Remember When 3: The Finale (Remember Trilogy #3)

by Torrest, T.

  REMEMBER WHEN 3:

  The Finale

  For my sister, Diana.

  She’s waited for this longer than anyone.

  This book is copyrighted by the author.

  Copyright © 2012

  See that?

  That means that if you have downloaded this book from any other source outside of Amazon or Barnes and Noble, it is a PIRATED COPY.

  Not only is it ILLEGAL, it’s a pretty sucky thing to do.

  Indie authors are just that: independent. We do not have a publishing house behind us, protecting our work from being stolen.

  For the record, I am not some nameless, faceless celebrity sitting around counting my riches. I am a human being who makes a very modest living from writing, and every time one of my books is downloaded from a “sharing” site, it’s like taking money out of my family’s hands.

  So, all I can do is ask that you just don’t do it.

  Thank you.

  REMEMBER WHEN 3:

  The Finale

  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.

  Hell, I went to that club on the Lower East Side a couple weeks ago and spent the whole time drinking soda all night, for godsakes. Soda. At the Luna Lounge. Now that’s commitment. But again, I was hoping to run into Layla and decided that this time I didn’t want to be a drunken mess when I did.

  She was the only reason I was even at a frigging bar at all. I mean, when I’m trying to curb my drinking, a bar isn’t really the first place I want to find myself. But earlier that week, I’d just happened to strike up a conversation with one of the security guys on set. It’s amazing what you can learn about a person after only a few minutes. And what I’d learned about that security guy was that his brother went to college at NYU. I asked him to give the guy a call, and holy shit, yeah, he’s friends with Layla Warren. Not only that, but said brother was a bartender at the Luna, and mentioned that she came in pretty regularly on Saturday nights.

  So, we went. Me and my new best friend, Mitch. And I waited. Feeling like a stalker.

  And she never showed up.

  But I didn’t have a drink.

  1:48. Dammit.

  Nine years I went without seeing her. Nine. Fucking. Years. And then I walked into that room, and there she was. That beautiful smile, those gorgeous brown eyes. Looking at me like we were seventeen again. Looking at me like I was… me.

  Where. Is. She?

  I could call her. There’s the phone. Right there. I could just call her and find out what the hell is going on in that brain of hers. I mean, we belong together. She has to know that. She knows that I know that. Were my intentions not clear?

  No. I laid it all out there. She knows what I want.

  She knows what she wants.

  So, why the hell isn’t she here right now?

  I launch off the bed, throw the stupid remote onto the pillows, and head for the fridge. I swore I wasn’t going to have a drink tonight. I swore I was going to be one-hundred-percent present when she got here. I pull out a mini bottle of Jack anyway and set it on the counter.

  But I don’t open it.

  I stand there staring at it instead, even though I know that just one little drink will help to take the edge off. Calm my nerves. Keep me sane until she gets here. I’m standing here, talking to myself, the voice in my head telling me that it’s okay to just have one.

  Just. One. Little. Drink.

  But I don’t open it.

  I grab the Toblerone instead, chomping on it as I pace around the living room.

  I will not go back into that bedroom alone.

  I will not go back in that bed without Layla.

  Layla Effing
Warren. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. The girl who makes me laugh. The girl who loved me.

  Who loves me.

  Right?

  Shit. 2:34.

  I flop onto the sofa, but that damn bottle on the counter is in my line of sight, calling my name. I switch position on the couch, resting my head on the other end so I don’t have to look at it. But now I can see the phone on the side table, so I cover it with a pillow, resisting the urge to use it. But what if it rings, and I don’t hear it? As if some stupid pillow is really going to muffle the sound of a ringing phone. But crap. I don’t want to take the chance that I’ll miss the call from the front desk letting me know Layla’s here. Fuck! I get up and put the phone on the floor, out of sight.

  The remote catches my attention, so I flick on the tube and channel surf aimlessly, my mind not even registering what I’m looking at until I come across Sixteen Candles on HBO. Classic.

