He swallows hard, gaze distant and hazed as he stares toward the horizon. “I was first charged as an adult with attempted murder, because the altercation happened two weeks before my eighteenth birthday,” he says, emotionless. “I was held without bail, and it took nearly six months for me to reach trial. My lawyers worked their asses off, and eventually, a mistrial was called. I was recharged as a minor. It took several more months for a new trial date to be set, during which time I remained in jail. When I was tried again, the charge was lowered to attempted manslaughter, though I was eventually only convicted of misdemeanor assault. I was released on a six-month probation, which ended about a week before I moved to Pacific Shores.”
“Who did you assault?” I ask, hollow, terrified of the answer.
I believe to the depths of my bones that whoever he harmed wasn’t blameless, even if violence is never the answer. Not only because I believe I now know Weston well enough to see he’s not an evil person, but because I don’t think there is any way my father would’ve invited him into our lives without the certainty he wasn’t a threat to my mother or me. Despite that knowledge, I had no idea his charges were as severe as they are, and I’m dripping with trepidation.
“My father.” He bites his lip, gaze so distant I wonder if he’s even here with me. I squeeze his hand again. “He... She died because of him, and he didn’t even care. After years of hurting her, hurting us both, killing her slowly—he went on with his life without an ounce of guilt. During the investigation into my mother’s death, I was put into foster care by the state, but my dad never attempted to regain custody of me. I thought he was out of my life for good after the dust settled and I didn’t hear from him. I never expected to run into him, but sure enough, one afternoon while walking home from school I saw him stumbling out of a bar.” He runs a trembling hand through his hair. “It wasn’t premeditated, it wasn’t planned, but... He noticed me, and flashed me this look, a smirk that said,we both know she didn’t fall. I lost it.”
His eyes drift to mine, and they’re filled with so much shame it rattles me.
“She didn’t fall?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “That was the official cause of death. That she fell down the stairs of our apartment building. I know he pushed her—he knows it too—but the...” He pauses, swallowing hard, as if the pain is choking him. “The autopsy couldn’t prove foul play, and they never even opened an investigation. Despite numerous domestic dispute reports filed by neighbors, coworkers, even teachers of mine over the years—it wasn’t even enough for the authorities to ask questions.”
“If someone hurt my mom, I think I’d snap too, Wes. I’d want to hurt them.”
He nods, but says, “I... I went too far, though. I became the monster that he is.”
“Or...” I sit up on my hands and knees, extending my upper body over his board before slowly dragging each knee over, until I’m in front of him, straddling his board in the same position he is, mine now floating empty beside us. “You had a momentof weakness, and you acted on instinct because it was the only thing you’d ever known. Have you ever laid your hands on someone else? Even had the urge to?”
“No,” he rushes out. “Never.”
“Exactly. I’m not going to judge you for the worst day of your life, Wes. I’m going to judge the twenty years that have made up who you are. I’m going to judge the experienceI’vehad with you myself, and I’m not afraid of you. Not even a little. Not even if you want me to be.”
His lips tilt slightly. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“Good.” I smile reassuringly. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
He squeezes my hand this time. “Now I want a truth, Willow. Are you still missing him?”
Parker.
“Not as much as before. I’m mostly missing who I was with him. Who I was before...” I’ve told Weston what Parker did, I haven’t told him whatIdid as a consequence of it. “I ran away.”
“You did the right thing. Running.” He sighs solemnly. “There is no fixing men like that. The ones that decide you’re a possession for them to control and alter at their will. If he couldn’t fundamentally understand consent and safety, if a man can’t control his rage, it’s not likely they’ll ever learn how. The best thing a person can do is get away. I’m glad you did.”
“Me too.” I nod. “I’m glad we both did.”
Weston doesn’t respond. Instead, he untangles our fingers, sliding his hand from his knee to my own, gripping it gently. We sit in silence, focused on the sound of the other’s breathing, the gentle lapping of water against the docks, the distant noise of bustling businesses around the perimeter of the harbor, and the cries of seagulls circling overhead.
Eventually, I move back to my board, and we both stand, paddling back to the dock in peaceful quiet. It’s comfortable andfamiliar. That language of understanding that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. Still, I can’t shake the feeling we’re both only telling half-truths.
As we drive backto my parents’ house with the windows of my car rolled down, I glance at Weston. He appears surprisingly relaxed. Beautiful, even. Head back against the seat, eyes closed, elbow propped on the window as the sun shines down on his sun-kissed skin.
I like him like this. Those storm clouds lifted and cleared, only light left in their place.
“Are you coming to the Fourth of July party next weekend?” I ask.
His eyes flutter open. “Your mom told me about it, but then your father quickly followed
up with a reminder that I’m not exempt from training the next morning, so probably not.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not like you’re going to sleep anyway. The party will be right outside your window. Plus, it’s Allie’s birthday, so Carter and Penelope will be there, and Allie’s parents too.”
He only shrugs. “I don’t really party. I don’t thrive in social situations like that. I didn’t
have much experience with them when I was younger. In fact, this might be my first ever birthday party invite.” Weston laughs, but I frown.
“You know, I suffer a bit from social anxiety, too. Even around my own family. It’s
