Chapter 14
Fourteen
I t’s a long day of suffering, wondering what’s happening with Mick and Remy as I fake happiness for my parents’ benefit. They’re trying too and it’s almost macabre. But at least our interaction is easier now that we aren’t living in the same existence-suffocating house.
When my father suggests watching A Christmas Carol, I jump at the chance to distract my thoughts. He uncorks a bottle of zinfandel and pours us each a glass as the movie begins. It may only be once a year when the three of us converge for this tradition, but recognition flickers warmly in my chest.
Despite knowing exactly how it ends, inevitable tears fall when Scrooge redeems himself.
We all deserve redemption, don’t we? I wonder if I’m charitable enough to believe Remy does too. I want to be.
I’m cleaning the dinner dishes, holiday tunes playing softly in the background, when the phone rings.
“I’ve got it,” I call out to my parents, who lounge in the living room in front of the fire as I dry my hands with a kitchen towel.
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby.”
Relief hurtles through me. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” He sounds tense.
“Remy?”
“I found him. Finally. It’s not good, Jax.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s doing crack.”
I sag against the counter. Crack cocaine is sweeping Oakland like a wildfire, and people are falling fast. It’s reportedly as addictive as heroin. “Oh, Mick. That’s…bad.” And goddamn it, Remy.
“Yeah. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Where are you now?”
“The Remingtons’ annual Christmas Eve bash,” he says ruefully.
That brings on an instantaneous round of flashing memories. “Adult-man-sitting?”
“Something like that. How are things going there?” His Zippo flicks, followed by an exhale.
“Surprisingly okay…even nice at times. But I’m relieved to hear from you. I was worried.”
He pauses, like there’s so much he could say but isn’t. “I know it’s difficult with your parents, so ‘nice’ is high praise.”
My eyes well and I gulp down the emotion. “We still on for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, baby. Come up to the house whenever you’re ready—after you open presents and can steal away.”
Thank god. “I can do that.”
“I’m sorry…again.”
“Don’t,” I whisper, wanting him to hear—and believe—me. “Don’t ever apologize for being a good person, a good friend, a good man . I would never want you to change.”
He huffs out a long breath. “I don’t deserve you.”
I hate it when he says that. It always harpoons a piece of my heart. “You deserve all of me, Mick Callahan. I’m yours and always will be.”
“Spoken like true heroin.”
If anyone’s a drug, it’s him, not me. A thought that fades as we both go quiet, quickly sobered by his comment as we circle back to Remy and his drug problems. Now, even more serious than before.
“Not the best word choice today, is it?” he murmurs.
“No,” I whisper.
It effectively ends our conversation after we promise to see each other tomorrow.
The unknowns echo between us, unspoken yet so very loud.
A dreary rain falls Christmas morning, providing a gray backdrop to the modest festivities.
Our gifts are opened within an hour, after which I clean up the debris and join my mother in making breakfast. We’re having French toast with cinnamon and a sprinkling of powdered sugar, sausage links, and fresh fruit.
All I can think about is escaping to Mick’s.
Even though yesterday was bearable, being in this house is stifling, and I’m using every ounce of my tolerance reserves to get through the minutes.
My relationship with my parents is set in a foundation of lies and neglect.
They stopped parenting me in elementary school.
Well, aside from my father’s heavy-handed efforts to keep me in whatever line he draws at his whim—arbitrary lines about things like curfews and grades—all while drinking too much and cheating on my mother.
As for dear old mom, she continues fading, spending her days in a drug-addled haze since my older sister drowned.
She looks one step closer to death every time I see her.
Over our meal, I alert my parents to my plans to “see friends,” promising to be back in time to help with dinner.
Surprisingly, there’s no griping or heavy-handed comments.
They still have no idea Mick is my boyfriend, let alone the love of my fucking life, and I see no reason to tell them about it after my father made it clear he wasn’t good enough for me.
He didn’t even know Mick when he told him that bullshit.
