If You Never Come Back

by Sarah Smith

  “What’s all this?” he asks.

  I stand over him, shuffling back and forth on my bare feet. I must look like I have to pee.

  “It’s um…nothing.”

  That’s the most pathetic excuse I could have come up with, especially when the truth is so obvious.

  He frowns at the watercolor, then twists his head to the charcoal lying on the floor just a few inches away. “These are me?”

  His face goes pale.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  Judging by the stunned look on his face and how he says nothing else for several seconds, he is not flattered. He is shocked and terrified.

  When he finally turns to me, he doesn’t even look at me. He just grabs his coat and scurries out the door.

  Stunned, all I can do is stand and stare at the door. It’s official. I’ve solidified my status as a creepy artist who spends my free time drawing the guy I’m sleeping with. I’ve sprinted past the admirer category. I am the queen of the stalkers.

  I look over at the scattered artwork on the floor once more. From this angle, it looks like a creepy mosaic. I walk over, stack the drawings, and shove them under my desk. Tangling both hands in my hair, I blink back tears. In ten minutes, I ruined everything between us.

  Chapter Five

  “Four shots of tequila, please.” The college-aged hipster doesn’t smile when he speaks or hands over the cash in his hand.

  Good. I don’t think I could take a smile on top of his drink order. Just the mention of tequila reminds me of the one person I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  Four days since Wes discovered my stash of sketches and paintings, and we haven’t spoken. No calls or texts from me, of course. No way in hell am I initiating contact after what I’ve done.

  He hasn’t reached out, either.

  I thought leaving the ball in his court would be best. He’s the one who’s had to process the shock and surprise. He needs time to think, to decide what to do next.

  I was hoping for at least a We should talk text, but not even that. As terribly as that conversation would most certainly go, it would be better than the limbo I live in now, where I don’t know where we stand, where my feelings track up and down every hour of every day like I’m riding an out-of-control roller coaster.

  I hand the hipster his change. He says a quiet “thanks” before taking the shots to his table.

  Remy saunters up next to me while I wipe a towel over the surface. “Romeo hasn’t been in for a while. What’s up with that?”

  “I don’t think he’ll be coming back. Ever,” I mutter.

  Remy gently grips me by the arm and leads me to the end of the bar where there are no customers. “What are you talking about?”

  I cross my arms, my eyes refusing to look anywhere than the floor. “I’m pretty sure I screwed up everything.”

  “You two have an argument or something?”

  “I wish.”

  There’s at least a playbook for making up after an argument. Storming out, cooling off, a night of fitful sleep. Then someone bites the bullet and is the first to call or text. Apologies are exchanged. Then copious amounts of makeup sex ensue.

  There is zero guidance for what to do when the person you’re dating stumbles upon a stash of stalker artwork you’ve made of them.

  I look around the bar to make sure no one is paying attention to our conversation. “I’ve been doing drawings of him ever since we got together.”

  Remy frowns. “And?”

  I bury my face in my hands. “I did, like, six drawings and paintings of him. I didn’t tell him about it because I didn’t want to look like a creep, drawing him in my spare time. So I hid them behind the canvas on my easel.” I heave a breath. “He came over to surprise me with lunch the other day, and I bumped into the easel, knocking over every single one of my drawings. They landed face-up all over the floor. And he saw them. All of them.”

  Remy makes a wincing noise through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s…”

  I jerk my head up, my hands falling to my side. “Something a maniac would do, yes. I know.”

  He grimaces. “Maybe he thought it was flattering?”

  “I was standing there, watching him look at all the pictures. He was definitely not flattered. Shocked and horrified is more like it. He muttered ‘wow,’ then left. I haven’t heard from him since.”

  Remy stutters for a good five seconds.

  “The look on his face.” I groan. “He thinks I’m nuts, no question.”

  A group of businessmen barges in, cackling loudly while making their way to the bar.

  Remy gives my hand a squeeze. “We’ll talk more later.”

