by Denise Wells
Matthews is hands-down the last person I expect to get a text from. I look at my phone again, just to make sure.
Matthews: You home? I’m coming over.
Me: Uh, yeah. Why?
Matthews: I just said, I’m coming over.
Me: No, why are you coming over?
Matthews: You told Remi about the bet. I’m in deep shit ‘cause I knew and didn’t tell Kat.
Me: I had no choice.
Matthews: Uh-huh. Well, now I need somewhere to go. And you’re it.
Me: I’m it?
Matthews: Yeah, open the fucking door, I’m coming up the walk with a six-pack.
I open my front door and sure enough, Matthews is coming up the front walk with a six-pack of beer.
“Hey, man,” I say as a way of greeting.
“Hey, fucktard,” he says.
“Nice to see you too, asshole.”
He pushes past me and makes his way into the entry of my little apartment. The entry is really just a portion of the living room, my place is that small. But there’s a small half-moon of tile in front of the door, and I like to think of it as an entry. Even though Matthews traverses it in less than half a step.
“I told you not to hurt her,” he says. “I told you I’d end you. Instead, I’m here with a fucking six-pack pretending like we like each other’s company or some shit. So, why don’t you shut the fuck up and tell me what the hell happened. Why did you tell her about the bet?”
“Don’t you tell Cookie—”
“It’s Kat. You can call her Kat.”
“Sorry. Don’t you tell Kat everything?”
“Yes. Except I didn’t tell her about this. So now I’m fucked. Besides, we’re getting married so it’s different.” He makes himself at home on my couch, sitting in the right corner. It’s my favorite spot, which pisses me off.
“Well, maybe I’ll marry Remi,” I say before I have the chance to stop myself.
I don’t mean it.
At least I don’t think I mean it.
I just want to get a rise out of him. I don’t really want him here. I definitely don’t want him in my favorite spot on my couch.
“Don’t be a dick. You barely know Remi,” he says.
“I know enough,” I say, digging my heels into this argument.
He rolls his eyes and opens a beer. Handing me the open one then grabbing and opening one for himself.
I take a big gulp to collect my thoughts then burp softly.
“You know,” I say. “You can’t tell me not to hurt her, and at the same time not to be honest with her.”
He pauses with the beer bottle halfway to his mouth, as though considering what I’m saying. “Fair point,” he says after a long pause.
“I mean, you can’t say you haven’t told Kat things you did that still hurt her when you were being honest?”
He nods and takes a long pull on his beer.
“Well, then,” I say.
“I’m not saying you should’ve lied, dude.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying… fuck I don’t know what I’m saying. All I know is my girl’s best friend is upset and I shouldn’t be kicked out of my house when I’m about… when it’s date night. And all because you fucked up.”
“Also a fair point,” I say after taking a moment to consider what he’s saying. Pretty sure I’d feel the same way in his shoes.
He laughs, a bit sardonically, then raises his bottle toward me.
I keep talking. “I’m out of my element here, man. I’m not a relationship guy.”
“All the more reason why you shouldn’t have started this,” Matthews says.
“Well, I did. So...”
“I’d like to say she’s going to come around, but it’s Remi.”
“Tell me about it,” I agree.
“She and Kat are like two peas in the same fucking stubborn-ass pod.”
I raise my beer in a show of solidarity.
He keeps talking. “You just got to ride out the storm, man. Ride out the storm, then apologize.”
“I did fucking apologize,” I say.
“My guess? Too soon. Don’t jump on the apology until she’s ready for it. But, definitely not before.”
“How do I fucking know when she’s ready for it?”
“Beats the fuck outta me,” Matthews says. “I barely have a handle on Kat, I can’t figure Remi out too.”
“That advice is useless, man.”
“I don’t have to give you advice at all, asshole. I mean, at least you didn't take the money, right.”
I think a minute, not really knowing what to say or if I even want to continue this conversation with him. I feel like anything going down between Remi and me is just that. Between Remi and me.
“Well,” I start.
“You fucking took the money?”
I nod while taking another swig of my beer.
“Are you a moron? My God, man, where is your head at?”
“I needed it,” I say.
“The fuck you need that much money for, that bad, you'd do this?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Personal.”
“Little late for that, don't cha think?”
“It's for my parents,” I mumble into the mouth of my bottle before I gulp the rest down.
“What?” he asks.
“The money,” I say more clearly. “My sisters and I are sending my parents on a cruise for their fortieth wedding anniversary. I needed the money for the rest of my share.”
“Well, fuck, that's almost decent of you, brother.”
“It is decent of me. My parents are amazing, and they deserve this.”
“At Remi's expense?” he asks.
My face reddens with shame, I look down at my feet. “No.”
“It's solid, though. You doing this for your folks. I feel the same about my dad. Totally do it for him.”
I nod my chin at him in acknowledgment and stand to get us both a fresh beer. I open and hand him his. We sit in silence for a minute.
Matthews chugs his beer, then asks, “Hey, wasn’t there a game tonight?”
I grab the remote and turn on the TV. We settle back to watch sports highlights, him in my favorite corner, and me at the opposite end.
