walking me home. Goodbye, Wes.”
I shut the door, leaning against it and closing my eyes. I let him get to me in less than ten minutes. Since the moment I saw him standing in front of my portrait. I can’t afford to be near him.
Damn, I lost money too.
Abby: Hey, who is going to pay for that painting? It’s part of my fund.
Sterling: I’ll pay for it, woman. Did you guys make up?
Abby: No. Did you know he was coming? You should’ve told me.
Sterling: If I wasn’t sure he’d show, why upset you beforehand?
Abby: You didn’t tell him either.
Sterling: We don’t talk about you. You’re like scotch or good whiskey.
I have no idea what that means, but I leave my phone to charge and head to my bedroom to wash away the encounter. In bed, I cry for tonight, for both him and for myself.
I behaved like I didn’t miss him, as if I’d never loved him. I did. There were so many things that made me fall for him, like the way he looked at me, with so much understanding. Wes always knew what I was thinking before I said a thing. His thoughtfulness was enough to make my heart skip a beat.
I miss those pictures he’d send me just because. The caption would read, “I saw this, and it reminded me of you.”
I miss our silent moments. He made me feel steady. And when we were together, I made him laugh like he never did around anyone else.
When I’d had a bad night, he’d take me in his arms and say, “It’s okay. I’m with you.”
When he held me, I knew he was there, both for me and with me.
I rub the base of my neck, soothing myself. My heart aches because I wanted him to kiss me. To remind me what it is to be held by him. To tell him all of my secrets and listen to his. I wanted to say, “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” I want him to love me, but I just can’t handle more heartache.
Thirteen
Wes
Every part of our body heals at a different pace. Broken hearts and aching souls are the slowest. I thought my wounds were cured, but I guess some of the cuts hadn’t closed all the way. I just didn’t realize it until Abby’s presence popped the stitches. She could tend to them, but she doesn’t want anything to do with me. Not anymore.
How can we mean nothing after everything we’ve shared? Our friendship was strong, one of the best relationships I’ve had in my entire life. Are we broken beyond repair? I take a deep breath, but it’s not enough. I feel like I’ve been taken off life support.
I loved you, she said. Loved, not love. Fuck, I need a scotch. As I walk back to the gallery, I run a hand through my hair and wonder if the Mexican restaurant on the corner of 3rd and Detroit is still open. They have a great selection of tequila and whiskey. Reaching for my pocket, I rub the quartz that I carry around with me.
I don’t need booze, I chant as my mantra. The pain will go away.
I used to get drunk, not because I liked it, but because it made me feel something other than the pain of not having her. Drowning myself in a bottle or two of scotch night after night only diffused the memories for a little while. Once sober, everything would come back to me sharper, more vivid.
Since I lost her, I had no fucking clue what to do with the rest of my life. No matter what I did, I couldn’t erase what had happened to her from my fucking head. Then I tried to wipe her away entirely—obliterate her existence once and for all. Forget her long, hazelnut curls. Those big, expressive dark eyes. Her silky voice and angelic smile.
Her lips.
Her kisses.
The way she’d bite her lip when she was planning her next adventure. The way she scrunched her nose when she didn’t want to do something but had to anyway. The way she organized her pantry but would have a fucking mess in her drawers. Our endless hours of counting so that she could fall asleep.
I miss everything about her. Our nights together, when I had her in my arms. How could I forget the feel of her body against mine? It’s impossible to ignore or suppress the way I feel about her. For the past