Remember When 3: The Finale (Remember Trilogy #3)
T.Torrest
Prologue
TRIP
OCTOBER 1st (well, 2nd), 2000
12:27 AM. What the ever-loving fuck.
I thought Layla would have been here hours ago. What the hell could be taking her so long?
My brain refuses to even consider that she won’t come. I mean, that’s not even an option, right? There is no possible way she won’t show up. Maybe she just needs a little time to get her head in the right place, accept that this is happening.
Because it is so happening.
I keep waiting for the room phone to ring. The front desk has explicit instructions to call me the second she walks into the lobby, giving me a five-minute window to light all these stupid candles I put all over the place. I had the cabbie make a stop at the Duane Reade, where I bought every goddamned candle they had on the shelves. The suite is filled with them.
Who says guys aren’t romantic?
12:49.
I’ve been sitting in this bed for hours, flipping through channels on the TV, trying to distract my mind from my wait.
And from the minibar.
I’ve needed a drink since I got back here, needed to take the edge off after that fight at her apartment. Jesus. What the hell are we even arguing for? Leave it to that girl to find a way to turn I love you into a standoff.
Well, maybe I didn’t say those exact words, but I came damn near close enough. Besides, she already knows I love her. Practically told her as much.
Practically.
I mean, I sent that damned lunchbox, didn’t I?
The first thing I did when I got back here was to interrogate the concierge. Veronica? Vanessa? Whoever she was, she swore it went out. I called down to the front desk about a million times since to confirm it, finally got smart and asked for the number of the messenger service she’d used. By that time, the place was already done for the day, a recording telling me they close at eight on Sundays, so at least I know it had to have been delivered no later than that.
So, Layla got the gift. And she’s still not here.
1:10.
I actually restrained myself from banging her against the damned wall, actually forced myself to hold back, and not just… take. It was probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life. I mean, I had her right there. Right there in my arms, smashed up against the wall, her tongue in my mouth, her legs wrapped around my waist, her body pressed… Shit. What the hell am I doing? I’m getting myself all worked up and I can’t even do anything about it. I will not jerk off. I will not. She’ll be here any minute and I’m not seventeen anymore. Takes a few minutes to reboot these days, and I’m not waiting another minute longer than necessary to finally take her to bed. I plan on slamming into that girl the second she walks through that door. There’s only one place I’m prepared to unload this thing, and it will not be in a tissue.
Great. So now I’m sober and hard.
I need a drink. I mean, I really, really need a drink. But I’m not going to cave. After my outburst Friday night at the diner, I’m not touching the hard stuff ever again. I scared the hell out of Layla. Scared myself. I haven’t touched a drop since then.
This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to dry out. Not the first time that I’ve gotten disgusted with myself, heard my old man’s voice while I was speaking, saw his face when I looked in the mirror.
Not the first time I found myself picking a fight.
That night at The Westlake Pub was pretty freaking insane. I only went there hoping to run into Layla. It was a shot in the dark, but she wasn’t taking any of my calls, and I had to see her again. I figured the chances were good that she probably dropped into the local watering hole from time to time. It’s the only bar in our hometown. Well, the only one anybody ever went to, anyway. When she didn’t show, I slammed down a few too many and the next thing I knew, I was provoking some ‘roid rage guido and his entourage. And then I wound up in jail.
Kind of a wakeup call.
So, yeah. I try to lay off the booze from time to time.