Erasing Faith

by Julie Johnson

I’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes, and my date — whoever he was — had yet to arrive.

  I refused to entertain the possibility that it was anyone but Konrad.

  The kid must’ve spent months saving up for this restaurant, the dress, the shoes…

  I almost felt bad. Almost.

  “More wine, miss?” My waiter was quite diligent — so much so, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to ride my bike home if he kept refilling my glass at this rate.

  I turned to smile at him. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome, miss.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know when my date is arriving, would you?”

  His eyes darted to the empty chair across from me and he opened his mouth to say something. Before he could express a single word, he was interrupted by the sound of wooden chair legs scraping against the floor, as well as a familiar masculine voice, speaking from the other side of the table.

  “Sorry I’m late, Red.”

  I stilled completely, my eyes frozen on the waiter’s face. The young man flushed under my gaze, nodded politely in my direction, and hurried away from the table so fast he made Harry Potter’s apparition skills look sluggish. Damn — I really could’ve used his help. I needed someone to pinch me, hard, because I must’ve been dreaming.

  There was no possible way that Wes Adams was sitting at the table across from me. It was simply inconceivable that he’d been the one to arrange all of this.

  “Red?”

  He was using that soft tone again — the one that made my insides melt — and I couldn’t resist anymore.

  Eyes wide, heart in my throat, I turned my head in his direction. And there he was.

  For no reason at all, I found myself blinking back tears.

  “You did all of this?” I asked, my voice breaking a little.

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Figured it was time I took you out on a real date,” he said, shrugging casually, as though there was nothing special about the evening he’d planned.

  Thoughts tumbled unchecked through my head as I tried to process that this was actually happening. My mind was spinning. My chest was so full, it ached. My heart beat so fast, I worried it was about to explode into a million tiny pieces. Staring at Wes, all I could think was how handsome he looked, sitting there with the candlelight illuminating his angular features, dressed in a crisp white button down. No tie, but that was no surprise — he didn’t strike me as the tie-wearing type.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” I finally whispered, when I’d regained a little of my composure.

  “I told you — I don’t leave things up to fate.” His eyes locked on mine. “I make my own.”

  My head shook in disbelief. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “I can’t believe how gorgeous you look in that dress.” His eyes dropped to my neckline, lingering for a long moment. My breath caught as I saw how his jaw clenched, how the muscles there jumped and tightened. Abruptly, he stood and offered me his hand.

  I stared up at him, confused.

  “Show me,” he said, his voice low.

  I cast an embarrassed glance around the restaurant. “Now?”

  He nodded. “I want to see you, Red.”

  My stomach flipped at his words and heat began to simmer in my veins.

  Slipping my hand into his, I allowed him to pull me to my feet. For almost a full minute, I endured his intent perusal, trying not to shiver as his gaze caressed my body from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I shivered when his eyes finally returned to mine and I saw the unmistakable lust swirling in their depths. My mouth went dry as he tugged me closer.

  Was he finally going to kiss me?

  A surprised, involuntary laugh slipped from my lips when Wes lifted one arm over my head and spun me in a complete circle. His wolfish whistle injected some levity into the otherwise intense moment and caused several people at surrounding tables to stare disapprovingly in our direction. I didn’t spare them a thought — all my concentration was used up by Wes, who was twirling me closer and closer with each turn. When I pirouetted to a dizzy stop, I found myself wrapped tightly in the circle of his arms.

  “Very smooth,” I said breathlessly, still giggling.

  “You’re beautiful, you know that?” Wes whispered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

  “This outfit is beautiful,” I corrected. “I have helmet hair and would sincerely benefit from a long shower.”

  He smiled that crooked smile. “You need to learn to accept a compliment.”

  “There are a few other things I’d like to learn first, mister.” My tone was playfully stern as I forced myself to step out of his arms. Untangling my limbs, I took a steadying breath as I sat back down in my chair. He settled in across from me with an amused, expectant look on his face.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as…. How did you manage all of this? This dress fits like it was made for me — so do the shoes! Konrad was somehow in on the entire plan. Even honorable Hugo was totally down with your scheming.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do you have a super power I don’t know about?”

  “That depends — do you consider being unbelievably attractive a super power?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t like you.”

  “Yes, you do.” He laughed boyishly. “Red, Konrad is a teenage boy — he’d have done anything I asked for twenty bucks, a Red Sox cap, and a free case of beer. Hugo was a little harder — a few more bills and a bottle of scotch. And, let’s just say, men aren’t the only ones who can be bought. Your roommate Margot was quite helpful when it came to dress and shoe size.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “Don’t look so surprised.” He grinned. “You’ll wound my ego.”

  “As if that’s possible.” I huffed.

  His grin widened.

  “You could’ve just asked me out, you know,” I pointed out. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he said, the joking light fading from his eyes.

  I looked down at the linen tablecloth. It probably had a higher thread count than the sheets on my bed. “But I’m not worth the effort,” I mumbled quietly.

  “Yes, you are.” Wes’ tone was suddenly sharper than a razor blade. “I don’t know who put the idea in your head that you don’t deserve to have the world on a fucking string. I don’t know who convinced you that you’re not worthwhile. But if I ever meet them—” He inhaled deeply and his voice went cold as ice. “I’ll make them regret it.”

