If You Never Come Back

by Sarah Smith

  Warmth hits my chest as he speaks the words. I must have been on his mind a tiny bit if he knows about my business blowing up. But another thought sinks in. He put in the effort to check up on me online, but never called or texted me.

  I shake my head, swallowing back the quip I ache to unleash on him. The last thing I need is another blow-out in my apartment.

  “I managed just fine without you for the past six months,” I mutter, eyes on the ground. “I’m sure I can do it again.”

  All that follows is a sharp intake of breath. “Shay.”

  The softness in his tone compels me to look up at him. “I know you hate me right now. You have every right to. But don’t make your work suffer because of me.” He clears his throat. “You’ve been commissioned for a bunch of projects, right? Which means you have loads of packages to mail every week, emails to keep up with, orders to take, and keeping your home studio organized, right?”

  I nod.

  “You can’t do all that work with an injury, especially if you refuse to treat it. The sooner you get checked out, the sooner you can dive back into work. Tell me that’s not what you want.”

  I nod because he’s right. Diving back into work, distracting myself from this mess we’ve currently found ourselves in is exactly what I want. And to do that, I need to be well.

  “Okay,” I say, my voice rough in sound but soft in volume. “You can help me.”

  “Let me take you to get checked out then.”

  I catch myself before I nod my agreement. I deserve some answers first. “Wait.”

  “What is it?” he asks, frowning.

  “Why are you so hell-bent on helping me?”

  “I upset you last night with my sorry-ass excuse for an apology. It’s what caused you to run off and get hurt. I owe it to you.”

  “It’s more than that. I can tell.”

  He rubs his hands over his jaw. I let my gaze linger over the beautiful angles and hard edges that make up his face, that deliciously well-groomed beard. I’m silently, shamefully admiring how ruggedly handsome it makes him.

  “Honestly?” he asks.

  “Honestly.”

  This time when he looks at me, his gaze is piercing, like he can see right through me to my insides, to all the feelings and emotions swirling inside of me.

  “Because I spent months missing you so hard, I ached from the inside out. I’ll take any excuse to see you, even though I don’t deserve it. Even though I know you hate me.”

  I respond with silence, my head spinning. Not once does his stare leave mine during the few quiet seconds we share.

  “And honestly Shay, I have the tiniest suspicion that despite everything you say, despite how you feel about me right now, you want me here, too.”

  He moves past me to my dresser, leaving me speechless.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It looks like you’ve got pretty severe sprains in your left wrist and left ankle,” the doctor at the urgent care says.

  He studies the x-rays of my wrist. A second later he switches it out to the x-ray of my ankle, resuming his serious face.

  “But they’re not broken, right?” I ask.

  “That’s correct.”

  Wes clears his throat. This whole time he’s been by my side as I navigated the waiting room, the paperwork, the two-hour-long process of taking x-rays, and waiting for the doctor. He’s dialed back his instinct to pick me up and carry me everywhere, thankfully. Instead, he’s just hovering close by.

  Half of me is annoyed. We’re not together and he’s acting like a protective bodyguard—like a boyfriend.

  But half of me appreciates the thought. Because what he said earlier was true. As much as the other half of me still resents him for how he left all those months ago, my other half—the half that instinctively relaxes at his touch, his voice, his presence—is happy he’s here.

  “But she’s okay?” Wes asks.

  The doctor nods. “Other than a few weeks of taking it easy while recovering, Shay will be just fine.”

  My ears perk up at the mention of “a few weeks.” I squirm while sitting in the exam room bed, my movement causing the paper lining underneath me to crinkle so loudly, it echoes in the tiny exam room.

  “What exactly does ‘taking it easy’ entail?” I ask.

  The doctor pulls a couple of ace bandages from a nearby drawer and hands them to me. “For starters, keeping your wrist and your ankle wrapped. And keep them elevated as much as you can. It also looks like you have a slight avulsion in your wrist.”

  “Avulsion?” Wes and I say in unison.

  The doctor nods, consulting my chart. “That just means a bit of bone has been pulled from your wrist when you sprained it. It should heal on its own, but you shouldn’t stress it. That means no typing, no repetitive movements, no writing, playing racquet sports, no lifting, anything like that.”

  My head spins as he lists off more activities I can’t do.

  “For your ankle, that means no exercise for the next few weeks. And when you walk, use a crutch with your good arm to keep the stress off the injury.”

  I can’t speak. Wes seems to read my silence for the panicked gesture that it truly is.

  “She’s an artist,” he says. “She stands sometimes when she paints and sketches.”

