His eyes blink slowly, the lids hooded. “Yeah, beautiful?”
“I love you. So much.”
His mouth breaks into a broad smile, dimples and all, and I beam right back. “I love you too, Ives.”
“Without you in my life...” I trail off. Shake my head as I try to put my feelings into words. My relief and disbelief. My gratitude and affection. Tears prick my eyes as I look at him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his hand grazing my jaw. He pushes my hair back from my face and strokes my head. “It’s okay.”
I nod. “I know. I’m just…happy. Grateful. Without you in my life, I don’t know where I’d be right now.WhoI’d be right now. You’re so special, Wes. So, so special, and I just hope you realize that. I hope you understand what you mean to me.”
His eyes go tender, and he lowers his mouth down to mine, kissing me again, deep and dreamy. I melt against him, my limbs loose and relaxed, and soak up the warmth of his skin. He breaks the kiss but leaves his lips close to my own, murmuring, “I do understand. Because you mean the same to me. You mean everything, Ivy. Absolutely everything.”
FORTY-ONE
SOPHOMORE YEAR OF COLLEGE
First semester startswith déjà vu.
Public Speaking.
It’s the same professor, the same building, the same classroom, but I’m not the same person. I take the same desk at the back of the room, though, early as usual, and eye the one to my right with nostalgia. What I wouldn’t give to see Wes barrel through that door, flustered and apologetic, the way he did the first day of class. What I wouldn’t give to have him slip into the creaky seat beside me, his big body challenging the desk’s shoddy framework, and shoot me one of his signature grins.
Sighing, I pull out my phone, and my mouth breaks into a smile when I see the message on the screen.
Wes:Good luck with your first day of classes, baby! You’re gonna crush it. Love you so much.
Even if Wes isn’t here in person, he’s here in spirit, his energy contagious even through the phone. He’s a text, a call, a fifteen-minute drive away, and it’s more than I ever could have imagined walking terrified into this classroom six months ago.
I’m typing out a response when the door swings open, and Professor Markham enters the room. He sets his bag on the desk and fiddles with the computer, only noticing me once he glances up. Registering my face, he smiles. “Oh, Miss Combs. It’s good to see you again.”
“You, too, Professor Markham.”
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know,” his eyes flick toward Wes’s empty desk, “especially since I believe your partner-in-crime finally graduated.”
I crack a smile at that. “I won’t, thank you.”
More students start filtering in as the minutes tick down, and then Markham begins his introduction. The first class is nearly the same as last year’s. He goes over the basics, and we break off into pairs. The idea is still nerve-wracking to me, but when I partner with the quiet girl occupying Wes’s old desk, I tell myself to relax. She’s a freshman named Nikki, and she’s clearly freaked out by the prospect of public speaking, even more so when I tell her this is my second attempt at taking this class. Still, we exchange numbers in case we ever need each other’s help, and I leave class a little bit relieved.
I am miles from where I was six months ago.
After Public Speaking, I attend my Typography class, and then I head to Wes’s apartment in the late afternoon. He worked a twenty-four-hour shift this weekend, so I didn’t get a chance to see him, and I practically bounce up to the door, my excitement bubbling over. It swings open before I have a chance to knock and then he’s pulling me into the world’s most incredible hug. When I turn my face up for a kiss, my smile fades as I take in his unusually serious expression.
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately.
He winces and ushers me inside, his big hand gentle on the small of my back. “I need to tell you something.”
My pulse speeds up as he guides me to the couch. “Okay. What is it?” He opens his mouth, but hesitates. “Wes, you’re kind of freaking me out.”
I wait for him to crack a joke or lighten the mood, but he doesn’t. It’s only once we’re seated that he says, “It’s about Mason.”
The words smack me in the face, and my heart slams into my ribcage. “Oh,” I murmur. The last thing I want to do is discuss this particular topic, but I know Wes wouldn’t bring it up if it wasn’t important. I take a moment to wrap my head around the direction of this conversation, and then I nod. “Okay.”
His frown deepens, and I read the apology swimming in his eyes. I know this is the last thing he’d like to be talking about as well, but he takes my hands in his, squeezing them lightly. “I’m not telling you this because I expect you to say or do anything, okay? I’m only telling you this because you deserve to know.”
“Okay,” I whisper, knowing he wouldn’t say anything that would intentionally gut me, but nervous, nonetheless.
He releases a steadying breath and continues, “I talked to a guy I used to go to high school with. He went to Harrington with Mason and, well, there’s a girl at their school who just filed a case with the board saying that he drugged her drink at a party, and then…”