  I nod at him before taking a breath so I can make it through the end of my shift.

  Remy wraps his arm around me as we close in on our apartment building after our shift.

  “Don’t beat yourself up about this whole thing. What you did was sweet. If he can’t see that then…”

  Remy stills in his tracks. I look up to see what’s distracting him and immediately lose my breath. There’s Wes, standing at the door of our apartment building.

  “Oh damn,” Remy mumbles.

  When Wes looks up, his gaze locks on mine. He offers a soft smile that reads more apologetic than anything. I take a breath, steadying myself. This must be it. He’s finally coming to end it.

  We walk up to the door.

  “Hey,” he says, his eyes darting between me and Remy.

  “Wes. How’s it going?” He pulls me into a hug. “Stay strong. Call me later if you need anything.”

  I nod into his shoulder. Remy walks into the building to his first-floor apartment. I turn back to Wes.

  He flashes an unsure expression. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure.”

  The walk upstairs to my place is silent. When we’re inside, we shed our coats and shoes, then he settles on the couch.

  “Something to drink?” I ask while walking into the kitchen.

  “Um, okay.”

  I have to close my eyes and grip the counter. Wes’s voice sounds so shaky. He must be so nervous about what he’s going to say to me. But then I swallow, open my eyes, and stand straight. This is just the way things go sometimes. I need to be an adult and accept it.

  I grab the nearly full bottle of Dulce Vida tequila from my cabinet. It was a gift from Remy when I decided to go full-time with my art business. We took one shot together in celebration, then I stored it away.

  With two glasses in my other hand, I carry it all to the couch and set them on the coffee table. When I sit down next to him, I make sure I’m giving him enough space. Even though everything in me aches to cuddle into him, that’s not appropriate. Not if he’s going to break up with me.

  He stares down at his lap, his eyebrows knit. “I wanted to talk to you about…” He gestures to the space under my desk, where my drawings and paintings of him sit in a neat stack. Worst hiding spot ever.

  “Right.”

  I pour us both glasses. We take quiet sips. I swallow, then sip again. The burn finally fades, leaving behind warmth.

  I clear my throat and turn to him. “Look, I know what you must be thinking—”

  He grabs my hand. “I love that you drew me.” His words are like a glass of cold water after a crawl through the desert.

  “You…you do?”

  “Absolutely. I was just surprised at first because I figured it meant you felt something deep for me.” He pauses. “And I figured it meant we feel the same way about each other—because I feel something deep for you, Shay.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel.” My heart races when I finally admit it out loud.

  “I was just shocked in the moment, that’s why I left,” he says. “I couldn’t believe we felt the same way about each other. It was like it was too good to be true and I needed a minute to process it all.”

  The sharp inhale I take through my open mouth nearly makes me cough.

  “I’ve felt a
connection with you from the get-go.” He raises his brow, and it’s the first hint of uncertainty I’ve seen in him all night. “I think you have, too?”

  “Obviously.” A chuckle falls from my mouth. “I was drawing and painting pictures of you.”

  He beams and leans over to cup my cheek in his hand. I let out a soft moan, holding my hand over his. We lower our hands to the space between us, our fingers intertwined.

  Wes’s eyes bore into me. “I want to stay here in Bend for a while. I want to give us a shot, Shay.”

  His last word is barely out before I lunge for him. My mouth is on his mouth before he can even wrap both arms around me.

  “I want that too,” I say between kisses.

  A million questions fly through my mind: What about the hike across the country he’s planned for so long? What will he do for work? Where will he live?

  But every kiss erases those questions. Soon my mind and my body are filled with just him. My brain, my heart, can’t process anything else. Details don’t matter. Right now, we’re together. We’re giving this—we’re giving us—a proper shot. I don’t care about anything else.

  Chapter Six

  “You ready for your surprise?” Wes navigates my car around a sharp curve of highway.

