Page 26 of Repairing the Wreckage

Can’t think about that now. Focus on what’s in front of me.

“How are things?” I ask.

“She’s okay,” Juliet says. “Everything’s…well, as good as it can be.”

“Thank you.” For the first time since I spoke to Remy, I can actually take a breath.

We talk for a few more minutes. Nothing substantial. And nothing juicy enough for the show because they cut me off before my time is up.

A heavy silence settles over me as I stare at the phone. I want to smash it into the wall—or someone’s face.

The list of all the things I’m missing out on continues to grow. The time I’m losing keeps expanding.

I sigh and close my eyes for a few seconds. The ache of longing that’s been following me for weeks returns. I can’t throw a fight. As much as I want to go home, I can’t lose a fight on purpose. Fuck the money. It’s just not who I am.

So until someone defeats me or the producers lose interest, I’m staying in this mansion that feels more like a prison.

Molly

Something about old men celebrating a birthday by getting drunk in a bar seems rather sad. But at least it’s business, something Remy says we desperately need these days, so I lock down my opinions and serve the drinks.

“Why aren’t you wearing a skirt?” the man who’s old enough to be my grandfather says to me with a leer at my jeans-covered legs.

“I’m here to work. Not be decoration,” I retort, forcing myself not to give in to the nervous smile threatening to yank the corners of my mouth up. “That’s why.”

Remy warned me if I wanted to work at the bar this summer, I had to be ready to fire back a good comeback. Never show weakness.

I set the man’s glass of water on the counter with a hard thump. Droplets splish-splash over the sides, wetting my hand.

“Everything all right?” Remy’s hand lightly touches my back.

“No.” The old man laughs. “You should make the gals wear skirts here. Give ’em a uniform.” He vaguely gestures to my legs again.

Weirdo.

Remy’s body stiffens. He lays his thick forearms on the bar and leans over. “That’s not some ‘gal.’ That’s my sister. Watch your fucking mouth.”

His face pales. “I, uh, uh,” he stutters.

“Go sit your ass down.” Remy points to the man’s table.

The guy shuffles away, glancing back once as if he’s checking to make sure Remy didn’t hop over the bar to chase him into his seat.

“See, that’s why I’ve been hesitant to have you working here,” Remy says without taking his eyes off the guy.

“He’s a dumbass.” I glance down at the floor. “My legs would get all sticky if I came to work in a skirt.”

“I doubt he was concerned about your comfort.” Remy pats my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I had it. I told him I wasn’t here as decoration.”

“Good, but”—he points to the opening of the hallway leading to the office, kitchen, and basement—“I could see your shoulders crawl up to your ears from there. That’s why I came over.”

“Thanks.”

“I need to get someone else in here on the weekends. Starting to realize how much I—” he stops and clamps his mouth shut.

Pain pokes my chest. “Depended on Griff to help you out around here?” I finish for him.

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