Our truce sits between us, unspoken, but still there.
Almost like we’re friends or something.
Chapter 37
Remi
I spend the morning hydrating and packing for the conference. I flip on CNN because I’m a bit of a news junkie and can’t handle when I don’t know what’s going on in the world around me.
I’m surprised to hear the local station break into my national news program to announce an out of control wildfire that has sprung up a few counties away due to the Diablo winds in that area. I’m thankful that fires like that aren’t common in San Soloman.
But then I realize Brad will probably get called away and grab my phone and shoot a quick text to Kat to let her know I’m thinking of them and sending hugs. I know she frets every time Brad is called out to a fire. Not that I blame her. In fact, I don’t think I could do it. Be romantically involved with someone who constantly put their life in danger as a career.
Ha!
Dangerous like a detective, Remi?
Except, the Chance Bauer express is no longer a ride I’m interested in. I still laugh to myself at how ironic it is. Or would that be coincidental? Kat confused me once on the difference and I’ve not got it straight since it drives me crazy.
Regardless, I don’t think being a detective is nearly as dangerous as fighting fires. Not that it matters since Chance and I are over. I look back over to the tv screen and see the aerial view of the area affected, the fire looks huge. The tickler at the bottom of the TV screen reads that the fire has spread to just over four thousand acres and zero percent contained.
As selfish as the thought may be, I’m thankful I live near the ocean and that hundreds of miles separate my home from the devastation I’m seeing o
n TV. My phone dings with a text, it’s Kat telling me that Brad hasn’t been called out to the fire yet, but they are all on call and anticipating having to move in to assist in the next few hours.
I grab my phone to text Connie.
Me: Hey, I don’t need a double occ room anymore, if that helps with the scheduling and stuff. Going solo.
Connie: Probably doesn’t matter anymore. Everything okay?
Me: Yep.
Connie: Chance have to work or something?
Me: Don’t know. Don’t care. We broke up.
Connie: Oh no! Remi! Are you okay? Do you want me to call you? Do you need anything?
Me: That’s sweet. No. I’m fine. Getting ready to head out the door. I’ll talk to you later.
Connie: I’m serious. Call me if you need to talk.
Me: Will do.
The local newscaster breaks back into my program to alert the fire has reached one of the northern freeways that I need to take to get to my conference today. Most of my co-workers, including my boss, went up last night, even though nothing starts until later today. I chose to wait since I don’t understand the draw of sleeping in a strange bed any longer than is absolutely necessary. Now I wish I’d joined them. If what she’s saying about the delays is accurate, I should have left over twenty minutes ago to make it on time.
I’m meeting my boss to discuss my presentation. I’m in the mid-morning slot tomorrow, which I prefer. Unlike the first morning slot, it gives people time to wake up a bit, and they aren’t too restless because we will have just had a coffee break. Which means they won’t be hungry and watching the clock for lunch.
The clothes that I pack are a lot more conservative than the clothes that I wear to work every day. Mostly because this is people in my industry on a global level and not just the sexist piss-ants that I enjoy distracting on a day-to-day basis. What I’m packing still maintains a bit of my own fashion sense, I just try to rein it in a bit. So, today is a mid-calf, navy blue pencil skirt with a matching short wasted jacket and a pillbox hat. I call it my flight attendant outfit because it reminds me of what they would wear back in the day.
For the presentation, however, I’m packing a black suit, similar to what I will wear today, minus the hat and decorative buttons. But I’ll pair it with sheer, black seamed stockings, and a pair of killer black heels. My feet will hurt all day, but these heels make me feel fierce, so it will be worth it.
I know my presentation is good, and my data is solid. My boss even said so when I submitted it for final review. But that does nothing to calm the nerves I feel, even this far in advance.
Because, no matter how prepared I am, there is always a small part of me that is convinced I’m going to fail. That same small part of me, lays in wait, like a snake, waiting until I am most vulnerable to strike.
Shake it off, Remi. You’ve got this!
Traffic is insanely heavy, and it takes me twice as long to get to the venue. I listen to a book on tape as I drive, it’s about reaching your fullest potential in life and love. Self-help books are my guilty pleasure. Even Kat and Lexie don’t know I read them. One of my therapists when I was a teenager, gave me a book on co-dependency in regards to my relationship with my parents. That was all it took. From then on, I’ve been convinced that each new book, or rather the next book I read, will be the one that will have the magic solution to fix my life.
Believe me, I know the lunacy in that. I’m a scientist. Not only is there no magic solution, but I sure as fuck am not going to find it in a book. But it doesn’t stop me from trying. Hoping. Reading. Listening.
I pull into self-parking and am at the front desk checking in by four fifty-two in the afternoon. Twenty-two minutes late to meet my boss in the hotel bar. I send him a quick text to let him know I’ve arrived, and then ask the bellhop to bring my luggage to my room. I know it’s pretentious, but I tip them well. And I really, really hate pulling a suitcase on wheels behind me. I make a quick trip to the restroom to touch up my hair and makeup and send a quick text to Kat and Lexie to let them know I arrived okay. Kat texts me back immediately.
Kat: Did you see the fire? Was it really bad?
