have a publisher, I don’t have a way to get it out there.”
“So you give up?”
“How about you stop acting like I’m some sort of quitter.”
“Why are you irritated with me? How about you stop treating your dream like it’s up to someone else to make it come true? If you want it, take it.”
“That’s not true, Remi,” she protests.
“Why isn’t it true?” I push back.
“Because,” she says like she can’t believe she has to explain it to me.
“Because what? Tell me, in your own words, why you can’t do it,” I challenge.
“Don’t say it like I gave up on it.” She sounds defensive.
“If you didn’t, who did?”
I hoist her higher and turn up the last curve to the house.
“You can’t let one setback stop you.”
“Oh, you mean like you’re doing?” she mutters.
It’s my turn to stiffen. I stop walking and slide her off my back. I turn around to face her.
“What? You don’t like the taste of your own medicine?” she asks, a smug smile on her face.
“They’re not the same thing,” I say slowly. I’m annoyed at the comparison she just made.
“How are they different? You’re out here hiding. I’m working a job I don’t love but need.”
“You’re fucking talented. If you didn’t find a publisher who was interested. That would be a setback. Meaning, it’s one closed door. Others will open.”
“If you believe that, then why are you out here, hiding?”
That comment slides right under my skin and I bristle.
“I’m not fucking hiding. And unlike you, I didn’t suffer “a setback”. My entire life shifted, fundamentally. Everything I thought about myself, my life, my family—very little of it is true.”
Regret mars her pretty face and she walks toward me.
“Oh, babe. I’m so sorry. I know.” She wraps an arm around my waist. I relax as soon as her body touches mine, and I hug her back.
“I have to reconcile that I lived with people who lied to me constantly and profoundly and that I never even had a clue. I feel like an idiot. Because now, when I think back on it, I would never have guessed any of this. Even when I think about all of the signs.”
“Signs? Like what?” She leans back and eyes me skeptically.
“My mother… I have these two versions of my father that are at war with each other in the part of my mind where I keep him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, in public, she talked about him like he was a god. A bright light that had been snuffed out much too soon. But privately, the way she spoke of him was lukewarm at best. And when she let the curtain slip, and her grief was on full display, I thought she really hated him.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. It was usually around his birthday or their anniversary. It was like a cloud descended over our house. And we all lived with the weight of what felt more like rage than grief. She would drink and then cry hysterically, sometimes all night long. She would look at me—the darker skinned, darker-haired version of him—and sneer when she told me, I was just like him. She’d never say how, but I knew it wasn’t anything good. I think she hates me, too.” My laugh is brittle and devoid of humor.
“Oh, Remi. She couldn’t.” I hate the pity in her eyes. Loathe it. But, it’s just nice that she gives a shit.
I loop an arm around her neck and bend down to kiss her.
“So yeah, I’m Remington Wilde. The Legend. But can a man just fucking wallow?” I stare down at her, my eyes serious as I let her absorb the weight of everything I just laid on her.
She smiles up at me, that soft understanding tempered with some regret.
“If you’re happy here. You should stay as long as you need to.”
“I’m fucking happy. And now, you’re here.” I bump the end of her nose with mine.
“I can’t stay,” she says quietly.
I knew it was coming, I had hoped to have more than a couple of days. I contemplate what’s waiting for me in Houston and my gut clenches.
“I’m sorry, Remi. So sorry. But, my job. I need to get back to Houston so I can figure out my story.” She looks up at me appealingly and I make up my mind.
I cup her cheek, kiss her quickly and then I pull back. “Okay. But before we go back, I want to cook you dinner.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You’re going to cook?”
“Why not? I’m—”
She squeaks