9
Abby
After I saw my new bathroom, I kicked Wes out of my apartment. I desperately needed a shower to wash away the anxiety and the smell of the plane. Once I was done unpacking my bags and freshening up, I walked to Wes’ apartment. He invited me for dinner before he left.
“Nice digs,” I say when he opens the door. “Do I get a key to your house?”
“Are you going to lose it?”
“Never mind, Ahern,” I groan inspecting his place.
Even though we live on the same floor, his apartment is very different from mine. The living room and dining room walls are nearly all glass with a view of the city lights. The second story seems to have more rooms than my apartment does. When my gaze turns to the left, I immediately fall in love with the kitchen. It’s not only huge, but it has a double oven and a big refrigerator to match.
Storage space matters to me. Places to store food are essential. Some people like to collect stamps, spoons, plates, or books. I hoard food. Food soothes me—it keeps my anxiety at bay. Like counting objects does. If everything fails, I pull on the rubber band I wear on my left wrist. But having food around, holding a snack, assures me that I won’t go hungry, and storing enough of it so that I won’t starve no matter what happens, is my obsession.
Not Wes’ though, he doesn’t have a disaster plan like I do.
“This seems like a little too much for you, my friend. Or are you cooking now?” I scrunch my face, wondering if it’s a new hobby of his.
He usually has someone who will cook for him, or if that’s not an option, he has a big batch of takeout menus at the ready—at least he did in his old apartment.
“I dabble a bit,” he says with a light shrug. “The appliances came with the kitchen, and I didn’t want to remodel.”
He links our fingers together and pulls me to the kitchen island where a few Chinese cartons wait.
“Chinese food?” I read the labels. He ordered my favorite—Hunan chicken. Wes snags the beef with oyster sauce and mushrooms for himself.
“We can share the combination fried rice,” he offers walking to his refrigerator.
“Wine?” He pulls out a bottle of chardonnay.
“No, thank you. I’d rather just drink water.”
He nods, putting the wine back in the fridge and taking out a beer. He sets it on the counter, grabs a glass, and fills it with water.
“I miss this,” he says taking a bite of meat. “Sharing a meal with you. It’s been a long month.”
“You could’ve come to visit more often,” I shrug casually.
“Things at the company are getting tough. As much as I wanted to take a few days off, I just couldn’t.” He puts his hand on top of mine. “Thank you for coming back. I know it’s hard for you.”
I’d take the hardship as long as I know that my presence makes a difference. Life is better for us when we’re together and we hide inside our little bubble.
For him, it’s about being away from work, the press, and everyone who wants a piece of Weston Ahern—or his money. For me … the bubble means tranquility, safety.
“You haven’t mentioned anything specific. How are things at Ahern Inc.?” I dare to ask.
Our recent conversations have been too short to discuss the business. We only talked about my move and what I would be doing once I was here.
“The board wants Sterling as the CEO, not me.” His jaw clenches.
“Your dad wants you in charge of the company,” I remind him.
“He wanted me,” he corrects me harshly.
I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, regretting my words. I still talk about Will as if he were among us. Some days I wish that he was still alive. The last time I saw him was on my twenty-second birthday. I spent a week with Will and Linda, letting them spoil me rotten. We made plans for the summer. This time he swore he’d take the three months off just for me. I swallow the tears and the pain. He wasn’t my dad, but he was the closest father figure I had.
“But he died,” he sighs, stabbing his food with the chopsticks. “And Sterling doesn’t give a shit about the company.”
Sterling only gives a shit about a few things—his family and his art.
“He can sculpt for the rest of his life. That’s what he loves,” Wes says, gulping his beer. “The board doesn’t give a fucking shit though. They want the ‘real’ Ahern to take Dad’s place in the company.”
“You’re an Ahern,” I assure him.
“Mom and Dad never made me feel like I didn’t belong. These assholes though … they never miss a chance to remind me that I’m adopted.”
I rise from my seat and kiss his cheek. “You’re their son. Never forget that.” I sip some of his beer and steal a piece of beef.
“You’re done?” He rolls his eyes when he sees my carton empty and the fried rice too. “Some days I wonder where you put all that food.”
I look behind my back and stare at my big round ass. “I’ll go out for a run later to keep it off my hips,” I shrug.
“Here, to make up for all the calories that you plan to burn.” He hands over a fortune cookie. I unwrap it, crack it in half and moan. “Ugh.”
I show the hollow cookie to Wes. “They forgot to put in a fortune,” I complain. “What happened to the joy of opening these things? It’s gone.” I shove a piece of cookie in my mouth.
“They’re lies anyway.” Wes, who doesn’t believe in fortunes, narrows his gaze at me.
He’s a pragmatic man. Wes doesn’t believe in fortune cookies, wishing wells, or wishbones. I might not believe that they work, but at least I have a little fun dropping a coin into a fountain or fighting with Sterling over who gets the wishbone on Thanksgiving Day.
“Yes, but it’s good for the heart to read something like, happiness is around the corner. Or… you’re about to find the love of your life.”
