Weston comes over, freshly washed hands on his hips. “What’s up, man?”
“Take her home,” Wyatt tells Weston. “Rory’s been trying to reach you both.”
Dread grips my insides, icing my windpipe as it settles throughout my gut.
Weston pats down his jeans, looking for his phone. “I left it in the truck.”
Wyatt surprises us all, himself included, when he pulls me in for a hug. “I’m really sorry about everything you’ve been through. Including what I put you both through.” His voice sounds gruff, out of practice, like that was new for him.
I blink away my confusion and whisper, “Um, thanks.”
Weston places a hand on my low back and walks me to the truck, opening the passenger door for me to get in, closing it behind me, and then jumping in on his side. He shakes his head as he does. “And to think, just a few weeks ago I felt sorry for me and Wyatt’s childhood. That we went through divorce as teens. I think I actually considered it the worst thing a child can experience.”
I snort. “Haven’t I told you before that trauma is a scale? We all think what we’ve been through is pretty tough. But the more you go through, the wider your scale gets. Your position on it never really changes, just your perception of how bad the world can get does.”
Weston stops backing out of the parking spot and just stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re really fucking smart, you know that?”
“Not smart enough to keep what happened to me as a kid from my dad,” I say wistfully.
“You shouldn’t have had to, darlin’. Every little girl should be able to trust her dad. That’s on him, not on you.”
If I had any tears left after this past week, they’d be brimming right now, but between being all cried out and my anxiety reaching a new high after Wyatt’s cryptic words, my eyes are dry.
His hand comes down on my leg with a soft noise, thumb swiping a calming rhythm on my thigh as he drives us back to where the van is parked at an overlook not too far off the highway, one that very few people frequent.
Even the gorgeous surroundings and the early summer wind in my hair through the open windows can’t keep my stomach from trying to leap out of my throat at not knowing what’s going on and how bad things are. The optimist in me is strangely quiet right now. Maybe she finally offed herself and let the pessimist take over for good. I could hardly blame her if so, it was one hell of a tough job.
When we get there, I rush inside, picking my phone up from the countertop where it’s laying by my laptop and gasping at the amount of missed calls, texts, and FaceTimes. Mostly from Rory, a few from Lexi, and some from unknown numbers, which is rare.
Weston follows me in the van, the sliders rolling and clicking shut as he closes the door behind us and seats himself on the bed as I dial Rory back.
Her face fills my screen, brow as low as the Botox lets it go, face as serious as I’ve ever seen it.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“My van.”
“I have to tell you something and you’re not going to like it. Is Weston there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, standing up to get in the frame of our video call.
“The article came out.” Rory drops the bomb, letting us both lose our balance as it gets a direct hit. “I’m not going to bullshit you, it’s not great.”
Weston’s hand comes down on my back, rubbing soothingly, but I’m itchy all over and shake it off.
Resting the phone vertically, leaning against the wall, I free my hands so I can pace the van. Weston tries to back out of my way, but everywhere he goes is exactly where I’m trying to pace, and my irritation flares higher than it should from the mild inconvenience thanks to the anxiety.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Imagine all the worst parts of the story you told us, without any of the perspective you shared.”
Weston’s eyes close, like that’s the worst news he could’ve imagined. Such a sweet man, to not be able to imagine anything worse than that. A good man, pure of heart. Too good for me, the daughter of a monster, who’s been outed against her will and whose reputation as damaged goods will now precede her.
“I need to be alone,” I say out loud.
