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“I deal with reality. You and mom’s arguments, you think I don’t get that? You think Beck doesn’t?” My voice shakes even though I fight to keep it steady. “I know I wasn’t what you wanted, or who, or when. I know you would’ve rather had a son like Wes. So don’t you dare take it out onhim.”
I turn and walkout.
* * *
The rain’s stopped,but it’s still windy. I wander around before winding up at a familiarbuilding.
It’s Sunday night, and we haven’t done weekend stuff or even talked about it, but I can’t go anywhereelse.
I hit the button beside the familiar number. “Wes. It’sme.”
He buzzes meup.
When he opens the door, I take him in. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with jeans. He looks tired. His hair’s standing on end as if he’s been running his hands through it while heworked.
He steps back to let me in, but Ihesitate.
“You hit myfather.”
Wes grimaces. “He deserved it. Beck told me about yourdog.”
The pieces click together. “It was a long time ago,Wes.”
“Doesn’t make itright.”
Emotion wells up in my chest. I love the way he’s looking at me, as if all that matters is how Ifeel.
“I get it,” he says. “Why you”—he drags in a breath as if it hurts him to do it—“look for intimacy in order to distractyourself.”
I never thought of it that way, and hearing him describe it feels both true andhumiliating.
“Just tell me one thing,” he says under his breath. “Is that what I am? A distraction so you don’t have to feel? Because you’re more than that to me, Rena. A hell of a lotmore.”
I stare past his shoulder at one of the bright, beautiful photographs on the wall of the apartment. The ones he told me hetook.
I have to swallow before responding. “Wes, with you, I can’t help feeling. I feel something every time I look at you. And I don’t understand it, but I don’t want to judge it or analyze it or be afraid of it. I justwantit.”
My gaze locks with his. He stares me down for a long time before blowing out a breath. “Good.”
Then he’s kissing me as I caress his face, my fingers threading into his hair. He’s stroking the inside of my wrist with his thumb, his tongue expressing in the most eloquent way that he wants me, that hecares.
I slip on the floor, and he saves me. I reach for my boots, yanking on the zippers impatiently so I can kick themoff.
Then my back’s against the kitchen island, and Wes’s hips are grinding against me. It’s so right, because it’s not just physical. Even though I came here after fighting with my family, this isn’t about soothing the anxiety. Not even alittle.
I want to be with Wes. It’s thatsimple.
I show him. With every touch, every kiss, I show him I’m completely crazy about him. About who he is, how he is. Every single refined thing hedoes.
When he nerdsout.
With the way he touches me, as if I’m something he’s wanted always and never knewit.
We trip into the bedroom and collapse on his big bed. I’ve only been here once, the first night when I was alone, and I left in the morning before he wokeup.
Now, it feelsmeaningful.
Wes tugs on my dress, and with some impatient maneuvering, it’sgone.
