Perhaps it isn't such a good idea to accept Wesley's offer for a ride home. I should have called Loren, or gotten an Uber, because either of those options wouldn't involve me having to climb into Wesley's truck and sitting next to him in the freezing cold. He cranks the ignition and lets the engine heat up for a minute.
The blue glow of the dash lights reflect off his handsome features, and I quash the urge to reach out and smooth the crease from between his eyebrows. I know I've upset him, and he's too kind to admit it. But he doesn't understand—no one really understands that I can't stand being coddled, like I might fall apart any minute. I couldn't stand it all those years ago and I can't stand it now.
That was one of the best benefits of moving to a town where no one knew who I was. It was a fresh start without the cloak of darkness that always surrounded me in Reading. I know Wesley means well, but having him check on me every two minutes brings me back to the weeks after Kamryn died. He was there, always attentive. Too attentive, even when I didn't deserve it. When I'd been too broken to see anything good about this world, about our relationship, and let him fade into nothing but an ember deep in my heart. Then I'd left town.
Now even though that ember was barely there, it clearly still burned. Wesley's presence radiated warmth from the moment he pulled me up from my wrecked vehicle, and I'd wanted to lean into that warmth. That familiar goodness that's always been there.
His dark brown hair has grown out since last I've seen him, the ends looping into adorable curls at his ears and the nape of his neck. His shoulders were always broad, but now he fills out a basic t-shirt in the most tantalizing way. When he punches the button for the seat warmers, he catches me staring at him and I'm too distracted by the hurt in his eyes to look away. It's like someone slid a hot knife between his ribs—that expression full of pain doesn't belong on his face. The thought that I caused such a look knocks the wind out of me.
"I'm sorry, Kamille," he blurts out, avoiding my gaze. "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable, on top of what happened with us in the past. I don't want you to feel—" Wesley runs a hand through his hair. "I just want you to be happy." He looks at me with soft coffeebean eyes that pierce right through my armored heart.
"I'm not the same girl you remember, Wes, and you can throw away the kid gloves. I'm not as fragile as you think I was in highschool."
He leans back, surprised. "I don't think that at all. You were the strongest person I knew."
His words are both a warm hug and a dagger in my chest. Knew. He doesn't know me anymore. Whether it was just a slip of the tongue or if he said the words with purpose, it stings, and I realize that I want Wesley to know me again. But is it possible? Does he even want to know me now? There's so much to unpack here and I need time to think.
"You didn't make me uncomfortable, and thank you for everything you've done to help me out tonight." I swallow, and it takes everything in me not to break eye contact. "I don't think I would be okay at all if not for you being here."
He places a tender hand atop mine and squeezes, and I tell myself it's habit to turn my hand up into his and squeeze back. It feels so good. Grounding. I don't want to let go, but he pulls back and puts his truck into gear. "Let's get you home."
Mom freaked out like I thought she would, but being there in the flesh so she could wrap an arm around me lessened the blow. Even injured, she dotes on me all evening like a true mother hen, forcing me to drink a mug of hot chocolate before ushering me into the bath. It probably isn't wise to take the bandages off yet, so I just soak with my arms outside the tub for half an hour, until I have to call Mom to help me wash my hair. It's a disaster with her one good arm. My limbs are beginning to ache, and I make sure to take some Tylenol when I get out.
That night, Mom pulls me into her bed and I curl in next to her. I don't blame her, because I want her close too. She could have lost me tonight, the last of her family, and I feel that phantom pain acutely. Sleep claims me somewhere between thoughts of failure—I'm the one supposed to be helping Mom, not the other way around—and dreams of Wesley's hand in mine.
With the morning comes pain. Not the sharp kind, but the aching burn of every muscle in my body screaming. I don't want to move, scared that even prying my eyelids open will hurt, but when Mom wakes me with a steaming mug of coffee, I know I can't just sleep the day away. I should be the one to bring her breakfast, not the other way around. And what if she needs my help? I refuse to feel like a bum on top of everything else.
Taking my coffee to the kitchen, I get started on breakfast. Mom is considerably chipper this morning, all things considered, and as I scoop a healthy portion of eggs onto a plate for her, I can't help but mention it.
"You don't remember what today is, do you?" She beams at me with a hit of mischief on her features. I wrack my brain—did I miss someone's birthday? Surely not a holiday. Christmas is still a couple weeks away. Just as I finish my coffee, the doorbell rings and I let Janine in. She looks me up and down, and then at Mom.
"I thought you two would be ready to go by now," Janine says, glancing at her watch. "We have to be at the title company in half an hour."
Title company? I look to Mom for an explanation, but then I remember the mischievous grin yesterday. "You're closing on the house today," I say unferverously, just noticing that Mom has been dressed and ready to go this whole time.
Mom just winks at me as she finishes off her breakfast. "Better get dressed, hun. Don't think they'll find your bedhead as cute as we do."
My hand flies to my hair, which is undoubtedly sticking up in all directions. With that, I dash into the bathroom to get ready for the long day ahead.
After slipping on a long-sleeved hunter green sweater to cover the gashes on my arms, I choose a pair of my nicer boots to wear out. When I don't feel that great on the inside, I tend to make up for it by trying to appear better than I am on the outside. And so, I swipe on some lip gloss like my face hadn't been pummeled by an airbag less than twelve hours ago.
I help Mom into Janine's SUV and we head into town. You'd think that after the accident, I would be hesitant to step foot in a vehicle, and for a while, I was. But instead of being terrified of the engines and machines that take us from place to place, I learned to use them as a tool. I got the hell out of this town and hadn't looked back until now. Which reminds me—I need to call my insurance and start looking for another vehicle or I'll be stuck here for longer than I want to be.
I open my phone to do just that, and see a text from Loren.
So how'd it go with Wesley Biltmore last night?
She punctuated the words with a winky face, and I can feel my face flame from the insinuation. I debate telling her everything was fine, but the sense of wrongness fills me. I don't want there to be any tension between us. Wesley and his stupid curls and sweet smiles. Ugh.
Actually, we got into a fight.
I recount our last interaction. He pulled right up to Mom's apartment and I hopped out of his truck, barely saying goodbye as I ran inside. I had beat myself up for running away like that—like a coward.
He asked me this morning if I'd heard from you. He wanted to make sure you're alright.
My eyes bug out of my head at her reply. Wesley had messaged Loren about me? Something ugly flared in my chest, but then I remembered I hadn't given him my number or any other way to contact me short of him dropping by the apartment like a weirdo.
I'm sore as hell, but doing okay. Nothing a couple Tylenol can't fix.
I bite my lip debating on sending the rest.
You can give him my number if you want. I mean, if he asks for it or anything.
Loren just sends back a winky face emoji, and I know she'd probably already been scheming for a way to do just that.
We park downtown and walk into the loan office where we meet our agent and the new owners of my childhood home. In the blink of an eye and the flutter of a dozen papers, it's done. Mom's signature scrawled with her left hand isn't as pretty or neat as it could have been without the injury, but she got it done, as she always has. I go to help her out of her seat, but she waves me off, turning once again to our agent, leaning forward like she is about to tell her a secret.
"I'd like to know how we may acquire the White Pine Park property."