot of venomous anger to help fuel me along.
I steer one direction, but it leads to tennis courts and recreation areas.
After doubling back past the main entrance, I discover a parking area flanking another section of the hotel and ease into a spot hidden by plenty of other cars much nicer than mine.
Including one 1965 blue Mustang fastback.
Approaching the perimeter, I fight the urge to assume the role of 007 in stealth mode. The name’s Bond. Jax Bond. Before long, tall windows beaming with light come into view, along with a faint thumping of music. The glass panes showcase the party within.
I sink into the shadows and approach the farthest window. My pulse thunders in my ears. The gigantic ballroom is full of women in chic dresses and men in dark suits. Champagne flutes sit at table settings. Bodies gyrate to the music on the makeshift dance floor.
And then I see Mick and Remy. My chestnut-haired boyfriend steals my breath; he looks like a zillion bucks in a sharp, black tuxedo that hugs his frame.
Standing next to him, laughing at something Mick said, is Remy.
His copper hair is trimmed and slicked back, those sapphire eyes bright even from this distance, and he is devastating in his all-white tux.
They’re both laughing now.
It’s a kick to my solar plexus.
Two Musketeers with the third peering through the window like a fucking perv. A loser. A jilted lover. Rotten meat in a sandwich. But I can’t even blink, let alone stop staring.
My eyes prick as the bride approaches. Remy’s smile widens as he slips an arm around her and they share a kiss.
She tugs his hand, urging him toward the dance floor, and the band smartly launches into the tender song, “Oh Sherrie.” All eyes are on the newlyweds as they claim the center and Remy twirls her in a circle.
Sherry is resplendent in a white gown. She oozes class, her light brown hair gathered into a neat chignon. Sparkling earrings dangle from her lobes, and even from here, I can make out the massive shiny rock on her ring finger.
As the pair waltz across the floor, it’s painfully clear there’s love between them. Remy used to look at me like that. With adoration and…more.
I think a part of me doubted it until now.
But there’s no unseeing the finality of the scene playing out.
Remy is married.
The band switches gears, launching into Bob Seger’s overplayed “Old Time Rock & Roll,” and to my dismay, my gray-eyed lover joins the fracas. He’s smiling. Dancing. Beer in hand.
It’s enough to make me want to smash through these floor-to-ceiling ballroom windows and punch him in the mouth. Do I want him to be morose? Missing me? Just a smidge melancholy that the Three Musketeers are officially deceased?
Goddamn right I do.
Mick’s gaze darts in my direction, and I flinch into the shadows, sucking in a sharp breath and holding it, paralyzed. He can’t see me, can he?
And what if he fucking did? I don’t care. I exhale with force, my tears flowing as I stalk back to my car.
I got what I came for—in fucking spades—and the weight of it crushes me. My cheeks flood with my visible pain, blurring my vision. Footfalls echo against the pavement, and I scramble to find my keys, which my purse seems to have swallowed whole.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I use my sleeve to dry my eyes. The footsteps cease, and I know before even turning around that it’s Mick.
He’s breathing hard, his eyes searching mine. Disbelief. Pain. “Jax.”
My head hangs. I can’t face him right now .
Part of me wants to jump off a cliff.
Crawl in a hole.
Drive to Montana and start over.
But all I do is stand there and cry.
Mick wraps me in his arms, his ocean scent coating me like a second skin. “Baby, why are you doing this to yourself?”
All that comes out is a strained, pitiful sob. I clutch him back, no longer angry enough to say the spiteful, ugly, jealous comments initially present.
He rubs my back. “You know there’s nothing I want more than you to be in there by my side, don’t you?”
I nod against his chest.
“But baby, you can’t be here. Right or wrong, it doesn’t matter. You know the situation.”
“It just hurts.”
Mick sighs, kissing my temple. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
“I needed to see for myself,” I whisper, finally brave enough to lift my head and meet his gaze.
He cups my face, thumbing away my tears. “Did it help?”
Biting my lip, I nod meekly.
“Go home, Jax. I’ll call you in a few hours.”
“Okay.”
“On the Remingtons’ tab,” he adds.
My lips turn up a little.
He kisses me gently, tenderly, as if I’m breakable. I am. “I love you, Jacqueline Hall.” He’s so goddamn sincere it makes me want to cry all over again.
“I love you too.”
His fingers intertwine with mine and he gives my hand a squeeze.
My gaze finds his again, my throat still tight. “Maybe don’t look like you’re having so much fun? Or be so devastatingly handsome?” I wave my hand at his attire. “I may never get over you in this tux.”
His gray eyes graze me warmly, his lopsided smile emerging. “ I’m glad it’s doing something for you, because I’m counting the seconds until I can peel off this fucking monkey suit.”
“I’m sure every bridesmaid is also counting the seconds, hoping to be there to witness it.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
Our hands unclasp, and I locate my keys. Wordlessly, Mick unlocks my door and helps me inside. He stoops, gently kissing my lips. “Please drive safe. You’re precious cargo.”
My head bobs as I gulp down fresh tears.
I crank up the Beetle and begin driving away from this closed chapter of my life. Sparing one last glance at Mick in the rearview, my skin prickles. His expression is unfathomable—but foreboding, like a storm trapped in the clouds.