Page 48 of Give My Everything
“Remmy, you don’t have to scramble,” I say, trying to reassure her that she didn’t do anything wrong.
But she can’t get away from me fast enough.
Her ass hits the horn and her high heel slips off her foot, falling into the well beneath my feet. Her arm somehow gets stuck in my seatbelt and she actually trips as she finally makes it onto the concrete drive in front of her house, falling onto her ass on the wet pavement.
God. I’m mortifiedforher.
Not because she’s done anything wrong or stupid or worth laughing at, but because I’ve been in that position—so caught up in your own emotional reaction that you’ll do anything to get away.
“Remmy,” I try again. “You—”
“Save it, okay? I get it. You aren’t interested.” Her jaw is tight, her shoulders back and her chin high—that same defensive posture I’ve already seen from her multiple times. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
And then she storms off, hobbling up her driveway, leaving her shoe behind like a regular princess.
But the last thing I feel like right now is her knight in shining armor.
Instead of going home, I go to the gym. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone at night, though the facility is open around the clock for the high-paying clientele.
The last time I was here this late was back when everything happened with…
I wince just thinking about it as I strip out of my dinner clothes and change into the workout shorts, shirt, and shoes I have in my locker. It’s one of the things that convinced me Jim’s was the way to go—I leave my clothes here and they launder them for me, making sure I have exactly what I need every time I want to work out.
Once I’ve changed, I head out to the long stretch where the bikes are lined up. I pick my favorite—the one at the very end—hop on, set it to a random scenic ride, and get moving.
Two miles. Four miles. Eight. Fifteen.
It’s around mile twenty that I realize my mind isn’t going to be distracted. I won’t be finding that blissful nothing that comes when I choose to get on and ride. It’s been happening more and more recently, my inability to truly calm myself with physical exertion.
No. Instead of fading to black, my mind zeroes in on exactly what I don’t want to think about.
Krissa Bilson.
I increase the incline and the resistance, standing up and pushing hard.
In the technical sense, she could be considered ‘the one that got away’. She was a girl I was willing to do just about anything for, change my entire life for, give my everything for.
And it was all a lie.
Instead, she used me—used me to better her own life, even though it required the ultimate betrayal.
We met just after she graduated from high school. She was celebrating her eighteenth birthday, which should have been my first clue that the age difference between us—five years—was too much.
Maybe just a few years later in life, five years isn’t that big of a difference, but for us it was. I just couldn’t see it at the time.
Because I was blinded.
I wasn’t the coolest of guys growing up. I wasn’t into the things that make kids popular—kids like Wyatt.
No sports. No partying. No girls.
I liked school. I liked learning. I liked being planned and organized and thinking about the future.
Guys like who I was then don’t get the girl. The hot chicks don’t set their sights on them.
I spent my three years at Yale breezing through my undergraduate degree then another year at Stanford getting my MBA. All of my time was spent surrounded by books and computers, with other amazing minds and successful businessmen.
Which is why my return to Hermosa Beach to refurbish a restaurant and begin the next stage of my career as a culinary entrepreneur felt like a logical, calculated choice.
