With his usual intensity, Weston listened to my story. My throat was dry and scratchy by the time I finished, and I took a long drink. “So now I’ll wait to see what else Madden’s people can dig up.”
“It’s terrible what happened to her, and to you as a result of her actions, but can you forgive her now?”
“It took me a while, if I’m being totally honest. When I was a kid, no. I was very unforgiving, very hurt, and I blamed her for all my problems. Now I can see how addiction is an illness and without a support system—pregnant and all alone at sixteen—what chance did she have? If I hadn’t lucked out in the foster-parent lottery and ended up with Bill and Pearl, who knows where I might be now? Being a mother is a hard enough job when you’ve got it all. When you’ve got nothing?” I shrugged. “So yeah, I forgive her. But not the system that turned its back on her.”
West’s chair scraped the floor, and a moment later he was holding me. “Yes. And fathers need to take responsibility too. Sometimes they fuck up because they don’t know any better. And sometimes they just don’t care.”
I rested my head on his shoulder. “Both of us got the short end of the stick in the parental department.” My phone rang, and seeing Bill’s name pop up, my heart sank. “Shit. It’s my father. I-I never told him about us.”
“Do you want me to leave?” West asked.
“It’s your apartment.” I hit the screen. “Hey, Bill. Sorry I didn’t call you.”
“Yeah? I gotta say I’m a little PO’d with ya.”
I hunched my shoulders.” I know. And you have a right to be. There’s just been a lot going on.”
“So. Talk to me now. Tell me about this guy.” I heard the swishing of the ice in his cup and the television on in the background. “Is this something new? I’ve only heard about you dating women.”
Weston had left me alone, and I heard him in the bedroom, opening and closing drawers. He reappeared in the living room in a T-shirt and sweats and lay on the couch to watch television.
“Yeah. It’s…uh…new. I’ve never dated a man before or even thought about it. But Weston and I have known each other a long time. Superficially. It’s only recently we’ve gotten…close.” God, this was embarrassing. Talking about my personal life wasn’thigh on my list of things I liked to do with anyone, and with my father? Yeah…not a fan.
“And his father is running for president?” Bill whistled. “That’s a whole other kinda stress. You ready for this?”
In the living room, Weston pumped his fist. “Yeah. Go Mets!” Maybe he felt my stare, because he looked my way, and brightness beamed from his face. Foolish me, thinking I had a choice in the matter. My heart turned over.
“Yeah, I am. I’m in it for the long haul.”
“If you’re happy, kiddo, that’s all I care about.”
“I think I finally am.”
We ended the call, and I left my phone on the island and joined Weston on the couch. He put his legs in my lap, and amused, I pretend-glared. “Am I an ottoman now?”
He rolled up to sitting and grasped me at the nape. “You are so much more. My safety net. The one I know will be there for me, like I’m there for you. I don’t care anymore either how or why this happened. It did, and I hope you know I’m all in with you.”
I ran my nose down his cheek. “I liked being all in you.”
“Oh God, that was so bad.” Groaning, he fell back, taking me with him so I lay prone. Weston took my face between his hands. “You are everything. I don’t think I could’ve made it through today without you there. I wouldn’t have been able to face him.”
Knowing Weston, that admission and his vulnerability only made me love him more.
“You’re strong. You can do whatever you want.” I kissed him.
“I want to do you. How about that?”
I laced our fingers together. “Stop talking and start doing.”
**
We spent the rest of the weekend lazing in Weston’s apartment, making love and watching television. We shut out the rest of the world, ordering in breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and turned off our phones, concentrating only on our desire for each other. Sunday night came way too soon, but we remained in our cocoon, greedy bastards for each other. When Weston reached for me again, sometime in the predawn hours of Monday, I mumbled, “I surrender. I’m done. Just a couple more hours of sleep.”
“Bren?”
“Hmm?” I murmured, my eyes closed, ready to drift off.
“Is it too early to say I love you?”
