As the driver gets off I-25, I begin to pay attention to the road. Wes likes to take care of everything, which includes where I stay when we go on vacation. Moving back wasn’t any different. He promised to take care of all the details. When we turn west on Belleview, I wonder if we’re going to his parent’s old house. But Aaron makes an immediate left on Quebec Street instead.
We stop right in front of a high-rise next to a small shopping center. The tall building next to the small strip of shops looks familiar. I recall Landmark, the place where I came often with Wes to watch a movie or to grab a bite. I take my purse from the floor, setting my sunglasses back in their case. Then, after I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide to the other side of the car, Wes is the one who opens the passenger door and offers me his hand to help me out.
“Abby,” he greets me with that handsome smirk I adore.
“Wes,” I respond walking into his open arms. I breathe in his warm, earthy aroma. “I didn’t think I’d see you today?”
“Sorry for not meeting you at the airport. I had an emergency at the office,” he explains giving me a tight hug.
He lifts me off the ground and twirls me around.
“You’re actually here. I can’t believe it.”
“I promised to move back, didn’t I?”
I link my arms around his waist and stare at those midnight blue eyes. It’s like looking into the deep ocean at night. They are warm, inviting, and mystical. Once my feet settle on the ground I glance over and admire his chiseled jaw covered with a dusting of facial hair. My eyes roam down his body. The black shirt he wears pulls nicely around the hard lines of his broad chest and hugs his flat stomach.
Despite the fear numbing my body, I can’t help but feel the magnetic attraction. A strong pull that is like an invisible thread tugging my heart towards his.
“You were unsure,” he taps my nose lightly.
Wes turns to the driver who is unloading my bags from the trunk. “Thank you, Aaron. I’ll take it from here.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes, go back to your family, and thanks again for bringing her home safe.”
“Your things arrived earlier today,” he says, grabbing my bags. “I made sure that the movers set up the boxes according to your labels.”
“The perks of this new job never cease to amaze me,” I comment as we walk toward the big black, glass door. “You not only moved my things, but you made sure they’re in the right place. What else do you have in store for me?”
He hands me a black plastic card.
“Credit card?” I stare at the unmarked object in my hand. “You already gave me one of those.”
“Which you never used.” He furrows his brow. “But actually, that’s the keycard to enter all access points.”
He swipes a similar card in front of the black box next to the door, which then buzzes and clicks. Wes pulls it open.
“After you, my lady.” He winks at me.
My jaw drops at the opulent foyer. Marble floors, expensive paintings, and a cherry wood desk receive me. Wes explains to me that there are concierge services from six in the morning until seven at night. The elevator opens when he taps the up arrow. We step inside. He swipes the card in front of the small metal box under the keyboard and then presses PH2.
“How am I not surprised that you live in the penthouse?”
“You toured this place with me a couple of years ago.”
I frown for a second, and then I remember he FacedTimed me while shopping for a new place. “That was almost five years ago,” I point out. “I always thought it was downtown.”
“Everyone loved this place, you and Mom the most.”
At the mention of his mom, I regret not calling her since graduation day, a month ago.
“How’s Linda doing?”
“Dealing,” he answers.
I feel a pang in my chest when he says that. Wes’ father died a little more than a year ago, leaving the company in his hands. Linda couldn’t function for the first few months. Later, she decided to move to Arizona with her sister. Wes and Sterling fought her, but I supported her because I understood her reasoning.
“Why do you say it like that?”
“I feel like she’s lost touch with reality. She’s organizing a trip to Italy with her friends—she’s paying for everyone.” He shrugs.
“If that’s what makes her happy.”
“Hopefully, after that, she’ll decide to come back home.”
“You’re still hoping?” I squeeze his arm lightly.
“Faith and hope are all we have,” he mumbles, repeating a saying that Linda uses often.
The death of his father hit him harder than he wanted to admit to everyone around him. He adored him. Well, he was really close to both of his parents. Wes visited them at least twice a week and saw William daily at work. The day that Will died of a heart attack, Wes caught a flight to come see me, leaving everything else behind. He couldn’t deal with the loss.
