by Rose, Emery
Two days after returning home and sleeping in my childhood bedroom, I told my dad I couldn’t stay in Costa del Rey. He said he understood. I sold my quiver of boards, all but two, and my beloved Triumph. I emptied what little was left in my bank account and wrote a check for my dad. Small compensation for all that he’d lost because of me, but it was all I had so I forced him to cash it despite his protests.
I headed north, up the California coast, and I tried to forget.
But that was the thing about memories. Even when you tried your damnedest to block them out, they forced their way in, invaded your dreams and waking hours.
Karma. What a bitch.
24
Remy
Seven Months Later
Strips of black-sequined and metallic silver fabric crisscrossed over my breasts and white silk billowed around my legs as I strutted down the catwalk, hips swaying, a look of haughty disdain on my face. That was why I got paid the big bucks. I gave zero fucks.
Cameras flashed, music and lights pulsated, and the room smelled like money and expensive perfume. I stopped at the end of the runway and jutted out my hip. My eye caught on a Hollywood heartthrob and his girlfriend in the front row next to a Vogue editor and a rockstar—Bastian Cox. He winked at me and leaned in to say something wildly inappropriate to the Vogue editor. Her eyebrow arched. Just the one. But otherwise, there was no expression on her face. I smothered a laugh, pivoted and turned, and strutted past the models who had followed me down the runway. We were dressed alike, our hair slicked back, our eyes smoky and lips painted black. We looked like zombies, our skin ghostly pale under the spotlights.
It was Paris Fashion Week and Remy St. Clair was opening the show.
These days, I had so many different faces.
Who was I now?
Later that night, I was wandering the streets of the Latin Quarter. Paris in the winter was cold and gray, the air scented with crepes and garlic and butter. A busker was singing “Plastic Jesus” and I stopped to listen. Tossing some Euros into his guitar case, I huddled into my long cashmere peacoat and walked away, the music trailing after me.
Crossing over the Seine, I lit a cigarette on the bridge and stared at the gothic spires of Notre Dame through a film of smoke. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I fished it out, checking the screen before answering. Dylan.
I knew what he was going to say before the words were out of his mouth. I’d made him promise to tell me if and when it ever happened. I could feel it in my bones. Like a sixth sense. This was it.
“He’s back.” My brother confirmed what I’d already known.
And just like that, I knew what I needed to do next.
25
Remy
Four Months Later
“You’re trending,” Bastian said, scrolling through the social media updates on his cell. My own phone was turned off. Bastian was reading out a few choice comments for my entertainment. “Twenty-five-year-old supermodel Remy St. Clair is taking a break from modeling, citing mental health issues…”
Tuning him out, I stood back to survey the clothes hanging in my walk-in closet. I had more pressing issues at the moment. Namely, what should I pack for my trip to Costa del Rey?
“I’m scared,” I admitted, turning around to look at Bastian who was lounging on my bed. He tossed his phone on the bedside table and lit a cigarette, leaning his back against my midnight blue velvet headboard to smoke it. I shoved his booted feet off my Egyptian cotton sheets and flopped down next to him. He handed me the cigarette and I took a drag, staring up at the jewel-toned crystals dripping from the chandelier, ribbons of smoke curling up to the ceiling.
“You should be scared.”
I sighed loudly and took another drag before I handed the cigarette back to him. “I quit smoking.”
“I won’t tell Dr. Fran. I’d hate to ruin that exotic holiday you’ve funded.”
I snorted. My therapist was a miracle worker and deserved every penny I’ve paid her over the years.
Bastian wandered over to the open window to smoke, and sat on the window ledge, looking out at the rooftops of Tribeca as the sun set over them. “Normally, I like it best when you’re your tragically beautiful self. It makes you a better muse. But in this case, I’ll make an exception and bolster your spirits,” he said, in his East London accent. I couldn’t count how many times I’d heard that Bastian Cox’s voice made women’s ovaries explode. He didn’t discriminate though. He liked dick as much as pussy. “You’re not the same girl I met seven years ago. You can handle this. Go you.” He punctuated his monotone speech with a half-hearted victory punch in the air before his arm flopped back to his side.
