Page 89 of Wilder Love
35
Shane
“Iwant to die at sea,” my dad said over dinner.
“Why are you talking about dying?”
“I want you to know my final wishes.”
I pushed my plate away, not hungry anymore.
“What are your other final wishes?” Remy asked.
True to her word, she still showed up for dinner every night. If I had thought it was hard to be around her before I showed up at her house drunk, it was nothing compared to this tension. I hadn’t even planned on going out that night. I didn’t socialize in Costa del Rey anymore. But Oz had called when I was on my way home from work after a particularly shitty day on the job. All day I’d been thinking about Remy and I’d been thinking about my stint in prison. It had been the one-year anniversary of my release and I was no closer to getting my life back together than I had been a year ago. In fact, everything was so much worse now.
While we’d been at the bar, I’d overheard some people gossiping. I’d never paid any attention to idle gossip but now that it was directed at me, it was hard to ignore.
I was the pro-surfer who had killed Costa del Rey’s golden boy. I was the guy who had ‘lost his mind and bashed Tristan Hart’s head against the rocks at his own home.’ Without provocation, according to the gossip mill.
Fuck my life.
So, one beer had turned into five or six and one tequila shot had turned into too many. Next thing I knew, I was standing outside Remy’s door, wanting her to make everything better. Heal my broken heart. Find the pieces of me I’d lost somewhere along the way. Bring some light into my darkness. It hadn’t gone to plan. Drunk ideas always seemed so good at the time but typically turned into the next morning’s regrets. So, that was where we were. Between a rock and a hard place.
“Don’t hang on to the house for sentimental reasons,” my dad said, sharing his final wishes on a beautiful summer’s evening when death didn’t even feel like a remote possibility. “It’s real estate. Sell it. Buy what you want and live wherever the hell you want. Got that?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I got it.”
In theory, these things were so easy to agree to, but I didn’t want to think about any of it. I didn’t know what was harder, losing my mom so suddenly and unexpectedly or knowing that I was going to lose my dad. I should be taking this time to prepare for the day he wouldn’t be here but when I had told Remy that I didn’t know how to do this, I was being honest. Ireallyhad no idea how to do this.
So, I cleared the dinner dishes from the table, stopping Remy and my dad from trying to help. More uneaten food from my dad’s plate going in the garbage. I stacked the plates in the dishwasher and wiped down the countertops, the sound of my dad and Remy’s laughter drifting through the open glass doors as I joined them on the patio again. I needed to man up. Face this shit.
“Jimmy?” Remy said.
My gaze snapped to her and then across the table to my dad. I’d obviously missed part of the conversation.
“What’s wrong?” I said, worry creeping in as I studied his face. He looked at me blankly then shook his head, trying to snap out of it.
“Nothing. Just forgot where I was going with this conversation.” He chuckled to himself and lit a joint. It wasn’t funny, so I couldn’t laugh with him.
His short-term memory was slipping. I’d been noticing it over the past few weeks. He’d remember a story about something that happened twenty years ago but completely forget why he’d come into the garage or the kitchen. Or if he’d eaten breakfast that morning. He blamed it on age. I wasn’t convinced. Remy had offered to be his chauffeur. Big surprise, he shot her down.
“Talked to Dylan today,” my dad said, relaxing in his chair, his face tipped up to the evening sun.
“About what?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“He’s working on a new app.”
“He is?” Remy huffed. “God, he doesn’t tell me anything. What kind of app?”
My dad held up his joint. “Cannabis. For medical purposes.”
I sank back in my chair and laughed. Then I laughed some more. That guy. He had his finger in every pie. “He’ll own half of Costa del Rey by the time he hits thirty.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s his goal in life,” Remy said matter-of-factly.
I hadn’t told Remy or my dad that Dylan made me a business proposition. I wasn’t sure how I felt about going into business with Remy’s brother. Or if it was even something I could consider. I had no capital, and no bank would ever give me a loan, but he was willing to invest his money on a long shot. I told him I’d think about it, but it was more of a brush-off than a promise.
I wasn’t in the habit of making promises these days.