Wes’ body shakes with laughter and his cheeks turn red. I arch an eyebrow, giving him an inquisitive look. He hands me his fortune.
Enjoy your cookie.
“That’s it?” Frustrated, I dump the paper into the recycling bin, and I begin picking up the trash.
“When did fortune cookies lose their wisdom?” I huff. “Stop laughing, Weston!”
He can’t control it, but he envelops me in a hug.
Wes rests his chin on top of my head. “I missed you, Abby girl.” His voice carries sadness. “If you’re overwhelmed or having nightmares, you have to let me know.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, hugging him around the waist.
I don’t know if I’m reassuring him or myself. Wes has always made life better and simpler when he’s around. From the moment we met, I knew that in some ways, we were the same. He’s protective of me. From day one, he reassured me that everything would be fine, and that nothing would happen to me.
“How are you?” he asks.
Wes puts his thumbs on the inside of the upper part of my arms and wraps his fingers around my bicep, just above the elbow. His blue eyes stare at me for a few beats. There’s a storm brewing inside them. They haven’t been calm in a long time. I love getting lost in his eyes. His eyes are the perfect place where I like to stare until I forget myself and my past that feels so much more real to me in this state.
Maybe that’s why I love being by the ocean at night. The midnight blue horizon, the sound of the waves and the breeze keep the bad dreams at bay. Just like Wes used to do when I first arrived at his house. He’d sit on the couch, watching me as I counted the crystals of the chandelier that was above my bed, until sleep finally took over. Knowing he was close helped me sleep. Once I left Denver, it became so much easier to breathe, to sleep—to believe that I was finally free.
“Tired,” I say.
“Do you want to stay with me tonight?”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. It’d be easy to accept his offer. But it’s time I grow up and get my act together. Staying away wasn’t an option. If I must be here, I should face my demons
head on.
“No, I’ll be fine,” I lie, opening my eyes.
He tilts his head from side to side, studying me. Wes wants to know if I’m being honest with him. I remain completely neutral, hoping that I’m still relaxed enough to convince him.
“Abby, it’s me. You don’t have to put on a brave face for me. Why would you want to fake how you’re feeling around me?”
“I’ve never faked my feelings around you—or faked them at all for that matter.” I chuckle. “Though I’m glad you accept that I’m never going to be normal.”
“Abby, what’s going on?”
Other than I feel like I’m losing my shit? Nothing, Wes, thank you for asking.
Would he understand what’s happening to me? Everything I built and who I became over the past five years is suddenly disappearing. I think I forgot to pack my strength while I was packing all my other belongings. My courage was left at the airport security line. Little, scared Abby is back. The girl who felt awkward and out of place while growing up is taking over my body. The tone of normalcy I lived with over the past years vanishes as the minutes pass.
It’s not like I expected my life to be normal. Just different from that girl who couldn’t run away, defend herself, or protect those around her. Only a few hours ago I was content with my life. Now … I touch my wrist, find my bracelet, and count the quartz.
“I’m twenty-three and I should know by now that there aren’t any monsters inside the closet or under the bed.”
“You’re not afraid of those kind of monsters,” he says with conviction. “Those nightmares are the product of something else.”
“That’s not up for discussion.” I glare at him.
“I wish I knew what happened to you. Maybe then I could fix it for you.”
“You want to fix me, buddy?” I frown, crossing my arms and walking toward the front door.
Weston Ahern has a savior complex. He loves to help people. No matter the day or time, anyone who needs him gets his attention. It’s not like he’s a misogynistic man who tries to solve women’s problems. This guy self-designated himself as the savior of his family and became indispensable to them. If he can solve their problems, they will love him. That’s why he still works for Ahern Inc.
The day I arrived broken at his doorstep six years ago, I became his to save. I love that he wants to take away the pain, but he has no idea just how broken I am. Would he even talk to me if I ever were to tell him about my past? Doubtful. I’d rather have him think that the reason I have nightmares is because I witnessed my sister’s death. He doesn’t even know that the girl was my stepsister. I just don’t talk about it.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he says frustrated. “It’s been years since the incident,” he continues. “Since the day I met you, I’ve cared about you. We connected. But that secret you guard feels like a barrier between us.”
“You have secrets too,” I remind him.
“They’re different because I worked through them already. You … look, I just want to know what happened and … there has to be a way to make things better.”
My lungs constrict. My chest tightens at the mere thought of letting everyone know what happened that night. The local news covered what the police released, what they could see. That’s all anyone will ever know.
“There’s nothing to fix. This is who I am. You can take it or leave it. Thank you for your hospitality, Ahern.” I open the door, glance his way one last time, and leave his apartment.
My secret is safe with me. I’ll be safe as long as I don’t breathe a word.
10
Wes
Dealing with Abby’s past is as complicated as dancing on a tight rope. One wrong move and I’m falling over the precipice. Visiting the past is jarring for many. I get it. It wasn’t easy for me when I had to confront it, or when I learned how to behave like a normal kid. It was hard to understand that adults are meant to protect children, not use them. That starving them isn’t normal, and that my parents were supposed to love me.