  Startled by his harsh words, I glanced up to find his eyes burning into mine. The look swimming in their depths was one no man had ever given me before — a swirling combination of stark anger and pure desire. It caught me off guard, sent my thoughts whirling in a kind of panicked anticipation. A blush stained my cheeks under the heat of his gaze and I resisted the urge to hide behind my hair.

  When the waiter suddenly reappeared at our table, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. His presence was a welcome reprieve from the intensity of Wes’ stare. Unfortunately, after handing us menus and topping off our wine glasses, he disappeared once more, leaving me alone with a man who had me squirming in my seat with a single heated glance.

  I immediately took several fortifying sips of wine — liquid courage was better than no courage at all.

  Wes grinned knowingly as he watched me drink. I pointedly ignored him.

  For the next few minutes, I pretended to read the options on my menu but, really, all of my attention was consumed by the man sitting across from me. I listened to each breath he took, heard the light scratch of his fingertip against linen as he traced absent circles on the tabletop. I let the calligraphy blur before my eyes as I peeked around the leather-bound edges of my menu, watching the way the flickering light made shadows dance across his features.

  When our waiter reappeared, I’d barely scanned the options. Flustered, I ordered the first thing my eyes lande
d on, not even bothering to read the English description printed beneath the foreign dish title. Taking another gulp of wine, I raised my eyes to Wes and found him staring at me again. He had one eyebrow quirked up and the left corner of his mouth was twitching.

  “What?” I asked, a little defensively.

  “Nothing, nothing.” His crooked grin was back. “Just surprised you ordered a rib-eye.”

  Shit, I’d ordered steak?

  My parents had been all-organic, animal-loving, California-crazed heath freaks — in their eyes, red meat was the devil. I don’t think I’d ever eaten steak in my life. But I wasn’t about to admit that, unless I was also prepared to admit why I’d been so distracted while ordering.

  I was so not prepared for that.

  Burying my embarrassment, I set my shoulders stubbornly. “Why are you surprised — because I’m a girl? Who says girls can’t eat steak? What, was I supposed to order a salad with a side of air? A gust of wind, perhaps, accompanied by a plate of peeled grapes?”

  Wes choked on his wine.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “You know, in the olden days, plenty of women ate red meat just as often as their menfolk.”

  “Wait, I’m sorry,” Wes interrupted, holding a hand up to stop me. “Did you just use the word menfolk in casual conversation?”

  I buried my laughter beneath a glare as I tried to conjure an argument consisting completely of bullshit and bluster. “As I was saying, it wasn’t always a big deal that women ate a steak every now and then. Historically there’s no basis for these women-should-only-subsist-on-light-and-air shenanigans. It’s biologically biased and, frankly, rather sexist.”

  Wes’ eyes crinkled around the corners but his voice was deadpan when he responded. “God, I love it when you talk nerdy to me.”

  Half a giggle escaped, but I managed to rein it in. “You’re a barbarian.”

  “I’m not the one who ordered a huge-ass steak.”

  I sighed. There was no winning with him — but it was fun as hell to try.

  Our meals arrived a few moments later and I tried desperately to mask my horror when the waiter placed a sizzling hunk of meat down in front of me. The smell wafting from it should’ve been appetizing, but only succeeded in stirring up the mental image of guileless cows frolicking in the pasture. I stared down at the colossal slab, filled with revulsion. There was no freaking way I could eat that.

  “What’s wrong, Red?” Wes’ voice was thick with mirth. “Aren’t you gonna eat your steak?”

  I looked up at him, my face a little pale. “Um…”

  “Because, I mean, if you don’t eat it… aren’t you just reinforcing the meat-shaming stereotypes perpetuated by a male society?”

  He was mocking me. I wish I didn’t find that so sexy.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m going to eat my damn steak — it looks delicious,” I lied through my teeth. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my knife with shaky hands. I’d rather plunge it into my stomach samurai-seppuku style than consume this chunk of baby bovine.

  “Whatever you say,” he murmured.

  I could feel his eyes on me as I cut into the rare beef. Red juice seeped from the middle, flooding the bottom of my plate and absorbing into the mountain of mashed potatoes sitting beside it. Totally nauseated by the sight, I tried my best to keep from puking.

  “That looks juicy,” Wes commented happily, taking the first bite of his chicken.

  I looked up at him and tried to glare, but couldn’t quite muster the strength. One more glance at my plate, and my facade cracked completely.

  “I have a confession,” I muttered, setting down my utensils.

  “Let me guess.” Wes grinned at me. “You don’t eat steak?”

  I blew out a huff of air. “How’d you know?”

  He snorted. “You look like you’d rather swallow your knife than you would a piece of your dinner.”

  “Can you blame me? It’s gross. There’s no way I’m putting that meat in my mouth,” I said, grimacing. When Wes chuckled softly under his breath, I thought about the unintended double meaning behind my words and felt a blush flame up to my hairline. “Don’t even go there,” I ordered.

  “It was too easy, anyway.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Just red meat, or all meat?” he asked.