  And Layla’s favorite movie.

  Sonofabitch.

  If she doesn’t show up, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch this movie ever again. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch my movie ever again. It was hard enough just having to see myself onscreen, but it was even harder having her sitting right there next to me… where I could smell her, touch her. Sitting there with a boner like some thirteen-year-old just from holding her hand. Sitting here with a boner right now just thinking about it. Dammit. I really need to take care of this thing.

  Where the fuck is she?

  3:02.

  I don’t think she’s coming.

  Holy shit. She’s really not fucking coming.

  Christ. My chest hurts. There’s an actual, physical pain in my chest right now. She’s killing me. And she’s doing it slowly. She could have shown a little compassion and finished me off years ago, instead of letting me bleed out over ten whole years. Because this? This is merciless.

  And completely unbearable.

  I’m tired. I’m horny. I’m pissed. And I’m way, way too sober.

  Fuck it.

  I bound off the couch and crack that bottle of Jack, bring it to my lips and down it quickly, the scalding in my throat a familiar salve. I savor the burn for only a minute, because I’ve got some brain cells to obliterate and this little mini sampler-sized bottle isn’t cutting it. I grab a tall glass from the cabinet and empty about a million of those little bottles into it, not even checking the labels before I do. And then I throw the whole thing back in one, magnificent, pathetic chug. I slam the empty glass on the counter, bracing my hands on either side of it.

  And I wait.

  Wait for the booze to do its work. Wait for the memories to blur, for the pain in my chest to slip away.

  I stare at my cast for like the hundredth time since coming back to my room. She’d tattooed the entire thing, filled in every available space of white with fictional creatures and their fake little worlds. I check out every line she sketched, every inch she colored in while we talked. Talked about us. Talked about who we were to each other. Who we are.

  I know now that it was all a lie.

  She was just drawing out the myth.

  Before I know it, I’m slamming my forearm against the edge of the counter, cracking the cast and breaking it into bits, tearing it from my skin. White powder is coating the dark blue surface, chunks of plaster are littering the floor, ribbons of gauze are trailing from my arm in tatters, and I look like a deranged mummy. My pale, pickled, smelly arm comes into view, the scars a deep pink from where the bone protruded through my skin.

  And it hurts.

  She actually did it. She chose him instead of me. It’s over.

  I can’t do this. I can’t play this game with her anymore. I’m completely annihilated, and this isn’t the first time she’s crushed me. I always knew I loved her, always made myself remember. I just never thought anything could come of it. We were kids, for chrissakes. But we’re not kids anymore. I thought that would mean something, make it bigger somehow, give us the chance we’d denied ourselves all those years ago.

  But she doesn’t want me.

  And I can’t have her.

  And there it is.

  I allow myself to remember everything. Every moment we’ve shared since the first second I saw her sitting in that desk in English class, right on up to her lips on mine a few hours ago. Every look, every laugh, every kiss, every touch.

  And then I make myself forget.

  I sever her memory like a limb off a tree, like an arm from my body. It was a part of me, but not anymore. It’s been cut off. Buried. Gone forever.

  She is dead to me.

  Layla Warren, you are no more.

  I slam down another two bottles of whatever, and before my brain can step in, I whip one across the room. It bounces off an upholstered chair and pings against the TV. But it doesn’t even cause a crack in the screen before dropping to the carpet and rolling under the coffee table.

  The tiny snap isn’t nearly big enough for the madness I’m feeling.

  I’m feeling bigger. I’m feeling louder.

  I stomp to the living room and rip a drawer from the side table, discus-throwing it at the television with a roar, where it connects with a spectacular crash, the wood splintering apart on its way to the carpet. It is quickly followed by the TV, which cracks face-first onto the floor, its descent causing the armoire that housed it to pull away from the wall in a Smooth Criminal lean, tethered to the studs by a vinyl safety restraint. I shove the remains of the TV out of the way, knocking over one of those fucking Wilmington Blue easy chairs. I grab hold of the top of the armoire, using my full weight to unleash the tether in a fantastic rip, pulling the massive thing down where it crashes and flattens almost completely to the ground. Surprisingly, the bulky piece of furniture hasn’t broken apart upon its landing, but the coffee table hasn’t fared as well.