I rolled my eyes. “That was pathetic. Don’t give up the day job. You’d make a lousy motivational speaker.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m British. We don’t do all the yahoo, heehaw, you go girl rah rah bullshit.”
“You’re all doom and gloom.”
“That’s why we get along so well. You speak my language.” He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, the bastard. “Let’s get pissed, eat our weight in junk food, and watch reality TV shows.”
I snort-laughed. “The glamorous life of a rock star and a supermodel.”
“Ex-supermodel. No more leafy greens and Artesian well water for you. Burgers and chips?” he asked, scrolling through his phone. When Bastian was home, it was easier to order in. Everywhere he went he got mobbed. The pitfalls of looking like a young Johnny Depp and being one of the biggest rock stars on the planet. But I was able to see past all that. From the first time we had met, I’d recognized a kindred spirit. Bastian and I were so alike, really, so damn vulnerable underneath it all.
“What the hell. I’ll live dangerously.”
After Bastian put in our order, he strolled over to my dresser, emptied my lingerie drawer into the suitcase at the foot of my bed, tossed in every bikini I owned and zipped up my bag. “There. Packed and ready to go. Tell Shane, ‘You’re welcome’. And tell Dylan I’m still pining for him.”
With that, he waltzed out of my bedroom and left me laughing. “You’re an idiot,” I yelled as he let loose on a drum kit in the living room. Bastian wasn’t even a drummer. He was a guitarist.
“I love you too,” he said, driving his point home with a crash of the cymbals that reverberated off the walls of the loft.
My humor faded when I thought about Shane. Like I hadn’t been thinking about him for seven long years.
Every. Single. Day.
I turned on my phone, ignored the social media updates, and texted my brother a reminder about tomorrow’s flight details. His response was immediate.
Dylan: Got it the first time, Remy. I told you I’d be there. Chill.
Chill. Right. Easy for him to say.
* * *
I lowered the brim of my Lakers cap, avoiding the eyes on me as I waited for my bag to drop onto the carousel. Next to me, two middle-aged women were talking in stage whispers, snatches of their conversation drifting my way.
“She obviously doesn’t eat. She probably does drugs…”
“They always call it R&R when they really mean rehab.”
“Just like that rock star boyfriend of hers.”
Get a life, people.
I cranked up the volume on my music to drown out their voices, my cell pinging with social media updates. I ignored them the same way I ignored the women who were staring at me. Judging me. I always tell myself it doesn’t matter. They don’t know me. But sometimes it still got to me.
In my periphery, I saw the women’s jaws drop and their eyes widen. Silencing my music, I caught the last few words from my brother’s mouth.
“…so I suggest you take your scrawny asses and bulging eyes over there” —he pointed to the opposite side of the baggage pickup area— “where I can’t see you. And stop talking shit about my sister.”
Having delivered his message, the women scurried away, and Dylan’s gray-blue gaze met mine. He s
mirked as he erased the distance between us and pulled me into a one-armed hug.
“Got your back, Rem.”
I smiled. “Always.”
I stood back to take him in, looking for changes since the last time I saw him over a year ago. Last April, to be exact. We met in the desert and partied at Coachella. Unfortunately, Sienna was there too, and Dylan got his heart trampled on. Again. Forced to take sides, I chose Dylan. Sienna and I haven’t spoken since.
It was still hard to reconcile this Dylan with the boy he used to be. Now, my twin was a tattooed bad boy in expensive clothes. The cuffs of his tailored black dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark ink on his arms. Black jeans. Black leather designer high tops. An Omega Speedmaster on his wrist. Hair slicked back, Wayfarers on his head, he looked very LA.
His tattooed fingers rubbed the scar that split his left eyebrow, his eyes darting to the baggage drop. “You bring a lot of bags?”
“One.” I pointed to the black roller bag making its way around, a silver duct-tape X distinguishing it as mine. Classy, as always. You can take a girl out of the hood, but you can’t take the hood out of the girl. He grabbed it off the carousel and we exited through the glass doors into the summer heat, walking in silence to the short-term parking garage.
