Page 102 of Wilder Love
I wrapped a lock of her hair around my fingers, remembering the story about the farmhouse she lived in and the cat she had to leave behind. “I always wondered if you got another cat.”
“No. I would have had to say goodbye too often. Too sad for words.”
“Like missing the sunrise.”
“Or the ocean.”
“Or your smile.”
“Or your big heart. I think I fell in love with you the very first time I saw you. You were wearing a faded blue T-shirt and black surf shorts with a blue design. You were barefoot with a golden tan and messy surfer hair that I wanted to run my fingers through.”
“You were wearing cut-off Levis with a ring from a Skoll can in the back pocket. Beat-up white Chucks and a swim team T-shirt from a college you didn’t go to. It was maroon.” She rolled onto her back, and I propped my head on my elbow, peering down at her face. Her lips curved into a small smile, her eyes on mine. “Your hair was wavy and wild, halfway down your back and I imagined it wrapped around my fist as I kissed your bee-stung lips.”
“Your nose was peeling.” She traced her finger over my nose. “I thought it was adorable.”
“Your dark nail polish was chipped. I thought it was sexy.” I pressed my lips to her wrist.
“I stared at your hand on the gearshift. It was vein porn. You have the best hands.”
“I couldn’t keep my eyes off your mouth, wishing it was my teeth gnawing on that plump bottom lip.” I kissed the corner of her mouth. Below her ear. And her cheek. “I wanted you from the minute I saw you walking out of your apartment. I saw you first.”
I hooked my hands under her T-shirt and gently pulled it over her head, tossing it on the floor. I kissed her stomach. Her hipbone. Her breasts.
“I loved you first. And last. And always,” she said, tugging down my boxers. I undressed quickly and climbed between her legs.
My lips traveled from her jaw to her ear and I whispered, “I love you, Remy. I’ve never stopped loving you.”
“Say it again.”
“I love you.” My hands slid up her thighs, her sides, her neck and into her hair. “I love you.”
My Firefly. My forever.
I found her hand and entwined our fingers, our joined hands resting next to her head on the pillow. I glided inside her. I was slow, and we were quiet, allowing our bodies to say everything that our words couldn’t. Nine years of loving her. The cold and lonely years. The pain and the heartache. But even after everything, here we were, our love stronger for all that we’d gone through.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “For everything.”
She touched my face. “Shh. You’re my ocean, Shane. I’d never turn my back on you.”
Her legs wrapped around me and I thrust harder, stroking in and out, blinded by my love for her. She whispered my name. She told me she would love me forever. Her nails dug into my back, and her body curved away from the mattress.
My tears fell on her heaving chest. She pulled my head down to hers and our mouths met.
Love tasted like the sea, like tears and hope and possibility.
Love tasted like Remy.
* * *
By the next day,photos of us were all over social media. Remy had tried to hide it from me, so I didn’t find out until Monday at work when one of the guys mentioned it. Later that day, my boss Raymond, called me into his office—a trailer on the demolition site and he fired my ass.
By Tuesday, it turned into an all-out war with the Harts leading the charge. As if just the sight of me had stirred up new animosity. What more did they want from me? I’d given them my pound of flesh. I’d sent them letters of apology from prison. I had let Amanda Hart spit in my fucking face. My father had lost his business and soon he would be gone. He didn’t need this shit in his life. Remy and I had lost each other, and for years, I had lost myself. Now, she was being dragged into this mess because the Harts had decided it wasn’t enough, they wanted more. They felt it was somehow within their rights to publicly shame her.
Enough was enough. Remy and I had found our way back to each other and we weren’t going to let outside forces drive us apart. Not again.
“Now we’re talking,” my dad said, rubbing his hands together when we shared our plan of action with him. It was becoming something of a catchphrase for him.Now we’re talking. Turns out my dad was more of a fighter than I’d given him credit for. “I’m proud of you. And for what it’s worth, if someone had done that to your mother, I would have done the same damn thing.”
I didn’t know if our plan was the right course of action but when your name and your reputation and everything you had worked hard for all your life was being shit on, sometimes there was only one clear line of defense. Tell the truth.