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  Two months into Wes’s extended stay and we’re finally making it out to the nearby mountains for a hike. Ever since he made the decision to stay, he hasn’t been able to do much outdoor stuff. He’s been busy working and getting settled into his new living quarters: my apartment.

  Gazing out the window, I smile to myself. Life details were easier to work out than expected. Finding work was easy. Colin hired him on as a project manager at his construction company and even offered to let him stay at his place. That wasn’t necessary, though, because I offered up my place the morning after our mutual confession of shared feelings.

  Remy warned it might be a disaster to move in this soon, but it’s the one time he’s been wrong so far. Every day has been a dream. Waking up to the person you’re head over heels for, falling asleep cuddled into their perfect crook of an arm, is the exact opposite of a disaster. It’s the greatest feeling on Earth.

  Wes pulls the car into a snowpark off the highway. During the winter months, people park here, then cross country ski along the nearby trails. Since it’s spring, there’s still snow on the ground, but enough has melted to do a short hike.

  When we jump out of the car, Wes heads to the trunk, opens it, and pulls out my sketchpad and colored pencils.

  “I’ve never seen you sketch a wilderness scene before,” he says. “I was hoping you could try that today.”

  He leads me down the trail, which follows a creek. A half-mile later, we hit a waterfall. He points to a massive boulder sitting near the edge of the creek, just below the waterfall.

  “How’s this for a spot to sketch?” he asks.

  “Perfect.”

  We sit side by side, and for an hour I sketch while Wes takes photos, then sits silently, gazing at the scenery around us. Behind the lush evergreen tree line sit majestic mountains, their peaks still coated in snow. It’s the exact scene I’m trying to capture in my signature style: the image in the center, taking up about two-thirds of the white space. The remaining white space that surrounds the image serves as an imaginary frame to make the image in the middle pop.

  When I finish, he leans over to take a look. I could swear his eyes sparkle when they scan the paper. “Incredible.” He kisses my forehead.

  I hold up the sketch, the scenery that inspired my drawing directly behind it, and take a photo on my phone so I can post it on my Instagram account later tonight. Since February, I’ve doubled the visits to my website. I’ve been commissioned to paint a handful of portraits, and last month I was hired to illustrate a children’s book. That will be a long-term project with multiple rounds of revisions and could lead to more illustration work. Plus, my digital designs and watercolor landscapes have been selling steadily on my website, too.

  My stomach still takes a tumble whenever I see glowing comments on my site or my work trending on social media. It really does feel like my career as an artist is taking off, and I’m more inspired than ever.

  The most exciting part? Wes’s portraits are bestsellers. After he gushed about them, he suggested I sell them. When I listed them, every single one of them sold—except for the charcoal one, my favorite, and one of the watercolors, which I want to keep for myself.

  He packs my sketch pad in his backpack, handling it carefully as if it’s his most prized possession. I have to look away, I’m so taken aback. No guy has ever shown this level of thoughtfulness for my work before. We hike a quarter-mile up the trail to another waterfall. I sketch some more, he takes more photos, and we head back to the car.

  On the drive home, my phone rings.

  “Hang on, it’s my mom.”

  When I answer, she immediately dives into an unclear and rambling question about her computer.

  “Anakko, I tried to skip your brother, but it won’t turn on.”

  Technology and my mother are long-time foes. Ever since I was a little kid, she’s always had an impossible time working anything with a battery or an electrical cord.

  “You mean Skype, Mom.”

  She sighs. “Yes, Skype. That’s what I said. Okay, so I keep trying to skip your brother, but I just keep recording videos of myself. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “You’re in the wrong program. Click on that blue icon with the white ‘S’ in the middle.”

  “Icon?” She’s definitely frowning, her face an inch from her giant computer screen.

  “Mom, just look at the computer screen. Then look at the left half toward the bottom. See the big ‘S’ I was talking about?”

  Silence follows, then she hums. “It’s not there.”