  I stand with my hands in fists at my hips, chest heaving, the alcohol and adrenaline coursing through me, taking in the whole demolition site. The throbbing in my broken arm has exploded into a sharp, stabbing pain that drowns the ache in my chest. It’s an improvement.

  The room is trashed. Such a beautiful disaster.

  I head back to the mini fridge and slam down another bottle of whatever just as the knocking starts. For a second, I pathetically hope it’s her, but then I hear the voice of Jeffrey, the hotel manager. “Mr. Wiley? Is everything okay in there?”

  Yeah. Sure, buddy. Everything’s peachy.

  Fuck ‘em. I crack open another bottle as Jeffrey pounds on the door again. “Mr. Wiley!”

  “Go away!”

  “Mr. Wiley, I’m sorry, but we’ve received a few phone calls about some excessive noise up here. Are you sure everything’s alright?”

  This guy.

  I storm over to the door and whip it open clumsily, but violently enough that Jeffrey takes a step back. Or maybe I just look like enough of a maniac that I’ve scared him. Good.

  “I told you I’m fine!”

  Jeffrey peeks past me into the room. I know it isn’t fine.

  “Mr. Wiley… your room…”

  “Thass right, pal. My room. My fugging hotel, actually. So I did a li’l remodeling. So what?”

  I know I’m slurring, and I sound like a dick. I know I am a dick. And Jeffrey’s taken care of every detail for me since the minute I checked into this place. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s not the one who stood me up tonight. I can always count on Jeffrey.

  I lose the smarm and switch gears, offering casually, “Hey, I’m sorry, Jeffy. You wanna come in an’ have a drink? Come on. Come on in.”

  I open the door fully, inviting him in with a sweep of my damaged arm, coated in white powder and the few remnants of gauze still sticking to my skin. Jeffrey doesn’t look like he’s in a sociable mood and doesn’t make it past the threshold.

  “Mr. Wiley, thank you, but no.” He gives the mess in the living room another once over and says, “I trust you’ll keep the noise level down for the
rest of the night, yes?”

  I’m calm as a cucumber. My tantrum has exhausted me. There will be no more hotel-room-trashing from me.

  “Yes, Jeffy. I’ll keep it down. You can count on me,” I tell him, giving some sloppy, crazy-eyed, military salute. “G’night. I’ll be quiet. Okay. G’night.”

  And then I close the door, grab a few more bottles, and head back into the bedroom.

  Alone.

  PART THREE

  2005

  Chapter 1

  WINTER PASSING

  Do you ever have psychic premonitions? I’m not talking about foreseeing world events in your crystal ball or being able to read someone’s mind. But do you ever get that little tingle along your skin, that little whisper in a forgotten corner of your brain that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up?

  It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I know it. So, I wasn’t quite as surprised as I should have been when the phone rang one otherwise uneventful afternoon. I was pretty sure I already knew who was calling.

  I grabbed it off its base on the first ring, and I don’t even think I said hello before being met with, “My father died.”

  I gripped the phone in my hand, not quite believing what I was hearing. Not just the startling news being disseminated, but the voice of the person delivering it.

  It’s strange how there are people in your life that never seem to leave it. Those friends that you may not talk to regularly, but whom you still very much consider a part of your life. You may go months, even years without seeing one another or speaking. But once you wind up together again, it’s as if not a single day has gone by.

  I have lots of friends like that. I don’t know what the formula is, but I’m like Fry’s dog. Once I bond with someone, even someone new, it’s for life. Most of the people in my inner circle are the ones who have steadily been a part of it, however. My father has always been there for me, and my best friend Lisa is my rock. Even my little brother Bruce and I managed to form a decent friendship during our twenties.