“Stay away from Shaun,” she whispered.
I rolled my eyes. Did she think I had a thing for her brother? The guy creeped me out.
“Where’s your mom?” I asked her, because these strangers were going to be around for longer than I wanted, and I at least wanted to know if they would be leaving every other week to see their mother.
“Dead,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry. How old were you when she died?”
“I was eight,” she sobbed.
My heart squeezed as I heard her crying. It had been almost ten years since she lost her mom. I bet she missed her just as much as I missed my grandmother.
“What happened to her?”
Chills ran through my body when I heard her mumble something like, Dad didn’t need her anymore.
But I shook my head, between her low voice and the sobs I thought I must have misheard what she said.
21
Abby
“So, do you prefer to stop in Vegas for a shotgun wedding?”
I jolt at the question, tearing my eyes off the book I’m pretending to read.
“Seriously, Weston?” I growl at him. “What kind of question is that?”
I feign annoyance. But in truth, I should be apologizing for being so distant. I just can’t help it. And I know that he hates when I disappear into my mind or when I go into complete silence.
Wes hates when I’m quiet and brooding.
He says that it reminds him of the time when I first arrived at the Aherns. He feels like I’m hurt and pushing him away along with everyone else around me. I bet right now he assumes that I’m scared. I’ll deny it, even when he’s right.
Just empty your mind and don’t think about anyone else but Wes, I order myself
“The kind of question I ask when you’re not paying attention,” he answers with his signature half smirk and half scowl that scares many but makes me laugh.
Well, not only laugh. It sucks the air out of my lungs because in a way, it looks really sexy. That’s Wes. A sexy guy in a Henry Cavill kind-of-way. Except Wes doesn’t have a hot British accent.
“What’s going on, Abby girl?”
I stare at him. His midnight blue eyes stare at me. He’s studying me, trying to guess what the hell is wrong with Abigail this time. So much for treating me like a normal person. So many things. I’m so wrapped up in what happened earlier today that I wasn’t paying attention to Wes.
Sterling forgot about our call. He was busy according to his text. For three hours I couldn’t stop thinking about Corbin and Shaun. I was tempted to google them, but afraid of what I would find, I resisted. Then I went to the coffee house … I should stop visiting it on my own.
Since then, my mind has been on automatic. Packing wasn’t hard since I don’t bring much to Tahoe. My little piece of heaven has a closet full of clothes for all seasons.
“It’s the turbulence,” I say grabbing onto my seat. “Feels like we’re gliding and not flying.”
Wes sighs and adjusts himself before setting one foot on top of his opposite knee, his fingers tapping his knee.
“You have to be a little more convincing. Your acting is terrible,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s not what’s going on with you.”
I raise a challenging brow. “If you know what’s going on with me, why are you asking?”
He shrugs and rakes his dark hair with both hands. “That’s not what I meant. Something happened to you after breakfast. Was it the conversation we had?”
No, that’s not what’s bothering me. I purse my lips, staring at him. Wait, what conversation? My dear mother’s dead, right. Ugh, I think I need a few drinks. An entire pitcher of daiquiris—blueberry mint or mango pineapple ...
“See, there you go again, retreating into your own mind.”
“Maybe just a little,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.”
The pilot announces that we’re free to move around the cabin. Unlike Wes, who unbuckles his seat belt and gets up off the seat, I remain in place. I swear, using commercial airplanes is safer than these little jets. I don’t feel the turbulence as much when we’re traveling in big planes. But then I have to deal with the people around me. At least here, I can freak out and the incident will be forgotten.
Wes goes to the mini-fridge, taking two bottles of water and two Kaisers, his favorite beer, out of it. It’s like the man can read my mind. Well, not exactly since there’s a huge difference in taste between my favorite fruity-frozen drinks and his sour beer, but I’ll take anything that will help calm my nerves.
My current anxiety has nothing to do with the unfortunate death of my mother. Maybe Wes thinks that I’m still mourning the bitch. The only part I mourn is that when she left, I realized that I’d been living in heaven compared to what happened after her loss.
“We should have finished our conversation during breakfast,” he says.
“I assure you, there’s nothing much to say about her.”
“We don’t have to have that conversation, but if you want to talk more …” he shrugs and drinks from his beer. “Did anyone help you with the grief?”
Grief? I don’t think that word is applicable when one loses someone who abuses them. After she got sick, I needed help, but not because of her … I close my eyes, but the only thing I see is him. Just like I did earlier, when I ran downstairs for one of those delicious cupcakes that they sell next door. One moment he was there, sitting in the corner booth watching me, serving me with that creepy smirk I hated.
I can’t breathe. There’s a pain on the center of my chest. It’s sharp and jabbing, like a knife lodged in my lungs. He’s here. His gaze pinning me, my arms tied. He can’t hurt me.
I gasp for air, unbuckling my seat belt.
My hands fly to my neck. I touch it. My throat is so tight, and I can’t scream or ask for help. Don’t speak. If I do, Corbin’s going to kick me in the head. The only place no one notices the bruises.
I need to get out of here.
