“Your legs are spread too far. They should be aligned with your shoulders.” I nod toward his feet, which continue to navigate toward a surfing stance. “Paddle with your arms and keep your hips and legs sturdy. You don’t need to move your entire body. Engage your core.”
“Willow, you’ve seen my abs. I have a great core.”
I have seen his abs, and he’s not wrong, but... “Your balance still sucks. You can’t be cocky when you’re dripping wet and I’m entirely dry.”
He pokes the corner of my board with his oar. “I’ll make you wet.”
“Weston.” My breath hitches with a gasp as I gape at him.
“What?” His brows furrow before the realization hits him and his gray-blue eyes bulge. “Oh, fuck.” He rapidly shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.”
Unfortunately, I know.
I burst with laughter, and he follows it a moment later. He throws his head back, momentarily losing his stance before throwing his arms out, balancing himself again. The movement only makes me laugh harder, enough so that I have to squat down on my board to avoid tumbling off.
I glance up at him, shading my eyes with my hand, watching as his go wide with surprise. Weston looks around, ensuring our place in the harbor is free of any passing boats before he slowly lowers himself on his board, straddling it and letting his feet dangle off each edge.
We migrated to a shallow enclave at the farthest corner of the harbor where the water is ultra calm, but I grab the clip strapped to the front of my board and attach it to the clip on Weston’s so we can relax without worrying about floating away from each other.
“So, did yoga help? With your trouble sleeping?” I ask once we’ve caught our breath.
“Yeah, a little.” He smiles softly to himself, running his fingers through the clear water. “It comes in spells. The insomnia and anxiety, I mostly wait it out. Medicate and cope best I can until it passes.”
“Are you ever going to trade that truth with me?” I ask. “The time you spent in jail?”
Weston lifts his head, and those storm clouds are back in his eyes, guarding all his thoughts. I understand him better now than I did a few weeks ago. I think I get why he keeps it boxed in, why he’s afraid to show his mind to another person, but I wish he’d show it to me.
Partially because I think he needs that. Someone to trust. Someone to rely on. A friend.
The other part of me thinks it’s because I need the same thing. I have Allie, of course, but Weston seems to see me differently. Seethroughme. As if he reads the thoughts I haven’t yet learned how to voice, and it’s a relief to spend time around someone who can hear me even when I don’t have the energy to speak.
Yet, I don’t want to open up until he does. I can’t have the bearing of my soul be a one-sided event.
Weston hasn’t answered, still staring at me—studying me—and I wonder if he’s processing the same thoughts I am. Like we’re two wounded animals who can no longer tell enemy from ally.
“Sorry if that was too forward.” I smirk playfully, hoping to ease the tension. “You’re being aloof again, so I defaulted to bluntness.”
That seems to snap him out of whatever trance he was stuck inside, his nostrils flare as he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. His gaze drops again, eyes on the surface of the water as he says, “The truth is exactly that. My charges, what I’m sure you’ve already read. You already know.”
“I don’t know a single detail of what you did, Weston,” I say softly, hardly audible over the sound of seabirds flying overhead.
His eyes snap to mine, wide and searching—shell-shocked. “What?”
“It was clear you weren’t comfortable sharing those details, and it felt like an invasion of your privacy to research them. I figured if you ever became comfortable enough with me to tell me, I’d wait until I could hear it from your own mouth.” I shrug, offering a consoling smile.
He shudders at the sentiment, like the concept of security over his past is foreign to him. I lean over my board, grabbingthe edge of his and pulling it closer. I wrap my fingers around his, where they rest on his knee.
I squeeze them four times.
“What does that mean?” he asks, voice rough and gravelly.
“You’re. Safe. With. Me,” I whisper, repeating the gesture. “Whatever you want to share, and whatever you don’t. It’s all safe with me because... Because you make me feel safe too.”
“I do?” The question releases from his mouth fractured and raw, the expression on his face utterly gutted.
I wonder if anyone has ever told him that before.
“Yeah, Wes.” I smile. “You do.”
