The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (85)

I shake my head again, cutting her off before she rakes herself over the metaphorical coals. “Win, it’s not something you did or even have control over. It’s all the things we get to do that she never will again. It’s this conversation, right here, that she can’t have with her annoying little sister anymore. And she needs a night to try to work through all those things she’s been burying deep.”

Winnie nods, wiping a tiny tear as it forms in the corner of her eye. “I have a bottle of really good tequila. Take it with you when you go.”

“Thanks, sis.” I give her shoulder a squeeze on my way to the back door.

“Remy?” she calls, stopping me before I can get there.

“Yeah?”

“A word of caution from personal experience?”

I wait, my brows lifting marginally.

“The song is right, big bro.” She grins like a damn devil. “Tequila really does make the clothes fall off.”

“You realize that is the absolute last thing I want to hear from my baby sister,” I grumble as I head inside, but she’s quick to get the last word before the door shuts behind me.

“Doesn’t make it any less true!”





Remy

Maria snags the bottle of tequila by the neck again, tips it back and swallows a huge, shot-like gulp. I watch her sleek, tanned throat work around the liquid and shake my head subtly to clear it.

She’s so fucking beautiful, sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. To blink. To stand upright and basically exist. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever known someone whose whole being shines as brightly as hers. There’s beauty at the surface and underneath, and then under that—that’s where she keeps the pain.

She wipes the excess tequila off her lips and closes her eyes, humming as the liquid burns its way down her throat.

After we got back to her empty apartment, it took about an hour or so for her to get comfortable taking shots. But now that she’s committed, she’s gone full bore. We’re nearing the halfway point of the bottle with no slowing down in sight. Shit, I might have to DoorDash another one if we keep this up much longer.

I take the bottle back, needing a distraction of some sort, and take another pull.

It’s the most godawful straight liquor ever made, I swear, but I’ll do anything to make this woman feel at ease tonight. Ironically, it’s the same damn liquor I utilized several nights in a row after breaking up with Maria in high school.

I’ve never liked the shit since.

On the plus side, if I’m passed out in the bathroom, my dick will be much more likely to get the memo. This isn’t about him, much to his dismay. This is about Maria. About her sister. About the grief she so obviously made herself bury when she lost her.

The body is tricky with emotion. It holds it and stores it and wears it even when we don’t realize. There’s a reason and a need for a purge, so that we can function without the weight.

Maria was never a drinker in high school—and though we were only in high school, that was a rarity. As I found out tonight, however, it seems that part of her never really changed. Her first glance at the bottle when I explained that my sister was going to watch Izzy and we were going to imbibe was not one of a woman who felt completely comfortable with the plan.

But I didn’t push, and within a minute of consideration, all of that swung in the other direction. She grabbed the bottle from my hand, reaching back to grab me with her other, and we left Winnie’s house with determination.

The ride to her apartment was made mostly in silence, but I can’t blame her for that. Tapping into a part of yourself you’ve kept hidden for this long is beyond scary. You just never know if you’re going to be able to stuff it all back inside.

Upon arrival at her place, we quickly found home bases on the floor in front of the couch and started swigging. Up until now, that’s felt like enough. We haven’t chatted or delved deep or even mentioned her sister’s name. She’s been dealing with her emotions privately, and I can respect—

“You know the last thing my sister said to me before she got on that helicopter?”

I pop my eyes open, the unexpected beginning enough to scare a man sober. I’m glad she’s talking—so fucking thankful, honestly—I just never imagined this would be the place we started.

I shake my head, murmuring only a soft “No” into the space between us. She nods then, smiling long enough to steal the bottle back and tip it for another swig.

“She said, ‘I’m pretty sure Orlando Bloom is going to be at this party. If you send your tits with me, I’ll have him sign.’”

I blink one, two, three…sixteen times. And then, I burst out laughing. Out of the myriad of things I expected her sister to have said in their last moments before her death, this would come in last place.

“You always expect it’ll be something deep, you know? Something with meaning you can take with you in their absence, something to apply to your life.” She giggles hard. “And all I have are Orlando Bloom and my tits.”

“Well, I can’t speak for Orlando Bloom personally since I’ve never met the guy. But I have seen your tits, and Ria, they’re not a bad thing to be left with.”

She laughs again, and I can’t help but smile as she snorts. She’s in a deep vortex of messy feelings, but I’m glad to be here with her.