The Ahern Brothers Collection - Claudia Burgoa Page 0,114

for August, but it doesn’t surprise me since the weather in Colorado is always changing. It can feel like winter during summer and vice versa.

“You’re leaving?” I clear my voice because it comes out rough.

But what the fuck? We just reconnected, I expected a hug and a big smile. Something like: Wes, I can’t believe you’re here, and her running into my arms. Fuck, now that I think about it, it sounds so stupid. Why would she receive me like that? It’s not like we left on a good note.

“Yeah.” She waves at me before speeding up.

“What happened to, let’s hope we can be cordial if we ever see each other again?” I ask, trailing right behind her.

“Who ever said that?” She doesn’t stop as she continues walking along Third Avenue toward University Boulevard.

“You, me, both of us in our letters. I can go home and find the ones where you mentioned it.”

She comes to a halt, her chin lifted and her eyes spitting fire. Underneath that strong exterior, I see it. The hurt and sadness that wasn’t apparent while we were at the gallery. Something triggered her defensiveness.

“We said hello.” She looks at her hands. “You’re well, and I’m well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

Twelve

Abby

It’s hard not to be self-conscious when my hands have so many scars. Thin, pale lines with tiny dots where the stitches once were. People always ask what happened.

“A few broken fingers,” I’ll respond casually. “It was an accident.”

No one asks for details, but I see it in their faces, the pity, the puzzlement over my Frankenstein-like hands. It doesn’t bother me when people flinch or scrunch their noses. They don’t know that I barely made it out alive. When I count the scars, I also count my blessings and not the horrible moments I lived through with Shaun.

But Weston staring at them with horror and pity—that’s so fucking infuriating. I rush toward my place holding the tears that are threatening to break through my armor. I’m not sad; I’m raging. These days I rarely fake my moods, but with him, I have to put up a front. He’s not going to know that his reaction made me stumble and fall.

If a guy who once said he loved me can’t stomach my hands, what would he think about the rest of me?

For a second back in the gallery, I toyed with the idea of spending the entire night talking to him, just like we used to do when we hadn’t seen each other in several weeks. It’s been three years; we’d need an entire week to catch up. My heart pounded hard and fast at the prospect of reacquainting ourselves again. I almost lost control when I saw his tall, dark, and handsome form in the gallery. He remembered my words and spoke about the painting with a passion that reminded me of how we were—us.

Us is over though.

We ended.

Sadly, when I left his side, I didn’t take all of myself, and a big part of who he is came along with my heart. I spent years untangling myself from him. We spent six years as friends but the last three we were something more. We never embraced it as such, but it happened. We were a couple. And like in any love relationship that lasts so long, the two of us became one. His favorite music became mine; my favorite shows were his too. When his last letter arrived, every memory branded in my brain made me feel as though I’ll never be whole again.

He was gone.

I remembered how much we loved to run together. Our hikes. The trips we took along the West Coast while I was in school. Our vacations. Spain. Tahoe.

We always had Tahoe.

It took me a long time to get over him, to find myself and become a whole person. For a moment, while he was standing in front of me, I could only think what it felt like when I’d had him beside me. The safety, the warmth, and the peaceful nights.

“Can we get some coffee?” he asks as we reach the traffic light.

Two more blocks and I’m home.

I need the safety of my house. He’s never been there. Wes doesn’t belong in there. But fuck if he isn’t still here, right beside me. He’s still the same guy who doesn’t give up easily. I guess he really wants to catch up with me.

“It’s a little late for that.” I stare at the light, begging