I nod. “I think so. Suppressing things exhausts me, and I guess I’ve realized that even if I wanted to forget it—black it out—it doesn’t actually go away. Ignoring my past doesn’t erase it. I’ll never escape any of it, and pretending that I can only tires me out. Wading through it is debilitating too, but I have to believe it’s better in the end.” I laugh gruffly. “I’ll never forget the fact that my father is responsible for my mother’s death, and nobody cares except for me. I’ll never erase the fact I almost killed him too.”
“I care,” she whispers immediately. “I’m so sorry. I... I can’t imagine, Wes.”
“I know. It’s okay.” I sigh. “I’m sorry I just dumped that on you. This was terrible timing.”
“It’s never bad timing if you’re taking the moment to let go of something that gives you pain.” She takes our joined hands off her stomach, lowering them to the canvas between us, and pressing my palm flat before laying hers atop it. “Leave it allright here. In the painting.” She huffs a soft laugh. “Thatis art therapy.”
Her ability to make the heaviest burdens feel light enough to carry will never stop astonishing me.
Feeling free enough to speak my thoughts aloud, I continue, “I lived in a cell for almost two years. I received my high school diploma in the recreation room at the county jail, ate my meals with strangers, grieved my mother alone and behind a steel door. That was the existence I knew, and I never talk about it. I feel this overwhelming need to be grateful I’m no longer there. That I got out. I feel obligated to forget, but it’s a part of my history that’s impossible to.”
“You don’t have to. You can talk about it with me. Always.”
“I don’t need to remind you that you chose a criminal, Willow.”
“Weston.” She rolls onto an elbow, hovering over me. “You’re not a criminal, and I hold no judgment for your past. You’ve weathered more storms than I could ever comprehend, and when I look at the way you’ve held yourself through them, I’m in awe at the person you’ve become. I’d choose you every fucking time. Do you understand?”
Would she still feel that way if she knew I’d wanted him dead? That sometimes I still do?
The thought echoes through my mind—something I push so far down inside myself, even I forget it’s there most of the time, but moments like this allow it to resurface. Perhaps that’s another reason why I’m so afraid of therapy.
“You may not hold judgment for it, Willow, but it’s still a fact. I was arrested and I was charged, and I had a trial that allowed people to form their own opinions, regardless of the ultimate outcome. There are public records and articles written about me, and that noise will only get louder once I’m competing professionally again. If I make it... If I reach the Olympics, oreven the Championship Tour, it’s something that will come out, and if you’re with me, you’ll be judged for it too.”
She shakes her head, hair swaying over her face as she stares down at me, eyes misting with conviction. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what anyone else thinks, and I still do not believe you’re a criminal, no matter the opinions of others. So please don’t say that about yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe.
Her lips tilt with a soft smile before she presses a light kiss to my nose. “I’m honored to be with you, Wes. I’ll shout about it from every rooftop on the planet.”
“I feel the same, Wills.” I surge forward, planting my lips on hers. “But... your dad did ask me to avoid being public about our relationship until this shit with Parker is completely blown over, and I think that’s probably a good idea.”
Willow frowns, brows furrowed as she lays on her back, staring at the ceiling again. “Fuck that. I’m so over him taking up any ounce of space in my life, Wes. I love my dad, but he can’t control that. That’s between you and me.”
I can’t pretend that part of me doesn’t still worry about Parker’s retaliation, or how my reputation could impact Willow’s, but I know that Leo has started the process of getting a restraining order against him after he contacted Willow last week. If all goes well, we’ll never hear from him again, and if Willow wants to brave the storm that is my past alongside me, who the fuck am I to argue?
“I’m on your team, Wills. If you want to scream from the rooftops, I’ll stand right beside you and scream too.”
She nods, and I flip my palm so that it presses against hers, lacing our fingers together. She told me to leave my pain in the canvas, allow my words to soak into the paint smeared from our love, but I want to hold her instead.
“Are you ever afraid that he’s going to find you? Your dad. Once you become a gold medal holding World Champion.” She turns to face me, and I catch the smile she tosses my way. “Because you will.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t think he’ll ever come looking for me.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s the fear of running into him by accident that I feel like I can’t escape. The knowledge that he’s still out there, living like nothing happened. That he could be around any corner, andifI saw him... I’ll never stop wondering if I could snap again.”
Willow is quiet for a moment, but she tightens her fingers around mine. Four times. Finally, she speaks in the softest tone, “You may not move on from it, but I can hold you through it. I don’t know if you’d snap, but if you did, I’d hold you back. I’d never judge you for craving justice for her, because I want it too. The difference between your past and your future, even with the pain that’ll always linger...” She looks at me, ocean eyes exploding with something that looks a whole hell of a lot like love. “Now, you won’t be alone.”
Her gentle tenderness and unbreakable care rushes through me, a shudder biting my spine at the intensity. I feel Willow over every inch of my skin—from her lingering taste in my mouth, her body in my hands, the weight of her stare as I lose myself inside her gaze.
I’m stripped bare—emotionally raw yet unnervingly confident that her words ring true.
I’ll never be alone again.
CHAPTER 33
WILLOW
“Ithought it would look prettier, honestly,” I say, staring down at the evidence of last night.
“It’s beautiful in an... abstract way.” Weston places his hands on his hips, tilting his head to study the canvas still taking up most of the living room floor. The paint soaked into the fabric in a blotchy mix of pastels with a sprinkle of handprints. “I mean... we can’t throw it away.”