  I swallow back a groan. I love her to the moon and back, but talking her through a technology-related task requires a heroic level of patience I don’t possess.

  “You’ll have to do a search for it then.”

  “A what?”

  I groan and laugh at once. Wes peers over, his face scrunched in a concerned frown. He mouths, “need help?”

  I shake my head. “Mom, I showed you how to do that when I stopped by the house the other week. Don’t you remember?”

  She mutters something about not remembering, and I take another breath, prepared to spend the rest of the half-hour ride explaining to my technology-illiterate mother how to do a basic search on her computer.

  Before I can speak, Wes rests his hand on my knee. “Want me to give it a try?”

  I let out an exasperated sigh, then shake my head. “It’s fine.”

  His frown turns incredulous, then he presses the speakerphone button. “Mrs. Alexander?”

  Immediately she stops chattering. “Who was that?”

  “This is Wes Paulsen, your daughter’s…”

  When he trails off, I panic. Yes, we’re living together. Yes, we’ve declared our feelings for each other. Yes, we openly call each other boyfriend and girlfriend. But we’ve never once talked about what to say about each other to our families.

  “Anak, is this your boyfriend?”

  Heat flashes up my chest to my neck, all the way to my cheeks. Somehow I’m sweating in the thirty-degree temperature.

  I let out a couple of “ums” and “uhs” before Wes chuckles and says, “I am indeed your daughter’s boyfriend. I’m Wes, it’s nice to meet you.”

  The sound of Mom clapping sets echoes inside my car. “Wes, hello! So nice to talk to you! Tell me about your—”

  “Mom, we’re not doing this on speakerphone. We can talk about that some other time.”

  She huffs her disappointment.

  “Mrs. Alexander, before you go, I can walk you through how to access Skype, if you still want to try.”

  “Oh, yes! Thank you, that would be so helpful! What
a nice young man you are.”

  Over the next five minutes, Wes patiently walks her through it. When she finally pulls up Skype, she cheers.

  “Wes, I want you to come by the house sometime,” she says. “Such a kind young man, you are. Your parents must be so happy to have such a sweet and helpful son.”

  I squeeze his hand as he blushes. “Looking forward to it, Mrs. Alexander. Thank you.”

  I say goodbye before she can hammer out an exact date.

  “Sorry about all that.” I toss my phone in the center console.

  “Don’t even worry about it. Your mom sounds sweet.”

  “She is. Just super overbearing when it comes to her kids. Always wants to know everything we’re up to. She practically freaked out when my older brother moved to Japan for his job. That means I get the bulk of her attention since we live in the same time zone, only a half-hour drive away.”

  I realize Wes hasn’t mentioned his parents at all since we got together. “Does it bother your parents that you’ve been off the grid hiking the past few months? My mom would flip her lid if she couldn’t get a hold of me every few days. Thank god my dad is there to calm her down.”

  I expect a chuckle or a reassuring anecdote about his parents, but all he gives is a murmured, “Not really.”

  The way he white-knuckles the steering wheel even though the road is clear makes it obvious. Family is not a subject he likes to talk about.

  “It’s just…” he says, his tone gentler this time.

  “I didn’t mean to bring up family stuff if it’s a sore subject. I’m sorry.”

  Wes’s chest heaves in a sigh. He turns his head to me and offers a sad smile. “I want you to talk about your family whenever you want. From everything you’ve said, they sound like wonderful people.”

  Eyes back on the road head, he exhales. “I’m not close with my family. At all. I don’t have siblings. My mom died when I was little.”

  “Oh my god. I am sorry. I had no idea.” I cradle his right hand in both of mine, pressing a soft kiss to his palm.

  He shakes his head, pulling his hand out of my grip. He clamps it back on the wheel, his eyes straight ahead. I drop my hands to my lap, swallowing back the pain squeezing my chest. That tiny gesture, that small moment of denied contact speaks volumes. This is an off-limits topic and not even my touch makes it easier to cope.