The mind-blowing panic paralyzes me. I draw in a deep breath trying to swallow my fear to show him that I’m not afraid.
“Abby, breathe for me.” The calm, soothing voice breaks through my thoughts.
I look at my arms. I’m not tied up.
“Are you okay?”
My heart rate is out of control, just like my shaky body. Wes lifts my chin. “Look at me, Abby. Where are you?”
I look around. “Not home, but with you,” I whisper.
“Hey, if you’re not feeling well, I can order the pilot to turn around.”
“Please, don’t do that. I need a break from Denver.”
It hasn’t been long since I arrived, but I already want to get the fuck out of that place. Away from the monsters.
I squeeze my eyes shut harder, trying to calm myself. It’s impossible. He’s back, and I swear he’s watching me. But who is he? Corbin or Shaun. Maybe both. Or is it just my imagination? No, I swear I’ve been seeing them. I’m almost sure that Shaun was at the café earlier today. He’s much older, but that gaze. I would recognize it anywhere. There was a guy leaning against the wall of the coffee shop. He was there one second and the next, he was gone. My legs wobble as I remember the way I’ve been feeling all week.
Someone is watching me.
Am I going crazy?
“Abby, look at me. You have to go to a therapist,” he pleads. The desperation in his eyes makes me reach for his face. “This … whatever it is you have, it’s getting worse.”
Is it getting worse?
I break eye contact. He’s right. Everything that’s happening to me is just inside my head. Nothing is real. I’m feeling like people are following me, and I’m losing my fucking mind because I haven’t dealt with the past. How do I start? I close my eyes and look at the girl lying on the floor, crying, broken after another night of torture. She’s trying to forget. Why is it that she can’t just leave everything behind and start anew?
&nb
sp; 22
Abby
After a two-hour flight, we land at Reno International airport. Unlike the other times since Wes bought the house in Tahoe, my car isn’t in the parking lot. When we pick up the rental, Wes makes a passing comment that he should just buy a car. He suggests going to town and checking out the dealerships. If he can’t find anything suitable, we’ll order something in Denver and have it brought to Tahoe. He’s ridiculous, but I remain quiet.
I’m not sure why is it that I’m not talking. Is it because my body continues to tremble in fear? Maybe it’s because I’m afraid that I’ll tell Wes more than I want to confess. I’m on the verge of breaking down and this time I might say more than I should. There’s nothing coherent I could share with him that doesn’t involve my old life. My mind is stuck in the past.
It’s like a horror movie continues to play in my head on repeat. No one is there to push the stop button, to take the disc out of the player or to unplug the cord. I relive every day, every scene, and every word. Every night I fought, and once I lost the battle, I tried to disassociate. But most nights it was impossible.
The road lies before us like an asphalt ribbon. One that has been worn over time. A white line runs down the center, relatively unbroken. I admire the evergreens and whitewashed boulders. Ponderosa pines, California redwoods, and Douglas firs tower over us. For a moment, I wish I could be like either one of them. An unmoving rock that withstands seasons and disasters. But if given a choice, I’d rather be one of the trees. No matter the season or the circumstances, they retain their foliage.
Most evergreen trees lose their leaves, but they do it gradually—not many notice those changes. I’m more like a seasonal plant that dries if it’s too hot and loses her shit with some gusty winds.
We continue going forward. I fiddle with the radio, finding the 90s alternative station that Wes loves. I close my eyes, holding onto the quartz bracelet he gave me, counting while listening to “6th Avenue Heartache” by The Wallflowers. The guitar screeches while Jakob Dylan talks about the homeless guy who used to live right below his window and life in the big city. It goes on about how the weight of the world is crushing him.
The singer sees people around him, yet he’s alone. This isn’t the kind of song I was expecting to hear while trying to find my footing. I can relate so much to it. I’m surrounded by evergreens, yet I feel like the last dandelion that’s about to lose its seeds. Even when I have Weston Ahern by my side, there are days that I feel lonely and out of place.
If I could, I would stay in Tahoe for the rest of my life. It’s surrounded by everything that I love. The clarity of the lake that’s nestled amidst the Sierras where I can stay hidden forever. With the log cabin architecture and the mom-and-pop businesses, the inviting small-town feel makes me want to stay here forever.
“Enough with the sadness,” Wes changes the radio station.
I snort as “I Feel Like I’m Drowning” by Two Feet begins to play. It’s as if the radio stations know my mood. He ends up finding some electronic tune I’ve never heard on one of the pop stations that I always avoid because they keep playing the same popular songs over and over again. They remind me of Shaun, that was his favorite music. He liked to listen to it while … my stomach becomes queasy.
“Stop the car,” I order. “I can’t breathe.”
I hold my stomach gasping for air. His voice, the music, her pleas. I can hear them all inside my head.
“We’re almost there,” he pushes the pedal lowering the windows and turning on the air conditioning to the max. “Breathe, Abby. You’re with me, remember.”
As we arrive at the house, I open the car door and end up throwing up in the grass.
“Abby.”
Wes holds my hair back while I heave.
“Sorry,” I say. Tears pour down my cheeks.