This secret is problematic the longer we stay together. I don’t let myself wonder if we won’t.
An hour later, I drive to Mick’s mom’s house.
Mick greets me at the door and pulls me into his arms, murmuring “Merry Christmas,” before claiming my lips.
He flashes me a tender smile, but there’s no missing his tired eyes and the presence of something heavier. This entire situation with Remy is stressful—and only getting worse—and he’s mired in it whether he wants to be or not.
I follow him inside and give his mom an exuberant holiday greeting, handing her a loaf of gingerbread I baked yesterday and a bottle of white wine.
She wraps me in a hug. “So nice to see you, Jacqui.”
“You too. Thank you for having me. The house looks lovely,” I say, taking in the festive decorations and charming, understated tree. Every item matches her personal aesthetic, which I love. A mixture of seasonal spices perfumes the air, along with the earthy aroma from the fir.
Mick and I claim one sofa and his mom takes the chair across from us. I sip on spiced apple cider as we make small talk. We chat about school and my post-graduation plans—still very undecided—and she offers helpful insights.
“Mom,” Mick says, cutting her off thirty minutes later.
She eyes him quizzically.
“If Jacqui doesn’t get to open her presents soon, she’s going to combust.”
I scoff. “Am not.”
His eyes find mine, and I’m totally busted. “I know you, remember?”
I purse my lips, then chuckle.
A genuine smile crosses his mom’s face as she excuses herself and disappears down the hallway, I think to give us some privacy.
Mick’s not wrong. The gift giving is my favorite part of Christmas, and last year was incredible when?—
I screech those thoughts to a halt…I really don’t want to think about how everything’s changed since then.
Instead, I gaze at Mick, whose grin lights up his face, the one I never tire of looking at, the one my heart responds to with actual palpitations.
Goddamn, I love him. More than anyone or anything in my life.
He saunters over to the tree, where our gifts to each other lay scattered, picks one up, and places a weighty box carefully into my lap. Excitement thrums through me as I speculate about what it might be.
I rip through the paper and ribbon with a big grin plastered on my face.
Inside are books, and not just any old books, but the kind a writer needs.
The Elements of Style by Strunk and White.
The spiral bound Associated Press Stylebook , an essential text for journalists.
The Chicago Manual of Style , the other must-have for writers.
And a special edition of Writer’s Digest magazine.
My eyes lift to meet his. “Mick…these are perfect. And helpful. How did you even know…”
“I can’t take credit. My mom said they would be useful.”
I’m touched, the warmth of his never-ending support and encouragement bowling me over once again. “Thank you so much.” Bridging the small gap between us, I press my lips to his.
I set the books and magazine on the coffee table and walk over to the tree, getting on all fours to reach what I need.
“That’s one hell of a view,” Mick says.
I shake my ass for good measure and glance at him over my shoulder. Grabbing his gifts, I rejoin him on the sofa, totally stoked to watch his reaction.
He’s genuinely delighted by the book of nautical knots.
“Not that you aren’t already quite proficient with some of these…” We grin at each other as he opens another gift, which is about wooden boat design, something I thought he’d love.
“Oh, cool.” He flips the pages, pleased with what he sees. “Baby, this is fantastic. Have I told you how much I think about building my own?”
“No, but it seems right in your wheelhouse, or should I say boathouse?”
He glances back at the book in his hands, his expression delighted. “I can’t wait to read this. Thank you.” He pulls me closer, grazing my temple with his lips.
Before I can give him one more, he stands and retrieves another package. My breath hitches when I see the size. It’s small…ring sized. I don’t dare hope. And that’s crazy thinking anyway.
I peel away the paper, revealing a black velvet box and my fool heart beats wildly against my ribs.
I sneak a quick peek at Mick—his lopsided smile lighting up his face as he watches me—then return my focus to the box.
I lift the lid and the air whooshes from my lungs.
Inside are delicate, diamond-shaped earrings a nearly translucent shade of aquamarine.
Are they stones? Gems? Whatever’s hanging from these stainless hooks is stunning.