Me: I couldn’t see flames or anything, but the smoke was heavy.
Kat: Brad got called out a little bit ago. It’s huge, Rem.
Me: You okay?
Kat: I think so. Thanks for asking.
Kat: I’m glad you got there safely.
Me: It was a mess and took twice as long, but I’m here.
Kat: Hey - did you talk to Bauer?
Me: No. Why?
Kat: Well, just based on everything we talked about last night.
Me: Nope.
Kat: I think he’s sad.
Me: Did you talk to him?
Kat: No - but Brad did.
Me: Really? That doesn’t seem normal.
Kat: Get this, Brad actually went to his house last night after I kicked him out.
Kat: They hung out and drank beer.
Me: Did they talk about me?
Me: Wait. Don’t tell me.
Me: I don’t want to know.
Kat: For real?
Me: No.
Me: Yes.
Me: I don’t know. Fuck.
Kat: They did talk about you. That’s why I think he’s sad.
Me: Well, too fucking bad. I’m not calling him.
Kat: Ok.
Me: What do you mean, ok?
Kat: Ok, you’re not going to call him.
Me: Don’t play this game with me.
Kat: What game? I’m not playing anything.
Me: Oh yes you are. This is just like where you stay quiet until I talk. Except you’re saying ok until I change my mind.
Kat: That’s all on you, sweets. I’ve done no such thing.
Me: Bitch.
Kat: Aw, you do love me.
Me: Whatevs.
Me: I’ll talk to him when I get home.
Kat: Ok.
Me: Stop it!
Kat:??
Me: You know.
Me: I gotta go. I was supposed to meet my boss at the bar like half an hour ago to go over my presentation.
Kat: Have fun!
Me: I’ll try.
It’s just turning five minutes after five o’clock as I walk into the bar to join my boss, Stephen with a ph, as he’s sure to tell everyone he meets. I scan the room for his balding head and see him at a small table near the back. Talking to a woman with beautiful blondish brown hair. Hair that reminds me of Helen’s, Chance’s ex. Which just goes to show how badly I need to get him off my mind. A stiff drink ought to help that. Good thing I’m in a bar. The woman leaves as I approach. All I see is her thick hair and tiny ass walking away.
Stephen looks up at me. “Remi, good to see you finally made it. Have a seat.”
“Sorry. The fire is causing all kinds of problems with traffic,” I say.
“I just would have expected you earlier, is all.”
I hate it when he speaks in conditional verbs. Which he does often. I have to bite my tongue to avoid asking him if he did expect me earlier or he just would have expected me earlier.
Idiot.
“Again, sorry. I didn’t anticipate the delays. The fire is huge and causing major gridlock on the roads. Besides, I thought this was more of a casual meeting, you know, in a bar and all.”
“Well, no matter. I wanted to talk to you about your presentation tomorrow.”
“I’m ready. My presentation is solid.”
“Good. Good. I’m going to have you run second chair on it. Donaldson is going to run point.”
“Excuse me? Donaldson as in Jeffrey Donaldson? The twerp?”
“Yes. And there’s no need for name calling.”
“Everyone calls him a twerp. He’s barely—”
“Is there a problem, Remi?”
“Yes, there’s a problem! This is my presentation. My work. My research. I know this data inside out. I can’t have some little man with a short guy complex
using his overinflated ego to—”
“I’d rather you not get emotional about it,” Stephen says.
“I’m not emotional. I’m pissed. You can’t do this, Stephen. I’ve worked hard on this. For over a year. It’s my idea, my theorems, my tests, and my results.”
“I can. And I did.”
“Okay. Well. My name is already in the program.”
“As second chair,” he says.
“What?”
“Remi, please understand that information such as this, important data, is better received when delivered by someone more... commanding when on stage.”
“Commanding? You think the twerp is commanding? He’s five feet tall. He breathes too heavy through his nose. He can’t even make it through an entire sentence without doing some kind of noisy exhale. He isn’t commanding. He doesn’t inspire confidence in what he’s saying. If anything, he’s going to make people doubt my finding. What do you even mean by commanding? My God, I can’t believe this. You’ve never seen me on stage, Stephen, you have no idea what kind of presence I have when I speak.”
“I can see that you are quite upset now, however. And we definitely can’t have that. You are exactly right, I don’t know what kind of presence you have when you speak in public. Whereas Donaldson has a lot of experience with presentations. I know exactly what to expect. His name is respected in this industry.”
“His father’s name you mean. He hasn’t done anything on his own to warrant respect.”
“Remi, please—”
“He doesn’t even know my study. Or my findings. He knows nothing about what I plan to present.”
“I’ve provided him with a copy.”
“Of my study? My presentation? The copies that I gave to you?”
He nods, I’m assuming his answer to all questions, then takes a drink of his white wine. Which I’m guessing is Pinot Grigio or something equally emasculating. I look down at the napkin I’m shredding on the table and move to cover the pieces under my palm. I don’t want him to see that I’m this undone. But, I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that he’s doing this.
The waitress appears. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks looking at me as she lays down a fresh napkin.
“Vodka martini. Dirty. Three olives. Please.”
