And second, if I didn't reel in the freak-out within three minutes, he'd hyperventilate his way through the ceremony.
When we reached the bar, I yanked off his suit coat and pushed him into a chair. "Sit, take some deep breaths, and notice the things around you."
Wes snorted out a laugh. "Tom, I love you and I hate to disappoint but if you're asking me to stop and smell the roses, it's time you know I can'tnotsmell the roses…and count the thorns and leaves, and track the ants crawling up the stems and keep an eye on the bees overhead. I know everything that's happening in the garden. I don't know how to do anything but notice the things around me. Occupational hazard, baby. Well, I guess that'sformeroccupation now."
He didn't mean that. The first part. He meant all the things after those three words. He wasn't talking about real, true, messy love. Forever love. He was being his glib, exaggerated self. I shook my head, scattering those sticky, invasive thoughts of being wanted enough for permanence and commitment and family before they took root. They would, if I allowed it. They'd twist around every last needy piece of me, the ones still raw and bruised from being thrown away, and I'd soothe the hurt with those glib, exaggerated words.
I shook my head again, harder this time. "Think about your toes. How do they feel against your socks? Wiggle each one. Count them. Out loud. Talk to me, okay?" I rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades as I said to the bartender, "Can I get a whiskey? Two, three fingers, on the rocks."
"That's a dangerous idea," Wes said. "I might still be drunk from…other things."
"You haven't counted a single toe," I said, accepting a tumbler from the bartender. I knelt down in front of Wes. Of all the things to level him, it was acceptance. It was overwhelming after expecting the opposite, even if I knew the opposite would never happen. "Talk to me about your toes, sweetheart."
"Ten toes in shamrock green argyle socks and shoes borrowed from my brother which is not my preferred operating procedure," he replied, his arms braced on his thighs and his head low. "Not that you asked but there are five exits from this location, two on your left, one on the far right, and the other two down the hallway. Speaking of the hallway, three people are in there and one of them is very concerned about the amount of red wine on hand. And someone's pacing in the room next door. I'm guessing it's the groom." He blew out a breath, lifted his head, and met my gaze. "If I had to get out of here, I'd take the far-right door. It's farther away than the exits on your left but better proximity to the parking lot."
"Do you need to? Get out of here right now?"
He reached for the tumbler, took a sip. "No. This wedding matters to you."
"You matter to me," I replied. "If you need to leave, we'll leave."
"I've spent—oh, I don't know—twenty-five years expecting my father to tell me he won't tolerate me and people like me." Another sip. "But he didn't."
I brushed my fingers over his forehead. "No, he didn't."
"He looked at me the same as always," Wes continued, tears filling his eyes. "Like it was fine. Like I was fine. And I'm going to need another minute to process that because I've spent the past five hours—andevery daysince I realized this about myself—visualizing that conversation and never once did I see it going that way. I was never fine."
"I know. It's a lot to take in." Still kneeling before him, I wrapped my hands around his forearms, stroking and squeezing over his shirtsleeves.
He dropped his forehead against mine and released a long, shuddering breath. "Tom, baby, I love you"—he doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it—"but that really fucking hurts."
I blinked at him, confused. There was no getting past those three little words, eight letters to change my world. "I'm sorry? What?"
"I have a wicked bad sunburn," he said with a rueful laugh. "Don't stop touching me but—"
I yanked at his tie and flipped open the buttons at his neck to reveal more inflamed skin under his shirt. "I'd assumed it was only your face," I murmured, pressing my palm to his sternum. "How did this happen?"
"It fits under the umbrella of my wrongs," he replied.
Cupping the back of his neck, I brought his forehead back to mine. He needed a haircut but we'd address that tomorrow. "I shouldn't have criticized you. That day, over lunch. I shouldn't have said any of it. Your reality belongs to you and it doesn't matter whether I perceive it differently. It doesn't matter whether I'd handle it differently. I never should've told you how to experience your emotions, even if your parents reacted exactly as I'd expected—"
"The way you say 'I told you so' is extremely cute," he murmured.
"Even if they reacted as I'd expected, I shouldn't have told you how to feel your feelings. If anyone should know what it's like to have emotions invalidated, it should be me and I should've done better," I said. "I won't do that again. I'm sorry."
"I was wrong to say you wouldn't be happy until your family accepted you," he said. "I put a lot of my issues, a lot of my fears onto you."
I shrugged. "You weren't completely wrong," I conceded. "I, uh, I emailed my sister."
He reared back, blinking rapidly. "What happened?"
"Allow me to restate that. I sent my sister a long, rambling rant. The tone landed somewhere between shrill and oppositional defiance."
"Seems legit." He jerked his chin up. "Well? What happened?"
I fished my phone out of my breast pocket and called up the message I'd received last night. "Take a look."
Wes squinted at the screen, reading aloud, "'Tom, you're right. Ma isn't about to change and she'll never admit she was wrong but she was wrong. I'm sorry. Best, Joy.'" He swiped the screen before glancing up at me. "That's it? 'I'm sorry'? No offer to—I don't know—make it right? And who the hell thinks 'best' is a good way to end emails? Honest to god, I'd rather some blowhardy 'cheers' or 'peace' over 'best.''Best.'What the fuck is that about?" He reached into my jacket, tucked my phone away. "Say the word and I'll have twenty wild turkeys dropped at her door tonight. She'll know what it means to be sorry after that."
