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CHAPTER8
Remi
“Big boys don’t cry, young Julian. You know this.”
I drag my pillow over my head, trying to block out Grandmother’s voice.
“You are nine years old today. You will act your age.”
“Leave me alone…”
“I will do no such thing. And you need to pull yourself together immediately. Do not forget, you are a Remington—heir to a hotel fortune. You will not fall apart like a fragile ruin.”
“I don’t wanna be here… I wanna go home.”
“You do not get to choose where you will go. I make those choices for you now.”
“I want Mom and Dad…”
“And I want my son—but do you see me wailing over my loss?”
Grandfather wraps his fingers around my wrist and squeezes. “Helen, may I suggest you show young Julian a measure of compassion? He is but a child who has experienced a profound loss.”
“Darling, I will manage this situation, as I manage all family matters.”
The warmth of Grandfather’s hand disappears. “Of course, my dear.”
“In several minutes, we will participate in an interview regarding last night’s tragedy. Young Julian, you are to wash your face, comb your hair, change into the clothes I have laid out on the bed, and put on a brave face. You will then present yourself in the parlor as the proud Remington you have been raised to be.”
I wake up in a deep sweat—flat on my back with my pillow pulled snugly over my head—having once again relived the disaster that changed my life on my ninth birthday… in yet another nightmare. I’m twenty-six years old—shouldn’t I have grown out of childish dreams?
“Big boys don’t cry,”was Grandmother’s sage advice on the morning after my parents’ catastrophic passing in a head-on collision with a logging truck on their way home from a late winter skiing trip so they could throw my birthday party the next afternoon.
Grandmother ultimately got what she wanted; I’m a fast learner when it comes to matters of survival. Julian Remington III didn’t cry much after that devastating morning. Instead, he began his metamorphosis from Charlotte and Julian II’s beloved—and, yes, fragile—eight-year-old only child, entirely capable of being destroyed by loss, into a cold young man who could never be so adversely impacted by heartbreak again.
Call me callous, but I’ll never again experience the excruciating pain of loss because I refuse to allow myself the temporary bliss of bonding. Yes, indeed… I learned my lesson well.
I toss the pillow to the foot of the bed and swing my legs over the edge. The mid-morning sun shines mercilessly through the loft’s oversized windows. I rub my eyes and squint; it’s time to face yet another worthless weekend. Being a loner is tolerable on weekdays when I’m busy with classes, but weekends and holidays—meant to be spent rejuvenating one’s spirit with family and friends—are depressingly endless.
I grab my phone from the top of the empty bourbon barrel I use as a nightstand. “Lucky for me, Tristan and I exchanged phone numbers before I left his apartment last night.” Alone in my loft so frequently, I allow myself the luxury of speaking aloud. It fills the structure’s vast emptiness with sound.
I dial his number before I give it too much thought. “Hey, Tristan.”
“Remi?”
“The one and only.”
“Uh… hi. Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“Well, surprise—it’s me.”
The ensuing awkward silence is not surprising.
“What are you doing today?” I press on.
“Tara is working on her resumé—she wants to find an online business job. I’m gonna take the kids to the park.”
“Want some company?”
“You actually want to watch three kids climb on a jungle gym?”
“To be honest, I’m all about the seesaws—just can’t get enough of them.”
Tristan laughs. “You know the park we’re going to—it’s on the other side of the field where the Bears so soundly defeated the Coyotes, thanks to Coach Remi.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Can’t wait.”
I race to the bathroom to get ready to meet Tristan. I’ll admit to being more excited about watching kids play at a park than for any of my other extracurricular activities, which largely consist of working out and drinking alone. Though if Grandmother had her way, I’d be putting the finishing touches on my law school application essays.
* * *