  The doctor shrugs, clearly unmoved by Wes’s explanation. He turns to me. “Sorry, but those are your instructions for recovery. If you want to avoid permanently injuring yourself, you need to take it seriously. You should be fine to ease back into minor activities in three or four weeks.”

  He leaves the room while we wait for a nurse to come back with my paperwork. My head spins.

  “But…I have so much work to do.”

  “I know,” Wes says.

  “I was commissioned to do this multi-panel canvas work. I have revisions for a children’s book I’m illustrating. I…I have sketches that need polishing and digital projects that I haven’t even started yet. I’m on deadline.”

  When my voice starts to shake, Wes grips me by the shoulders. “Shay.”

  I fix my stare on him. Suddenly everything is steady.

  “It’ll be okay. You can contact your clients and explain that you’ve had a health emergency and will have to deliver their projects a few weeks late. They’ll understand.”

  “Will they?” I practically scoff my response. “I worked so hard for so long trying to get myself to this point—where I’m supporting myself with my art. And now that I’ve just barely made it, I’m about to lose it all.”

  If I blow this opportunity, it’s back to soul-sucking office jobs and staying up till the wee hours of the morning completing art projects. No way do I want that again.

  “You won’t lose it all. Don’t even think that.” Wes speaks with such authority, I almost believe him. “Your clients want your work. You’re a sought-after artist now, remember? Waiting a few extra weeks won’t make a bit of difference to them, I promise.”

  “How can you promise something like that?”

  I bite my tongue at my bitter tone. I still can’t stand that he followed me online after he left. It’s such a sneaky thing to do. He could have just called. He could have just texted. He could have just—

  My cheeks heat. But he didn’t. And I need to remember that every time my brain goes crazy with all the things I wish Wes could have done.

  I swallow, willing the hurt and frustration to stay below the surface where it belongs.

  Releasing me, he takes a seat in the stool across from the exam table. A vein I never noticed before bulges in his neck.

  “Disobeying doctor’s orders and permanently screwing up your wrist and ankle just because you’re obnoxiously stubborn doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do, does it?”

  Tension flashes between us like a bolt of lightning.

  “Wes, I just got career-altering news. Can you just let me have a minute to process it all?”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “You won’t be doin
g this alone,” he says. “I’ll be there to help you.”

  “How, exactly?”

  The huff of breath he lets out is riddled with frustration. I can tell by his frown, by the clench of his jaw, how his hands fall to rest at his waist. I hardly ever saw it when we were together. But now that we’re exes thrust together by a weird set of circumstances, frustration seems to be his default. My stomach churns at the thought that I’m the cause.

  I used to make him so happy.

  I wipe the thought away, focusing instead on his expression.

  “I’m suggesting that I help you in your daily tasks,” he says.

  “What are you going to do, paint for me?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Do you have to take that tone?”

  “How am I supposed to sound? I just got the news that for the next three weeks I can’t use my leg or my arm.”

  Wes glances down, then back at me. This time the frustration is dialed back. A sliver of tenderness seems to peek through, and my icy façade begins to melt.

  “Look, I know you’re upset, but it’s the way it is. You have to accept it and find a way to work around it. And I’ll help you do that.”

  The softer tone he takes works wonders. I’m actually willing to listen now.

  “What are you planning to do?” I ask.

  “I’ll come over to your apartment and help you every day. I can run stuff to the post office, clean up your place, type emails for you, do social media posts.”

  “So you’ll be like my personal assistant then?”

  He crosses his arms, his face still stern. “If that’s how you want to think of it, sure.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work for me.”

  “Shay, be reasonable.”

  “We’re exes, Wes. We haven’t spoken a word to each other in more than six months and now you’re going to be my home health aide?”

  “Do you have a better idea of how to cope while you recover?”

  I sigh my defeat. I can’t manage this alone. And if he’s offering to help me, I’d be a fool not to accept.

  “We need to set some ground rules first,” I say.

  He leans back in the chair, eyes still on me. “Like what?”

  “We have kind of a complicated history. There have to be boundaries.”

  “Fine. I’ll call or text before I come over.”

  “You can’t carry me all the time.”

  “Why not?”

  I contemplate telling him how flustered I get every time he touches me, but I hold my tongue. That would definitely be crossing boundaries. I need to move on, not dwell on what I miss about him, about us.

  “The less we touch each other, the better,” I say.

  The clench of his jaw and the way his eyes dart away for a second tell me he doesn’t agree, but I don’t care. I need to protect myself if there’s any hope of this arrangement working out.

  “Fine,” he says.

  “No staying at my place overnight. No relationship talk at all. I don’t want to dwell on the past, okay?”

