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“It’s okay. I’m off probation, back to a level playing fieldnow.”
“You always do that. Make something big small. Promise me you’llstop.”
Unease shifts into me. Promises are something you make someone when they won’t be there to see you follow through. I’m afraid to ask my next question, but I need toknow.
“Have you heard fromWashington?”
“Idid.”
He explains the situation, what happened with hisdata.
Each sentence, issued in a bitter monotone, has my heart clutching infear.
I know the upset Wes, the ambitious one, the one where he’s trying to hold in things that he shouldn’t. I know all of them, which only reinforces the feelings that have been circlingforever.
“What does that mean foryou?”
I shift to the edge of my seat, and we’re not even touching, but I feel oddly vulnerable. As if what he says next matters more than any words being said in the world right now.To me, itdoes.
He rises from his chair and takes his drink to the fireplace. Ifollow.
“They understand the error, but they’re not willing to forgive it. They’ve offered the position to anothercandidate.”
I’m glad I didn’t bring my drink, because I’d have dropped it. “Wes, I’m sosorry.”
His throat works. I want to kiss him there, to press my lips against that dully thudding heartbeat and reassure him that everything’s going to beokay.
“Everything I’ve worked for. It’s all gone.” His voice is hoarse. He’s trying to hold it together, for my sake, his, or the place we’re in. “Rena, this was my plan. All ofit.”
“You’ll find another plan. You can get the program working and sell it to Ben,and…”
Wes tosses back his drink. “Ben passed,” he says. “It wasn’t far enoughalong.”
Shit.
That’s my fault, my inexperience, but I can’t dwell on itnow.
I step closer and reach out a hand, linking my pinkie with his. I don’t care where we are. I just need to hold on, as if he might drift away if Idon’t.
“Then we’ll find someone else. We’ll figure thisout.”
“Another Manhattan, Dr.Robinson?”
Wes pulls back from my touch, staring at the server, but eventuallynods.
“You’re right—I need to figure this out.” He takes a breath, lifting his dark-blue gaze to mine. “And I need to do it on myown.”
My breath whooshes out ofme.
The waiter sets a fresh glass on the table between us but neither of us acknowledges it, or him. I’m consumed with the panic, the denial, rising up insideme.
“You don’t,” I argue. “You don’t because you’re not alone. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I love you,Wes.”
The clinking of glasses in the background, the quiet music, are the only sounds besides the thudding of myheart.
Heflinches.
In Wes-speak it’s practically aslap.