The locks beeped on a matte black G-Wagen, and Dylan opened the hatch and stowed my bag inside. “Nice wheels.” I climbed into the passenger seat, inhaling the scent of leather and new car. “I miss the rusty old pickup truck.”
He snorted as he turned the key in the ignition, music blasting from his speakers—
“Daddy Issues” by The Neighbourhood. Hmm. Was he still hung up on Sienna? But then, who was I to judge?
The car was spotlessly clean. Expensive. Dylan had hit the big time when he developed an App while he was still in college. It was called EZ-Math. If you were stuck on an algebra equation or geometry question, the app helped you solve it. He sold it for millions and invested the money in a Tech start-up.
Dylan navigated the LA traffic, the eternal SoCal sunshine beating down on the windshield, and I drummed my fingers on my thigh, trying not to think of everything I had left behind—New York, my career, the new life I’d built—or whatever it was I was headed toward. Had I acted too rashly when I quit modeling? As soon as I’d gotten that call from Dylan back in February, I finished out my contract and didn’t re-sign it. I could always go back to modeling, I rationalized. But it wasn’t what I wanted anymore.
Being a human clothes hanger had earned me millions. It had gotten me out of a bad place and hurled me into a completely different world. When you had money, it was harder for the world to shit on you. But all that glitters is not gold. My self-esteem had taken a beating and my privacy had been invaded, two things I now coveted.
Dylan glanced over at me before returning his eyes to the road. “You back because of Shane?”
Shane. Seven years and I still dreamt about him, yearned for him, craved him. And now I’d come back to find out how the world had treated him. Badly. Unfairly. I wanted to find a way to make it up to him, even though I had no idea how that would be possible.
“I came back to make sure he’s okay. And I came back because I miss you.” I was telling the truth on both counts. Honesty was one of the things I’d been working on over the past seven years. I was a work in progress.
“Those women were right, Rem.” Dylan scowled. “You’re too fucking skinny.”
I laughed. If only he knew how many times I had heard the opposite. I was worth more money and got more work when I was rail-thin with boobs. That was the look that photographers and designers wanted. Ribs and hip bones protruding? Perfect. Five-foot nine and able to fit into a size zero? You’re just the body type we’re looking for.
* * *
Dylan turned into the driveway of a two-story Spanish style white stucco house with a terracotta roof tucked into lush foliage and palm trees. The house wasn’t flashy or huge. But not in my wildest dreams would I have ever imagined that he’d be able to buy a house like this—prime SoCal real estate.
“This is your house?” I asked stupidly. Of course, it was. He pulled into the garage and cut the engine, plunging us into silence. Three surfboards sat in a rack against the wall, and a few wetsuits hung from hooks but other than that, the garage was empty.
“It’s mine.”
“Are you sure your job is legal?”
He laughed but didn’t answer as I followed him into the house and across the terracotta-tiled floor of the laundry room through a door to his kitchen—granite countertops, glossy white cupboards, and stainless-steel appliances without a smudge or fingerprint greeted me. Slack-jawed, I wandered through the rooms, all dark hardwood floors and clean white walls with black gothic-looking wrought-iron chandeliers hanging from wood-beamed ceilings. Black sofas, a dark wood coffee table and a plush Moroccan rug rounded out the décor and a flat-screen TV spanned the wall across from the sofas.
My jaw dropped at the view from the French doors that opened on to a Moroccan patio with mosaic black-and-blue tiles, a fire pit, and daybeds leading to a crystal blue swimming pool. The hilltops, canyon, and an ocean view in the distance provided the backdrop. “Dylan…” I turned to find him watching me, waiting for my reaction, and I knew it mattered to him what I thought. “It’s incredible.”
One side of his mouth curved up in an almost-smile. What would it take to get his real smile? We were on the move again. I followed him upstairs and down a hallway, black-framed black and white photos lining the walls. My steps slowed as I studied the photos as if seeing them for the first time. They were mine, I’d taken them—a cobblestoned Parisian alley in the snow, a hazy gray London drizzle blanketing the Thames and Tower Bridge, bare trees in Central Park, the sun setting over the rooftops of Tribeca from my loft window.
