Page 75 of Wilder Love
Shane
“There must be some mistake.”
“My records show that it’s been paid in full,” the woman said. “Will there be anything else today, sir?”
“No. Thanks.” I cut the call and dialed the next number, somehow knowing it would be the same. It was. I stuffed the invoices back into my glove compartment and slammed the palm of my hand against my dash. Then I got out of my Jeep and kicked the tire a few times. No surprise that it didn’t make me feel any better.
I got back in my car and drove to the marina.
The wooden walkway creaked under my feet as I strode to the end of the dock, in search of my dad. I found him hosing down the deck of Sam’s boat. Two wetsuits hung over the railing which led me to the conclusion that he’d been out diving again. Of course, he was going to go ahead and do whatever he damn well pleased. That was him, wasn’t it?
He looked me up and down. I was still wearing my work clothes. I was a sweaty mess of dirt and grime. The dust from the demolition site was clogging my throat. It was a beautiful evening, but somehow, I’d found a way to resent the sun for shining. I stared out at the water, the place that used to be my home but wasn’t anymore.
“Something on your mind?”
I dragged my eyes away from the water and to his face. “You’ve been diving again.”
It was a rhetorical question, so he didn’t bother answering. He waited for me to get to the real reason I’d charged over here, not even stopping to shower. “What did you tell Remy? Does she know about…” I couldn’t even bring myself to say the words. “The bills have all been paid.”
He laughed, taking me by surprise. “I should have known.” He was still laughing to himself although I didn’t get the joke. “She wanted to help. She found the bills on the counter. I stuffed them in a drawer but too late.”
I threw up my hands. “And now she’s gone and paid the damn things. You weren’t even supposed to open them. I told you to leave them for me—”
“You need the help. She wants to help.”
“I don’t need fucking help. Least of all from her.”
“Stop being a stubborn ass.”
“Since when are you okay about accepting handouts?”
“Sometimes you have to swallow your pride. This is one of those times,” he said calmly, like we weren’t talking about tens of thousands of dollars.
Un-fucking-believable. He was calmly cleaning the deck, not upset in the least that Remy St. Clair had paid our bills.
“Maybe you’re okay with it, but I’m not accepting her money.”
“What are you going to do? Throw it back in her face?”
That’s exactly what I was going to do. I didn’t want her pity. Or her guilt money. Or whatever the hell it was.
“Did you ever stop to think it will make her feel better? Are you really going to take that away from her? You’re not the only one who lost something. She lost you. And the girl didn’t have a lot to begin with. She was dealt a shit hand, but she never complained. Never sat around feeling sorry for herself. She loved you, still does. So, for once in your life, don’t be a stubborn ass about this. Accept it graciously. And get on with your life.”
Get on with my life. Like it’s so easy to do that. The huge chip on my shoulder and all the baggage I was carting around was weighing me down. I was sinking under the weight of it all. Some days I felt like I was drowning. My dad was dying and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Paying the bills had made me feel some small sense of control, like at least I could contribute. Try to put a dent in the massive debt I owed this man.
Now she’d gone and taken that away from me. Might as well chop off my fucking balls and call it a day.
“I don’t need a babysitter or a nurse. I don’t need you sitting around, watching over me every night.”
Didn’t he get it? I needed to be there for him the way he had always been there for me. Who was the stubborn ass now?
“When I’m about to die, I’ll let you know. Until then, go do something meaningful. Or fun. Hell if I know. Just do something. I’m still alive and so are you. Start acting like it.”
I stared at my father. The fuck? I scratched the back of my neck, still staring at him. He raised his brows, daring me to argue with him. Instead, I walked away. I had nothing left to say.
After I’d gotten out of prison last year, I’d been selfish. I’d driven up the coast, wanting to get away from John Hart and Costa del Rey, and the memories that came with being here. I rented a room above an old lady’s garage in Bodega Bay. I was her handyman, taking care of chores she couldn’t do anymore. Fixed her leaky pipes and repaired her front porch. Mowed her lawn. Bought her groceries. I surfed on rocky beaches, in the wild water of NorCal. It was the coldest summer I’d ever spent. I met a girl. The lady’s granddaughter. A blonde pixie of a girl who looked nothing like Remy St. Clair. She was kind and she was good, and I was trying to reinvent myself. Trying to forget.
She told me she loved me. I couldn’t say it back.