I can’t imagine where I’d be if the Aherns hadn’t pushed me to deal with everything I suffered through.
It’s been years. Six long years since Abby came to me. Well, to my parents. I know there’s more to her sister’s death than she’s telling me. My gut tells me that there’s much more to the story than what circulated around the news. If I could just make Abby see that burying the pain won’t help her heal. But I’m afraid that if I force her to open up, she’s going to run away, and I couldn’t tolerate her absence.
I finish cleaning up the kitchen, then go to my bedroom to change. A pair of running shorts and a t-shirt will do. I grab my sleeping bag and turn off the light before locking the apartment. Instead of using my key, I knock on her door.
“Hey,” Abby greets me when she opens it.
“Look, I was out of line,” I start my explanation.
“No, you weren’t. I just want you to understand that nothing you say will change my mind. Because there’s nothing I can do that will make it go away.”
“So, you agree,” I say. “It’s still there, and you need … someone to be with you.” I show her my sleeping bag.
“That doesn’t mean I should be using all these ridiculous crutches to avoid the nightmares.”
“They work,” I say with a shrug. “For now, at least for tonight, take it. Take me.”
The words come out innocently, but I wish I could say them with a deeper meaning. Take me as a man, Abby. Be with me for the night. Forever.
I can’t remember when my feelings for her changed. One day she was my little friend, Abby, and the next she became the woman of my dreams. I want her to get better for her, but also for me. Whatever is going on with her emotionally doesn’t allow her to see us as more than friends. I haven’t been direct about the way I feel for her, but she avoids any conversation that would lead to me confessing my love for her.
“Wes,” she whispers my name.
“Abby. Abby girl,” I repeat her name, gently taking her hand.
She stares at our linked fingers for a few seconds. My heart beats faster, and I’m hoping she’ll say something meaningful. Give me a sign that she cares for me more than as a friend.
Instead, she scratches her ear, staring at my sleeping bag. Taking a step back, she opens the door widely letting me inside.
“Would you still accept me if you knew what happened to me?” she mumbles chewing her bottom lip.
“We’ve always accepted each other, haven’t we?”
“Sometimes you make it sound like if I don’t change—”
“Every time I bring up therapy, it isn’t for my sake, but yours.” For the most part. “I hate to see you in pain.”
She presses her lips together, staring at the floor without saying a word. This quiet, scared Abby reminds me so much of the girl who trembled in the foyer of my parents’ house that first day. She was skinny and wore rags. Her warm, brown eyes were too big for her boney face.
“You can’t save everyone, Ahern,” she says walking to the kitchen checking the cupboards and the refrigerator.
I should’ve bought some food, knowing she likes to have enough to last her at least two weeks. Mom said I was the same when I first arrived. Always making sure I had enough food for the next day, that the cereal was fully stocked, and we had enough milk for me to drink. She explained that it’s a coping mechanism that children and teenagers who have been starved use once they have access to food.
“There’s food across the hallway.”
She turns around looking over my shoulder and smiling slightly. “Sorry, some things never change.”
“I assume your parents were in financial trouble.”
Abby shakes her head.
“If I didn’t behave, I wasn’t allowed to eat.” She closes her eyes. “Mom’s rules. After she died, my stepfather made sure to enforce them.”
“Wait, your mother died before your sister?
This is a new devel
opment. The way the social worker worded it was that she had lost her whole family and the only person left was her stepfather—who didn’t want to take care of her.
“I need to shower,” she breathes harshly touching her scalp.
Abby doesn’t wait. She’s avoiding my questions. I want to remind her that her hair is still slightly damp from her previous shower, but I know her well, better than anyone. She needs to cleanse herself of whatever is on her mind. Also, when she’s anxious she can spend a long time under the water—shower or rain—counting the drops that fall into her right hand. She didn’t say much, but I already know a lot more today than I did yesterday. Who lets a child starve because of their behavior? What kind of people raised her? And what did she do that was so wrong her stepfather let her go hungry?
— — —
Some nights I wonder if this relationship is healthy? I sit on the floor, watching Abby sleep, guarding her dreams. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. I pray that one day she won’t need to count crystals, or make sure there’s enough food, or lock her doors and windows so she can fall asleep.
I remember the first night she spent at my parents’.
— —
Abby Age Seventeen
“She doesn’t talk,” Mom told Dad before we headed to the dining room for dinner.
“They never said she was non-verbal, but if we have to, we can learn sign language,” Dad reassured her. “You’re always great with all of our foster kids, you’ll be fine.”
“Abigail can talk,” I told them. I wasn’t sure if by telling my parents that I was breaking her trust, but I figured they should know before they hired tutors or other unnecessary employees.
“She chooses not to. I think she’s scared,” I said as we approached the staircase.
Mom stopped at the top of the stairs and turned toward Abby’s room. “Do you think she’s coming downstairs for dinner?”
Love in the Dark Page 132
