grind together. Something about her question is unnerving. I sit there staring at Abby like she’s offered me a knife and asked me to give her a piece of me I swore I’d never give away.
Chapter Thirty
Abby
The relaxed evening transforms into a deep conversation where I end up confessing a little more about my past. In exchange, I ask Wes for something in return. A piece of his history. He never shares, and I’ve always been okay with that until now. I want him to be a part of me. Wes’ body is tense. Stiff. That easy grin he displayed while we talked about our trips disappeared once I spoke about myself. But when I ask him for more, he becomes angry.
My stomach tightens because I feel like he’s pushing me away. I want to remind him that we’re best friends. He’s the person I tell everything to. In a way, he’s my human diary. I have trusted him with pieces of myself, and if this is going to work, he should trust me with the parts he hides from the world. How can we be together when he’s not willing to give as much as he asks? Then, a question pops into my head.
Would you be willing to tell him everything?
With time, I think I’ll be capable of letting him all the way in. I just need him to give me more too.
“Relationships are a two-way street, Wes,” I say, as the guy searches for the nearest exit. “Things won’t work if we settle for sharing just the beautiful and hiding the ugly. That’s not how foundations are built.”
Tension roils between us. He stares at the fire pit, breathing harshly. I drink more wine, unsure if it’s for liquid courage or wanting to do something with my hands and mouth while I wait for him to answer me. Wes is terrific, but he only gives and requests what’s convenient for him.
He wants to know everything about me, but he avoids talking about himself.
“Let’s go home,” he says, signaling to the waiter who brings the check almost immediately.
After signing the check, he looks at me thoughtfully. “After you, Abbs,” he hisses.
The nickname doesn’t make any sense with that broody face. I want to tell him that I can finish my evening whenever I want and grab an Uber once I’m done eating and drinking. I love him, but I don’t need him ordering me around or trying to define who I am.
He looks impatient and annoyed. “We have to go. This place isn’t fit for the conversation we’re having, Abigail.”
My irritation disappears and my heart pounds loudly and fast. What is it that we’re going to discuss exactly? Our relationship and how it needs adjusting, or his past?
We drive in silence, listening to instrumental jazz. In less than twenty minutes we’re back at the house. He turns off the engine and exhales harshly. We make our way to the house and without a word, he leads me toward the terrace. I lean against the railing while he walks around the perimeter like a trapped lion.
“I don’t remember much. It happened over twenty-four years ago,” he starts, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Hey, I’m with you,” I say, walking to him and interlocking my fingers with his.
I kiss his arm.
“I lived in a whorehouse.” My lungs constrict when he says that word.
“I’m not sure if my mother lived there or if she abandoned me.” He sinks into one of the lounge chairs.
“There were other kids beside me. We were everyone’s kids and no one’s responsibility. Men and women came and went through the house. We saw things that we shouldn’t have seen. They didn’t care if we were around or not. It was … bad.”
“Did anything ever happen to you?” I dare to ask, horrified of what could’ve happened to a little boy in a place like that.
He shakes his head. “I was neglected.”
“No one reported them?”
He sets his forearms on top of his thighs and stares at the horizon. “Not until one of the women died. The police came to the house, and when they left, they took us with them. After that I met Linda. I was her first foster child, and well… you know the rest.”
Wes fidgets with his fingers and remains quiet for a long time. I squat next to him and tap his arm the same way he does when I’m anxious. He looks at me and smiles.
“I had no idea what