  “I eat chicken and fish.”

  Wes stood, picked up his dinner, and, before I could protest, swapped his plate for mine.

  “Wes, no,” I started. “This is your dinn—”

  “Red.” His voice was firm as he sat back down. “No more arguing tonight.”

  I swallowed the rest of my words. The chicken before me looked delicious — vastly preferable to the poor baby cow Wes was now consuming with vigor. I cut into it and tried not to moan when the first bite hit my tongue. In all the steak drama, I hadn’t realized just how ravenous I was. After a long shift on my bike, I had a tendency to eat like a truck driver.

  We ate in silence for several minutes. I was headed toward a full-on food coma when a subdued laugh from the other side of the table made me look up.

  Wes wasn’t eating — he was staring at me with a small grin on his lips.

  In as ladylike a manner as I could manage, I swallowed the huge mouthful I was currently chewing. “What?”

  “You like to eat.” The approval in his voice was unmissable.

  I shrugged. “Food is awesome.”

  “Yeah, well, most girls who don’t eat red meat are also vegan-vegetarian-gluten-free-you-name-it.”

  “True enough,” I agreed. “You tell people in California that you eat gluten, they look at you like you said you enjoy barbecuing puppies on the weekends or slicing kittens into your sashimi rolls. Sheer horror.”

  Wes laughed and I cracked a smile at the sound.

  “You really are weird, you know,” he told me unnecessarily, his voice soft and his eyes warm.

  “I know,” I said, stuffing another hunk of chicken into my mouth. “But you like me anyway.”

  He grinned and picked up his fork.

  Chapter Eighteen: WESTON

  SOMETHING BETTER

  I wheeled her bike down the promenade, listening as she described her family in colorful detail. Her parents sounded like a trip and her siblings seemed a little selfish when it came to their youngest sister, but I could tell that Faith missed them all. Loved them deeply.

  At one point in my life, hearing the love evident in her voice might’ve made me jealous. Since I was ten years old, my family had consisted of me. Just me. I had no funny stories to share about embarrassing relatives, no memories of family vacations to reminisce over. And I never would.

  It didn’t make me sad anymore. It just made me emptier.

  Being reminded of the fact that I was — and always would be — alone made it easier to scrape out whatever remnants of Weston Abbott remained in the husk of a man I walked around as. Totally empty, it took almost no effort to replace him with someone new. Someone like Wesley Adams — an easygoing man full of charm and good humor. The kind of guy a girl like Faith might easily fall in love with.

  I found myself envious of a man who didn’t exist.

  Pathetic.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to be jealous of Faith, even as I listened to tales of her family. Envying her was like holding the sun accountable for the light it shone on everyone around it — a pointless endeavor. I couldn’t resent her for brightening my life, couldn’t hate her for banishing shadows I’d carried since I was a child.

  “What about you?” she asked suddenly. “I’m sorry, I’ve been spewing my whole life story, and I haven’t even let you get a word in.”

  I shrugged. “Not much to tell. I don’t have any siblings.” I cleared my throat and stared straight ahead. “My parents are dead.”

  It wasn’t necessarily a lie — I had no idea whether they were still alive. Considering the way they’d lived their lives fifteen years ago, it wouldn’t be shocking if th
ey’d wound up overdosed and glassy-eyed in a gutter somewhere.

  I could’ve tracked them down, of course — my line of work ensured I could find practically anyone, if I wanted to.

  I didn’t want to.

  “I’m sorry,” Faith whispered, slipping her arm through mine with a comforting squeeze.

  “Don’t be.” I ignored the way the simple touch of her hand nearly brought me to my knees. “It was a long time ago.”

  We fell silent, the only sound that of the bike wheels slowly spinning against the ancient stone sidewalk. When we passed the statue of The Little Princess, I couldn’t help remembering the day I’d watched Faith sitting along the riverbank, sketching for hours. It had been one of the first times I’d seen her. She’d captivated me even then, when I’d doubted her inner allure could ever match such an exterior.

  She’d been beautiful, that day.

  Tonight, though… she was breathtaking.

  The dress was part of it. That body, that hair, that smile — there weren’t enough cold showers in the world to wash off their effect on me. If I looked at her for longer than ten consecutive seconds, walking became a bit of an issue and I was forced to recite the Gettysburg Address over and over in my head until thoughts of what she’d look like with that dress pooled around her ankles had been banished to the back of my mind. Hard-ons notwithstanding, the thing that hit me heaviest, the part that really knocked the breath from my lungs, was the fact that I’d been wrong that day on the riverbank.

  Inside, Faith Morrissey was just as gorgeous as she was outside.

  She didn’t push me to talk about my family. She switched gears to lighter subjects, discussing her history course load and peppering me with questions about the medical research I was supposedly doing for work here. My answers were well-rehearsed — just enough information to sound credible, but boring enough to dissuade her from digging too deep.

  By the time we reached her apartment, Faith was yawning.

  “Tired, Red?”

  She nodded sleepily. “My shift was long.”

  “Lots of deliveries?”

  “Yeah, around fifty. My legs are killing me. And I have another shift tomorrow morning, followed by several hours of Professor Varga’s lectures.”