Wes calls about an hourafter I hang up with Amelia. I don’t answer. I send four more calls to voicemail before the day is over.
It’s another three days before he calls again. I ignore that too. Hours later, long after midnight, with occasional fireworks still going off from the July Fourth holiday, I’m still at my desk. I’m already ahead on my workload, but editing another set of client photos is a tidy way to avoid arguing with myself over listening to the last voicemail Wes left—but I’m not distracted enough to not notice when my phone lights up with a text.
I’ll back off for now, but I’m not giving up on us.
One tiny sob escapes before I ruthlessly swallow the rest and delete the voicemail without listening to it. I’m not strongenough to face that underneath the anger, underneath the hurt, ImissWes.
Some part of me wants to forgive him. Late at night, when I’m alone in my bed, a little voice inside me whispers that maybe he deserves a second chance. He made things right withNature Shots, just like he said he would.
But I’ve always known that everything between us was little more than a house of cards ready to collapse at the first stiff breeze. Iknewgetting too close to him would turn me into collateral damage. That when it all came down,Iwould be the one scraping myself up off the floor yet again. That Wes would do what he always does and somehow skate by without a single consequence.
And for the ten days after our disastrous phone call, it sure as hell looks like that’s exactly what happens. At least until I finally text Tracy for permission to use some of her wedding photos to promote my hopeful pivot to adventure weddings.
Oh good. You ARE alive.
I deserve that. I’ve been avoiding Tracy—and everyone else—to throw myself into work. It’s not unusual for June, when she’s still out chasing, and I’m up to my eyeballs in brides, but I won’t pretend I haven’t been leaning hard into the excuse this year.
Sorry! June is always nuts.
Less than twenty seconds after I send my reply, Tracy calls. My thumb hovers over the screen as I debate sending her tovoicemail. There’s no way she’s calling right this second just to talk about a handful of photos on my website.
Matt must have told her about the breakup by now. Of course she wants to know what happened. The worst part is, I can’t even blame her. Any normal person would have called and unloaded the whole sad story, but her husband is the closest thing Wes has to a best friend. Putting Tracy in the middle isn’t fair either.
But I just asked her for a favor. And I can’t avoid everyone forever, so I swallow past the lump in my throat, squeeze my eyes shut at the tears that seem to lurk just beneath the surface these days, and answer the call.
“Of course you can use the photos,” Tracy says by way of greeting.
“Great! I’ll—”
“We ran into Wes this afternoon,” she cuts in. “He looks awful. Like he hasn’t slept in a week.”
Does he feel like a part of him died too?
“You know Wes,” I say with forced cheer. “He doesn’t know when to stop chasing.”
Tracy doesn’t laugh at my pitiful attempt at humor. “He hasn’t talked to Matt in weeks beyond trading intel. He’s been keeping to himself. We both thought he was moping about you going home, but then earlier today…I’m worried, Sloane. I think he’s lost weight. He just pumped gas, went inside to grab some energy drinks, and left without so much as a wave. Is everything okay between you two?”
I blink, surprised. “He didn’t tell Matt?”
“Tell Mattwhat?”
It’s a struggle not to choke on the sudden knot in mythroat. A wounded noise escapes despite my best effort to keep it in, and Tracy’s tone goes from frustrated to concerned in a blink. “Sloane? Hey, you okay?”
“I…We…It’s over.” I stumble over my words, but at least my voice only shakes a little. “You’ve known Wes a long time too. He’s not relationship material.”
Saying it aloud hurts more than it should.
“Once you two finally got together, Matt told me how much Wes has always talked about you,” Tracy says slowly. “He kept it to himself to avoid putting me in a weird spot with you—knowing I’d want to tell you—since he’d promised Wes he wouldn’t let it get back to you.”
“No,” I insist, shaking my head. “That can’t be true.”
“Do you remember the twin tornadoes in Wyoming last year? How we all went to the bar that night?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Everyone was in such a good mood.Youwere in such a good mood that you hugged Wes. He brought that hug up for months. I don’t know what happened, but I saw you together. The way you look at each other…that doesn’t come around all that often.” She pauses, and then more gently than I deserve, she asks, “When did it end?”
“A little over a week ago,” I mumble, like I don’t know that it was June 30th at 1:57 p.m. when everything fell apart.