I sit back in the grass, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and Wes drops right by my side.
“This isn’t normal,” he mumbles. “How can I help you?”
“I’m fine.” My voice is shaky.
His fingers are in my hair, and I flinch from the pain and embarrassment. He touches my scalp, and I’m sure he can feel the scabs. I close my eyes, bend my legs, and rest my forehead on top of my knees, hugging myself tightly. Wishing I could disappear. Now he knows that I’m back to hurting myself.
“Abby.” His voice cracks.
He’s hurting; I can feel it in my heart. I want to channel some courage, find the brave Abigail Lyons who could withstand any pain, but I remain motionless.
“Are you two okay or just making out on the grass?” Sterling’s voice comes from somewhere around us. It has a hint of mockery.
“Fuck off,” Wes says, his voice shaking with fury.
“That’s disgusting, Terry, stop,” Sterling says. “You don’t eat human puke!”
I lift my head opening my eyes to find a tiny gray dog with pretty blue eyes who is fighting Sterling’s hold.
“Hey,” I greet him.
He stares at me and then looks at Wes.
Wes’ eyes narrow and his eyebrows pull together. “Since when do you have a dog?”
“It’s a long story,” he answers, extending his hand toward me. “Come on, Abigail. You look like shit. I’ll get you some Perrier water.”
Hesitant, I allow him to help me off the ground. I stare at the grass, trying to figure out what is happening to me. I swallow the bile in my throat, take a deep breath, and finally find my stupid strength.
“I’m just going to take a shower,” I announce, walking ahead of them.
This time Wes walks right behind me. My plan is to close the bathroom door to avoid talking to him.
“You’ve never been this …” his voice trails as I speed to the bathroom.
But the man whose long legs are used to running five miles a day catches up to me and holds the door open.
“We have to talk about what happened, Abigail,” he says firmly. “It’s killing me to see you like this. You’re hurting yourself again.”
Am I supposed to tell him that I feel like someone is following me? That’s delusional. If he finds out what happened to me he’s never going to see me in the same way.
“I need to take a shower,” I say in a frail voice I barely recognize.
“Change your clothes. Let’s go swimming,” he orders. “In the meantime, I’m calling the office. We’re staying here for the next couple of weeks.”
“We don’t have to stay longer than the weekend,” I say, but in reality, I want to thank him and ask him to make this my permanent address.
“You have a company to run,” I protest, knowing how hard it was for him to move his schedule for today and Monday.
A part of me regrets this trip while the other is already relaxing knowing that I’m physically safe. If only I can convince my mind that I’m not in danger.
“You’re more important than the company,” he says softly. His hand caresses my face and I close my eyes for one moment, letting my guard down.
Suddenly, his muscular arms envelope my body. Those big hands draw circles on my back, he whispers in my ear loving words. “I will never let anything happen to you again,” he assures me. “No one will hurt you—not even yourself. We’re going to work through this, Abby.”
I let myself believe that he can fix it the way he does with everything else. Will he be able to erase those bitter, painful moments?
“We should rest,” he offers.
I don’t fight him. We walk toward the bed, and we lay on top of it. He taps my arm rhythmically as he counts. My head rests on top of his chest. I listen to his heart and close my eyes, concentrating on the soothing sound and his voice.
“Tell me what you want from me,” he mumbles, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll give you all I can. My soul, if that’s what you need to be whole.”
The sadness in his heart breaks me a little more, and it upsets me too, because I know I’m the one bringing him down. For him, I should sto
p this nonsense. As my eyes begin to close I promise myself to be stronger for him. I want to be a redwood tree or a big boulder that he can lean on.
23
Wes
It’s always hard to leave Abby’s side after she’s had a panic attack. I stayed with her for as long as I could, but I needed to shower and arrange my schedule for the next couple of weeks. I sent an email to the board informing them that I’d be working away from the office for the next month. After pressing send, I regretted offering to go back if there’s an emergency. In their minds, everything related to the company is urgent. That’s not the truth. They just like to get paid for the hours they clock in during the meetings.
An email pops up almost immediately. One of the members reminds me that we’re shopping for an investment bank and preparing the initial public offering. I should be in the office, working on the documents we have to send to the banks and to the NYSE. These men are pushing me over the edge. I send an email to my lawyer. We should revise the contracts of the board members and change their roles and payments.
Mom and I argue about the company and the initial public offer every time we’re on the phone.
“If you don’t want to sell, at least stop the IPO,” Mom suggested. “The stress of going public killed your father.”
“He had a heart condition, ate poorly, and never exercised, Mom.”
“Either way, I don’t see the point of continuing something you’re not passionate about. Fire the board and put a stop to that nonsense.”
“I thought you stopped this nonsense. Why restart it again?”
After he died I put the idea on hold. There were other pressing matters, like Mom’s emotional health and a few mergers that required my immediate attention. But it’s time to continue Dad’s vision. He wanted to see his company on the market. The morning we fought about my future, he told me.
“One day, I want to turn on my computer and check the New York Stock Exchange. See those initials going to the top.”
Love in the Dark Page 138