“You hung them on your wall.” My voice was choked with emotion.
“They’re good, Rem.” He paused in front of the New York City skyline I’d shot from Brooklyn before moving on, carrying my bag by the handle instead of wheeling it over the smooth hardwood floors. That was Dylan though. He’d never taken the easy way out.
Pushing open the last door on the left, he carried my bag inside with me following close on his heels. He set my bag on a bench at the foot of a king-sized four-poster bed with plush white bedding, soft and downy, like a cloud. Mercury-glass lamps with white linen shades sat on dark wood bedside tables and a vintage Moroccan rug covered the hardwood floor, the vibrant colors faded with age. French doors opened onto a Juliet balcony with mountain and ocean views. It looked like a room in a boutique hotel.
“There’s an en suite,” he said, gesturing to a door next to the dresser.
“I just can’t believe this. It’s so nice. God, Dylan.” Grinning, I smacked his arm.
“Kid from the hood made good.”
And that was what this was all about—the house, the car, this life he’d created for himself. He’d been working his ass off since he graduated high school, trying to be ‘somebody’, as he’d once said. It wasn’t just about the money. It went deeper than that, and maybe I was the only one who could fully understand it. He had never felt like he measured up, had never felt worthy of Sienna or her family.
I’m Sienna’s dirty little secret.
“It’s beautiful, Dylan.” I looked around the room, trying to imagine him shopping for these items but I couldn’t. “Did you design this yourself? I mean, did you choose all the furniture and…” I shook my head and laughed. “You hate shopping.”
“I didn’t do it myself. Not exactly.”
I raised my brows. “How mysterious. Who did it?”
He ran a hand over his sleek hair. “It’s my newest App. EZ-Design.”
I was so impressed with everything he had done and accomplished at only twenty-five, that it rendered me speechless and for a few moments I just stared at him. “You’re so smart, Dylan. How do you even know how to do all that?”
&nbs
p; He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s no big deal.”
But it was. It was a huge deal.
“I’ll order some dinner. What are you hungry for? Sushi? Vietnamese?”
“Are you going to order it on one of your apps? EZ-Food?” I teased. He shook his head and chuckled. “Sushi sounds good.”
He nodded and moved to the door. “Meet you by the pool.”
The bedroom door closed behind him and I flopped down on the bed, staring at the black wrought iron chandelier. Who was this designer version of Dylan St. Clair? He even smelled different. A subtle, spicy scent from his cologne or aftershave. Did he feel the same way about me? Like we were strangers, trying to get to know each other? After I changed into shorts and a tank top, I wandered out to the pool. The sun was setting over the hills—the sky streaked pink and orange—and Dylan was swimming laps, his strokes strong and sure. Unlike me, he could swim the fly. Show-off.
Sitting at the edge of the pool, my legs dangling in the water, I watched his tattoo-covered arms cut through the water, remembering the boy who had sung “Black” while he had floated in the ocean on our seventeenth birthday. I’d left Costa del Rey seven years ago and hadn’t stepped foot in this town since. How funny that Dylan had chosen to make his home here.
I needed a cigarette. Then I remembered that I quit. I wanted to be the best version of myself when I came to Costa del Rey. I was trying. Every single day I’ve been trying to be a Remy St. Clair that I could be proud of. Some days I felt like I succeeded. Other days, I was still that screwed-up seventeen-year-old who let a boy use her because she didn’t think she deserved anything better.
Dylan got out of the pool and toweled off just as the doorbell rang, as if he’d timed it perfectly.
We ate sushi outside on the Moroccan patio dotted with potted citrus trees, Moroccan lanterns hanging from the wood rafters, and I remembered a time when our idea of dinner was Spaghetti O’s and hot dogs or frozen pizzas. After dinner, he smoked a blunt which made me want a cigarette even more. Music piped from his surround-sound speakers, transforming the space into an Ibiza club.