The whiplash between the language of his body and the words from his mouth knocks the wind from my lungs.
“That’s not... fuck.” He sighs, running a hand through his wet hair.
“Why do you want me to stay away from you so badly?”
I’ve volleyed between whether Weston genuinely doesn’t like me, or if he’s just terrible at flirting. He looks at me with interest, but speaks to me with disdain. I’ve considered he might be jealous, assuming I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and have never wanted for anything, while he’s struggled for everything—and he wouldn’t necessarily be wrong about that. But I’m not a spoiled brat. I’m not mean or shallow or vain, and I’ve done my best to prove that, because it’s an assumption that’s followed me most of my life.
It makes my skin itch—the thought of Weston thinking those things of me, not liking me. It’s as if part of me wants to tell him off, tell him I’d like distance from him too, because I refuse to tolerate yet another man who resents me. Yet, part of me wants to fight to prove him otherwise, show him I’m none of those things—that I could be his friend. I think, perhaps, it’s becauseIam growing to like Weston. I think I’d like him to be my friend too.
A third part of me is a little afraid that this is his version of flirting, because I find him beautiful, and Icannotallow my head to go down that rabbit hole.
“Do you remember when we met at Disneyland? It was Christmas, like... six or seven years ago?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“You knew I was overstimulated.” When I only blink, he raises his head toward the sky as if searching for what to say next. “Nobody else noticed. I thought I was hiding it well, but I was having the hardest fucking time. Not just that day, but witheverythingback then. You saw it. I don’t even know how. Andyou didn’t make me feel embarrassed or ashamed of the box I hid inside. You were kind. I felt... seen.” He looks at me again, blue eyes blazing through me. “I never forgot it, Willow. I blocked a lot of shit out, but I remembered you.”
My mouth parts with a ragged gasp, desperate to swallow the oxygen laced with his words.
“Since moving in here a few weeks ago, you’ve been... distracting,” he continues softly. “Even more so after I found you crying that morning, and how you disappeared for days afterward, and... whatever happened at the flower shop.”
“Nothing—”
“I don’t believe that.” He inches forward, like he may step toward me, before rearing back, as if he thought better of it. “I’m aware of you at all times, and it’s completely eclipsed my focus. I can’t lose sight of the reason I came here. My entire life hangs in the balance, and I thought you might jeopardize that, even if through no fault of your own.”
My heart seems to have sprouted wings, and in an attempt to fly out my mouth, it’s been lodged in my throat.
“I wasn’t lying when I said I lack social skills.” He huffs a laugh. “I grew up around poor communication styles and, according to my many therapists, I isolated myself socially, likely as a way to hide the abuse that was going on at home.” He shrugs. “It’s why I struggle with touch. I wasn’t touched gently as a child. I don’t trust the hands of others.”
That stinging erupts behind my eyes again.
“Why are you telling me all of this, Wes?”
He bites his lip, lashes fluttering as his gaze falls to the ground. “You make me feel like I can, I guess. Like my truth is safe with you.”
“And yet you want me to stay away?”
He shakes his head without raising it—without looking at me. “Not after today.” He finally lifts his eyes, and the ragingstorm inside them seems to have settled. “I heard you out there, cheering for me. It lit a fire inside me. Reminded me what it feels like to surf for someone other than myself. I’m grateful for that now.”
I don’t know how to respond, still choking on my feathered heart.
I breathe deeply before whispering, “Your truth is safe with me.”
Weston licks his lips, nodding before his gaze falls from me again.
“My boyfriend sexually assaulted me,” I blurt so quickly I’m not even sure I’ve spoken until I hear the words leave my mouth and land in the space between us. “That’s why I moved home. That’s who you heard my mother talking to. He called looking for me.”
Weston’s head snaps up, eyes widening before narrowing slowly, nostrils flaring, jaw tensing. His breathing picks up, and I imagine if Parker were standing beside me right now, he’d be in grave danger. Though I don’t feel threatened at all.
“I thought he was the love of my life.” I swallow, emotion surging behind my eyes. “I thought I’d marry him someday. I still miss him all the time, and I hate myself for it.” I quickly turn my head, wiping the tears dripping down my cheeks, as if I can hide them from him. “I haven’t said that out loud before. Not to anyone.”
“But you’re telling me,” he says softly.
We keep our distance, Weston at one end of the stall, beneath the shower head that’s no longer running. I’m pressed against the divider. Plush greenery surrounds us, enclosing us inside some kind of quiet solace. As if everything laid bare in here will stay exactly where it is.
“We’re trading truths, aren’t we?”
His lips tick up in a smile before his expression falls again. “It’s okay to miss him. You’re still grieving a future you’ll never get to have. It takes time.” He speaks as if he has authority on the matter. “More than half of women who find themselves in an abusive relationship return to their partner at least once. You are brave to have found the courage to leave at all, and it’s okay to sometimes want to go back.”