“It’s sea glass,” he explains. “It’s been broken, weathered, and worn smooth by the ocean. It starts out a jagged shard and after years of turbulence and basically, abuse, it becomes beautiful. Like you, baby.”
Wow. “Like us,” I gently correct, staring into his eyes. We’ve both suffered at the hands of our parents.
He gives me his lopsided smile. “It’s rarer than you might think. The real stuff is old glassware, the kind no one makes anymore, and it takes decades, sometimes even centuries, of tumbling through the sea to buff all the rough edges. It’s special—even more so because of what it’s been through.”
The sentiment is raw and poetic, and once again, he knocks my socks off with the thoughtful, wise, and profound way his mind works. “They’re gorgeous, Mick.” I swallow to dislodge the knot in my throat. “And capture us completely.”
I pluck them from the velvet box and loop them through my earlobes. He shifts my hair to admire them, humming appreciatively when he sees them in place, and I’m treated to another potent version of my ocean and how he looks right now, in this moment. It’s breathtaking.
Our gaze collides and holds. “I love them. And you.”
Before I’m tempted to chicken out, I hand him my final gift. My nerves tangle as he examines the wrapping. An eternity seems to pass as he carefully opens it, running his finger under each section of tape.
“Jacqui…” He stops speaking.
“It’s a short story. It’s…about us,” I blurt, as I drown in embarrassment, wondering how I ever deemed this worthy of jack shit.
Mick lifts it from the tissue holding it snug in the box. I painstakingly typed it on my typewriter, managing not to blotch it with egregious amounts of Wite-Out, then copied and bound it between two thick covers at Kinko’s.
“ Ocean Deep, a Love Story , by Jacqueline Hall,” he murmurs. He flips through it, not saying a goddamned word, and my confidence plummets further.
I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking?
His reverent gaze captures mine. “I’m honored.
..and speechless. I’ve never received a more personal, thoughtful gift.
” He stares back at the story, essentially my heart on a platter, the most vulnerable piece I’ve ever written.
He sets it gingerly back in the box and onto the coffee table.
“Come here,” he whispers, his voice raspy .
Is he...emotional?
I crawl into his lap, and he holds me tightly. I grip him back, my head landing between his shoulder and neck, lost in his familiar essence, enveloped by everything Mick. We’re quiet, saying volumes without uttering a word.
Mick crashes out on the couch, giving me more time with his mom.
We nibble on appetizers and talk about her upcoming travels, her work, her favorite projects.
I praise her for creating a fine man in Mick and ask about his brothers, what they’re like, how their personalities differ, why she chose to name her sons after musicians.
She confesses she’s never seen her son as smitten with a girl as he is with me.
With zero hesitation, I profess him the love of my life, which makes her smile knowingly.
My boyfriend wakes and we share another precious hour together. When I can’t put it off any longer, I bid his mom goodbye, and Mick walks me to my car.
“You’re headed to San Jose tonight?” he asks.
I nod. “I have work in the morning. What about you?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ve been summoned for a meeting at the Remingtons’ tomorrow afternoon, then I plan to head home.”
“Any idea what about?”
He shrugs. “Not sure, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of intervention.”
“Call me?”
“Of course, baby.”
We share another forceful hug. But I can’t stop the premonition everything is about to go sideways.
My parents are done in by the time I return, their eyes glazed from their drugs of choice.
It’s a good thing I’m there to make the bulk of our Christmas dinner, or it might go to the wayside.
Ditto on cleaning up, which reminds me how nothing changes here; any glimmers of it are phantoms, mirages, wishful thinking.
My thoughts churn uneasily over more pressing topics, and it takes genuine effort to join my parental units in faking it—a family hallmark—until it’s time to leave.
Relief at getting out of there floods when I settle into the Bug, my breath visible in the cool air. I crank the heater and steer for San Jose, fighting every urge to return to Mick’s for one more kiss, hug, and some kind of reassurance that everything is going to be alright.