Sometimes when I look at him like this, he’s blurry around the edges. It’s as if all the versions of him are stacked on top of each other.
The kid I met on a ranch in Tennessee with grass stains on his jeans and a crooked smile.
The boy I fell for in a stream of music.
The man who broke my heart.
Even though this is his home, it’s startling to see him standing there. I’ve spent the last hour nearly opening doors and then thinking better of it. There was a time I thought of this place as my own.
And it looks almost the same. Mismatched dining room chairs. A gallery wall that he’s added to, but the original antique printsof scientific diagrams still hog the middle. Wes has never been one for minimalism. I mean look at him; his skin is cluttered with tattoos that he gets just because.
But those days, the ones when I knew him and belonged here, are long gone.
“You never asked me to return it.”
“I’m still not asking. I’m just surprised you aren’t out celebrating with your fiancé.” He practically spits the final word, face screwing up in disgust.
“Planning on telling me congratulations any time soon?”
“Not particularly.” He straightens and walks into the living room. Lamp light splashes across his face revealing angry red marks framing one of his eyes.
I hiss and catch myself reaching out before drawing my hand back to rest on my lap. “What happened?”
“Oh, this?” He waves at his face, the knuckles of his hand the same red as his face, the corner of his mouth curling. “Just out defending your honor.”
“Be serious.” I hate him for having the same voice as the man I once cared for, for almost being him when we’re alone and then becoming someone different in public.
“I don’t joke when it comes to you.” His voice hardens, causing a chill to rush through me, goose bumps rising against my skin. It’s true. To the world he’s lighthearted, a court jester who can laugh at himself. They don’t see how deeply he cares.
He shuffles past me stiffly, and I’m hit with his familiar scent of pine. Groaning, he eases slowly into the leather chair next to me wincing. I can only imagine where else he’s bruised under his clothes. There’s a part of me that wants to tear off his shirt and check. To ask what he needs. How I can fix things. But touching him would be catastrophic.
“Not that I’m complaining that you’re here berating me instead of home with your fancy director, but dare I ask why?”
My gaze slips to the envelope resting on the coffee table. “I’m engaged.”
“So we’ve established. Why don’t you say it a few more times to rub it in?”
“I’m engaged, and we’re still married.” A knot lodges in my throat, but I swallow it. I need to get to the point and get out. The longer I’m here the harder it will be to leave. “I’m here to ask for a divorce.”
“Should have seen that coming, shouldn’t I?” His nostrils flair as he huffs an unamused laugh.
I grab the papers and hold them out like a shield. “It’s all here for you. There are tabs marking where you’ll need to sign.”
“Why now?”
“I think the answer is obvious. Or do I have to repeat myself again?”
“No, I don’t think it is. I know whyI’venever asked for a divorce. But I was never quite sure whyyouheld out.”
Because I wanted proof that I once knew a boy who would marry me in a heartbeat to help me achieve my dream,I think. But instead say, “Because it wasn’t worth the effort before.”
“And he’s worth the effort? Him? You’ve got to be shitting me. What do you see in a guy like that?”
“He’s reliable, stable, supportive of my career.” All true.
“Funny how you didn’t say you love him. Did you forget or…” He trails off, a smirk starting to form on his wicked mouth.
I shove to my feet. “I don’t think you get it. I didn’t come here for you to convince me that I’m making a mistake.” Though, a part of me whispersDidn’t you miss someone fighting for you?
