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“I want to see you like that,” he says, tucking the flower behind my ear.
“What? Dressed up like a hippie?” I tease, my cheeks tingling as his fingertips slide through my hair.
“No … happy.”
Happy.
I think about that word … about the fact that this man wants me to feel that word. I think about the fact that this man is here at all. And then something occurs to me.
“I am.”
Wes gives me the side-eye.
“Now that you’re here.”
“So, what was all that about?” He gestures to the place where I was standing a few minutes ago.
“I can’t …” I shake my head and try again. “I can’t … see things … or … smell things …” I feel my chin begin to wobble, and the tears begin to pool, but I push through. I don’t want to admit it out loud. It sounds so stupid and shameful and ridiculous, but there’s a freedom building behind these words, pushing on them, begging to be let out. “I can’t even touch things that remind me of home … without …”
“Having a meltdown?”
I drop my eyes and nod.
“And I just showed up with a duffel bag full of shit from your house.” Wes pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll get rid of it. All of it.”
“No,” I snap. “Leave it. I need to …” I take a deep breath.
I need to get used to this.
I need to get over this.
I need to get better so that the next time you leave, I can leave with you.
“You sure?”
I nod, keeping my eyes screwed shut.
“Well, I can’t pretend like we’re at Coachella if you’re sitting in my lap.” Wes smirks. “Here.” He moves a few candles and guides me to sit next to him on the ledge of the fountain.
Picking my dad’s guitar back up, he asks if I have any requests.
“I don’t know what you can play.”
“I played on street corners in Rome all day, every day for two years. If I don’t know it, I’ll bullshit my way through it.” He begins to strum absentmindedly. “What’s your favorite song?”
“Uh …” I search my brain for something original. Something that feels like me. But all I come back with are Carter’s favorite songs.
“Twenty One Pilots?” Wes asks.
“No,” I blurt, opening my eyes to glare at Wes.
“Okay.” He chuckles and holds up one hand, his other firmly wrapped around the neck of the guitar in his lap. “So, you don’t know what your favorite song is?”
I shake my head.
“Challenge accepted.” Wes grins, and without even looking, he shreds out a heavy metal riff that catches me off guard and makes me crack up.
“Okay, so not death metal. How about …” He plays another tune, something slower. His expert fingers bend the strings until they whine.