“I need one day,” he said when I opened the door of my apartment. “Tomorrow I’ll go back and be strong enough for Mom and Sterling.”
Sterling only came for the funeral and went away to Italy for a while. It was up to Wes to take care of everything.
“It doesn’t matter where she lives. She loves you,” I remind him.
“You’re right, and I should be happy because you’re back.”
When we arrive on his floor, I stare at the two doors across from each other.
“I’m surprised.” I touch my sternum. “You don’t own the entire floor, Mr. Ahern?”
His wealth knows no end, at least that’s how the business magazines like to word it. There are always limits to one’s assets, but I guess journalists these days just like to spit words carelessly. Every time I see one of those articles, I send it to him with my commentary. Sometimes it seems like the entire world is watching him closely. With a few clicks, anyone can find out who he’s dating, his latest deals, what he’s acquired or sold since his father died. Every step he takes is critical because he’s William Ahern’s son.
“Actually, I own both units, Miss Sarcasm,” he responds, marching toward the door on the left.
Wes hands me a key. “This one is your apartment.”
“What do you mean?” I take a step back and open my mouth.
He did it again. I can’t believe he’s just setting me up in a penthouse. There’s this nice, beautiful studio apartment down on DTC Boulevard that I can afford, I want to tell him but shut my mouth. He always wins those arguments.
“If you read your contract, the job came with housing,” he points out. “This is your place.”
Like me, Wes didn’t have much when he arrived at the Ahern’s house. The difference between us is that he learned to live with luxury, whereas I can’t handle it—not even after all this time. Like him, I learned to work hard and to give as much as I receive. He loves to give. He gives me everything he can to make me feel safe, comfortable … some days I feel like I’m mooching.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he tells me.
“Do you?” I cross my arms, arching an eyebrow.
“That this is too much, that you could afford your own place. You’ll then remind me Dad paid for college and your room and board already.”
“Expensive room and board,” I remind him. “I could’ve lived in the dorms.”
“Really?” He stares at me.
I drop my gaze, exhaling harshly.
My sleeping habits are different from others’. I need to have my window closed tightly. I prefer it if the windows in my bedroom are sealed. I set several nightlights in my room, and I play music all night long. If I had stayed in the dorms, I would’ve been reported and probably kicked out after a few incidents. Or my eyes would’ve remained open until I graduated.
“I had the electrician install a chandelier in your room,” he adds.
“I shouldn’t need it,” I protest like a little child who thinks she�
�s tall enough to ride Space Mountain but who’s nearly two inches shy of the height requirement.
“Therapy,” he throws one of his favorite words around.
I open my mouth, close it, and shake my head. He exhales harshly, taking a set of keys out of his pocket and opening the door.
“You have a copy of the key to my place?” I ask with annoyance.
“I’m your landlord,” he reminds me. “And I have more than one copy since you misplace your keys often.”
“Ugh.” I walk around the apartment, ignoring his remark.
The walls are bare. Some of my boxes are in the middle of what I believe is the living room. The open kitchen faces the entrance. To my left, the view is dark, but I imagine that’s the west side of town. I bet that during the day the view of the mountains becomes part of the house décor.
“We bought you a temporary bed. We can buy the rest tomorrow,” he rolls over the bags toward the staircase.
“Thank you. You shouldn’t have.”
I follow behind him. The upstairs floor is smaller than the first story. There’s a bedroom with a large enough closet and bathroom. The place is big, but not as big as I’d imagined a penthouse.
This scene reminds me of the day I first met him, yet we’re two totally different people. He’s so much older. Wes isn’t the twenty-three-year-old kid who just graduated from Stanford and was trying to make a mark at his father’s office. Now, he’s almost thirty and in charge of the whole company.
Life doesn’t stop; it never stops.
Linda says that all the time. If you wait until you’re ready for life, you will miss it. No one is ready for what’s to come. That’s why you must learn how to live and be strong enough to face anything that’s thrown your way.
The truth is that I’ve never been very strong. All these years I hid from my past, pushed it away, and tried to survive. Now, I’m back, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to live it truthfully.
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.
Begin with You Page 5
