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But it does. It hurts because I miss it so goddamn much.
I force myself to round the side of the fountain and come face-to-face with the only thing I want to see … surrounded by everything that I fear.
Wes is sitting on the edge of the fountain, tuning a guitar that looks exactly like the one my dad used to play when I was a kid. My pink duffel bag—the one that Mama bought me before my first sleepaway camp—is wide open on the floor next to him, and everywhere I look, there are lit vanilla candles dotting the floor and fountain.
“Wes?” My voice comes out so screechy you would have thought I’d found him handling live cobras, not lazily tuning a guitar by candlelight.
Wesson Patrick Parker lifts his head, and for a moment, I’m suspended in the space between fear and reason. That brief moment of clarity where you’re not being lied to by your emotions or manipulated by your logical mind. That tiny gap where everything moves in slow motion and you’re able to see things as they really are.
And what I see is Wes looking at me with one bright, twinkling eye. His shiny brown hair has fallen in front of the other one, curling slightly at the bottom where it fits behind his ear, and his lips are parted in an easy smile. The guitar he’s holding, it’s just a guitar. It can’t hurt me. The candles he lit, the fragrance I smell—they can’t hurt me either. This beautiful person brought these thoughtful things from my house, and for a moment, I am honored and humbled and crushed by the weight of my gratitude for him.
But then Wes points to a small beige throw blanket spread out on the floor a few feet away, the one Mama and I used to snuggle under when we would watch movies on her days off from the hospital, and at the sight of it, the scent of cigarettes and hazelnut coffee smashes into me like a wrecking ball.
Clarity, gone. Gratitude, demolished.
I am fear and feelings and anguish and, and …
“I can’t,” I mutter, shaking my head as the breaths come faster and faster. My feet scream at me to run, but I manage to keep them rooted to the floor—my need to stay close to Wes somehow overpowering my need to escape this situation.
“You can’t what? Rain, are you okay? Why don’t you sit down?” He gestures to the blanket again.
“I can’t!” I force the words through my gritted teeth as my hands plunge into my hair. I tug hard, trying to distract myself from one type of pain with another.
“You can’t sit?” His voice is low and soothing but laced with concern.
I shake my head, still tugging, still fighting with some unknown demon for control of my body.
“Okay …”
I hear the hollow thrum of the guitar being set aside and feel Wes’s strong hands wrap around my waist. Guiding me toward him, he pulls down, gently, and my body follows his silent command. I land on his lap sideways and immediately bury my face in his warm neck.
“Can you sit here?” he asks, wrapping his arms around my hyperventilating body.
I nod. The weight of him soothes me like a heavy blanket. The scent of him reminds me of the present, not the past. And the utter gravity of him is enough to pull the panic out of my body through my pores.
I take a deep breath and am shocked when my lungs actually inflate. Then, I exhale so hard I feel dizzy.
Wes exhales too, but it doesn’t sound relieved. It sounds defeated.
Letting go of me with one arm, he runs a hand through his hair. “I just keep fucking this up.”
I shake my head, wanting to argue with him, but my words haven’t come back yet.
“I wanted to get you something for your birthday while I was out, but then I realized that you wouldn’t want anything. You don’t care about stuff. In fact, the happiest I ever saw you was when you were climbing on the back of that motorcycle, ready to leave everything you owned behind. You didn’t even know where we were going.”
Wes wraps his arm back around me, and I realize that I’m not hyperventilating anymore. I’m not in my body at all. I’m lost in his words, wrapped in the rough timbre of his deep, soothing voice.
“So, I asked myself what I would have done for your birthday if April 23 had never happened. If things were normal, you know? And I don’t think I would have gotten you anything. I think I would have put you on a plane and taken you to Coachella.”
“Coachella?” The word tumbles from my lips as they curl into a curious smile.
“Mmhmm. It’s a huge music festival in California. They have it every year in the spring. Or … had it.” Wes’s voice trails off.
“I’ve heard of it. Is it fun?”
He shrugs. “Never got a chance to go. It looked fun. Everybody would get fucked up and dance around with flowers in their hair.” Wes reaches for something next to him. It’s a little yellow daisy he probably stole out of Carter’s bouquet.
The image of him doing it makes me smile.
