Chapter 29 #2
He pauses, stroking his bearded jaw, and I wonder if the hair is brittle or soft. My fingers itch to touch it. “He’s clean…but struggling. He slips sometimes. His wife is a fucking saint and sticking by him. So am I. He’s trying.”
That guts like a machete. I truly want Remy to recover. It’s just…we haven’t spoken since he unceremoniously jilted me, as if I was an extra twelve-pack that accidentally fell off his beer truck. The shot of adrenaline rocketing through me is one hell of an indicator that I’m still pissed.
I jerk my head toward the office. “Not that it’s any of my business, but are you seeing her? Her stare’s boring a hole into my back.” I can’t help my impish smile.
He cuffs the back of his neck. Why is everything he does still so ridiculously attractive? His silence deafens. And is answer enough.
Pang. Pang. Pangggggggg. Fuck, that cuts deep. “Do you love her?”
He looks at me incredulously. “No.” And I can tell he’s not lying. Poor girl.
“Are you happy, Mick?”
“And we’re back to your favorite question. You know what I think about that one.” Those gray pools fill with mirth, and his lip curls on one side.
My eyes well suddenly and I stare at the ground…anywhere to avoid looking at him. His proximity is a visceral reminder of all we were, all we lost—and the finality slams into me. He’s dating. I’m moving across the country.
“Hey,” he says softly, stepping close enough that I smell his familiar ocean scent mixing with the salt of the Pacific.
It’s irritating that I’m so transparent. So much for playing it cool.
He gently lifts my chin and just one touch from him makes me choke back a sob. “I’m glad you stopped by. Jax…I’m sorry. About everything. If I could go back in time and change our circumstances, fix this, I would. I care about yo u. Still. Always. ”
He doesn’t say “but” even though it hangs in the air between us.
We both know nothing’s changed. He’s on Team Remy.
And he should be. That’s his best friend.
Someone who was there for Mick during his hardest years.
He’s returning the favor. Not only can’t the former Three Musketeers hang out anymore, but Mick made it clear he wouldn’t clip my wingspan.
And he’s never believed himself worthy of happiness.
Probably not even love. The entire situation remains a convoluted mess that’s no closer to resolving, and maybe that’s partly why I came to say goodbye.
“I loved you with my whole heart,” I admit. “You’ll always have a piece of it.”
His gray eyes clash with my amber, and he runs a hand through his chestnut hair again. He’s still devastating, but I rather miss the longer version of those waves.
“Same, heroin.”
That volume of emotion lifts and falls, shuddering in my chest. It’s time to go. I got what I needed—and wanted—from this farewell.
“Goodbye, Mick.” I risk touching him, taking his hand and trying hard to ignore the charge it sets off in me from head to toe.
He surprises me by pulling me into his arms…and nothing in me resists. Sinking into him, I revel one last time in his familiar embrace.
“Be happy,” I murmur against his neck, and he squeezes me tighter.
“Good luck, Jax.” He pulls away with a smile, nothing but sincerity on his stupidly gorgeous face. “Go kick some ass.”
Chasing away any sadness, I flash him a grin. “You know it.”
My bravado lasts all of ten minutes. Before making my way back to the highway, I’m fucking spiraling. Seeing Mick shakes old memories loose, placing them front and center for the first time in months. And my heart seems plenty eager to relive the rollercoaster ride of the Three Musketeers.
Mick and Remy gave me something I’ve never had. Their friendship—and love—completed me, made me whole.
They starred in the most important episodes of my life.
What if my show’s over? Cancelled? And that’s all I get? One great love. One broken heart. One and done.
What if they were the only men who could fulfill that destiny?
Half of me is missing and will never be replaced. I’m hollow. Like a shell without a crab. There’s no life here…just walls holding in my organs, lungs breathing on their own. I’m here, yet not here at all.
Fuck love.
Fuck giving your whole heart to someone—or two someones.
Fuck taking risks when these are the repercussions.
Fuck Mick for throwing away something so special neither of us may ever see it again in our lifetimes.
And fuck Alfred Tennyson for his oft-quoted bullshit, “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
What a crock.
An image appears in my mind: my heart, riddled with holes—bullet-shaped wounds and the resulting shrapnel. Maybe it can’t hold love anymore.
Hours pass as I ruminate. I scarcely notice the landscape or register what song comes on the radio as I drive on autopilot across California.
Finally, my anger crystalizes and wakes me the hell up. Get your head out of your ass. The Three Musketeers are dead…but you’re not. This is your time to shine.
After crossing the state line into Arizona, I exit into the visitor station rest stop. I use the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, then dab a towel from the dispenser to dry it.
Getting back into my Toyota, my resolve hardens. I plug in a Led Zeppelin tape, crank it, and hit the gas. I’m leaving all my angst in California.
The rear view.
The past.
My next chapter begins now, and it stars me . I don’t need a man—or anyone else—to fucking complete my story.
I’m writing it.