  The expression that passes over Wes’s face looks a lot like uncertainty, but he frowns it away before I can be totally sure.

  “Do you have any rules you want to add?” I ask.

  “Just one. If you fall or hurt yourself, I’m picking you up.”

  I roll my eyes, but nod anyway.

  A nurse pops in to hand me a pamphlet on how to care for my injuries, then gives me a crutch.

  Wes swipes the pamphlet from my hand, and I prop myself up on the crutches. He gestures forward. “Lead the way.”

  Seven days of Wes as my personal assistant and it’s only marginally weird now. We haven’t broken any of our rules. Every day he stops by to help me with emails and chores around the apartment before taking the packages I’ve prepped to the post office. Every day we engage in polite, brief conversation.

  He even came up with a cute idea of posting a photo of me sitting at my workspace, my arm and leg wrapped, then posting it on my social media to explain the delay in my work. He was right—everyone understood. I received an outpouring of support. Not a single client of mine was upset.

  If we didn’t have our history, this would all feel almost professional.

  This morning I texted him to bring an extra-large duffle bag to transport the packages. Wes stares at the stack of sealed envelopes and boxes sitting next to my desk, eyes bulging. “So just a few extra today, then?”

  From my desk, I roll my eyes, failing to stop the smile that rips loose. “Very funny. I’m trying to be as productive as possible.”

  “I can see that.”

  He crouches down and starts to shove the envelopes in the duffle bag. He shoots a soft smile at me. “You’ve got a lot to be proud of. What’s you’re doing is impressive.”

  I could swear my heart beats faster at the sound of his words. A hot flush makes its way up my chest to my cheeks. I turn away to my desk, pretending to rifle through a random stack of papers.

  “That’s nice of you to say. Thanks.”

  When I look up at him, he’s still standing there, only this time staring. But it’s a different kind of stare than the usual broody one he’s been employing lately. I remember this one well. Tender and kind with unspoken amounts of affection resting behind those rich brown eyes.

  I should look away—but I can’t. Because despite the rules I set, despite our boundaries, I want him to look at me like this, like I’m the only thing in a million-mile radius that he cares to lay eyes on.

  “I’m not being nice, Shay. It’s the truth. I’m so proud of you, of the artist you’ve become. You have so much talent and drive. I just wish that—”

  His phone ringing interrupts him. I want to yell for him to forget his phone and tell me right now what exactly he wishes.

  But he swipes it from his pocket and frowns at the screen before I can utter a word.

  “Sorry, one sec,” He says, answering the call. “What’s up, Colin?”

  I pretend to sort through the papers on my desk until he’s off the phone, hoping he’ll pick up where he left off when his phone rang.

  “Sorry about that,” Wes mutters.

  “No problem.” I try to sound as unbothered as possible. I have no idea if I pull it off.

  This time I collect all the stray pencils and pens within arm’s reach while I wait for him to complete the sentence he started before he was interrupted. But a minute passes and there’s only silence. He finishes loading the duffle bag and zips it up. That means he’ll be out the door soon. Something inside me aches. I need him to stay. I need him to tell me exactly what he was thinking.

  “So…how’s Colin doing?”

  Such a pathetic transition, but it’s all I can think of to get him to stick around longer.

  “Pretty good. Business has been picking up for him so he switched me from part-time to full-time.”

  “Really? That’s great.”

  Since Wes has been back, Colin hired him back on as a project manager for his construction company. I wonder what exactly Wes said to him to crawl back into his good graces after breaking up with me and taking off without warning.

  A shy smile tugs at his face as he chuckles. “You sound surprised.”

  “It’s just…I’m glad he hired you back. After you left, I mean.”

  “It took a little groveling,” he says. I wait for Wes to say more, but he doesn’t. “It’s just nice to be able to pay the bills.” He rubs the back of his neck.

  Again, there’s a silent moment, but this time the tension in the air is painted different. Not the dark shade of strain like before, but something lighter and brighter. Something joyful.

  But then Wes blinks, turns his head away to look at his bag on the floor, signaling the moment’s over. “I should probably get this to the post office before it closes.”

  “Right.” I let out a flustered chuckle. The moment’s passed. “Thanks again for doing that.”

  He nods, then heads for the door.
I spin away to adjust my easel, expecting to hear the hard click of the door. But there’s only more silence. I glance up to see Wes giving me that same stare from before.

  “What I meant to say earlier was I wish I could have been here with you when you made your dream come true. I’ll always regret that. You must have been so happy. And seeing you happy was my favorite thing in the world.”

  Before I can say anything, he’s gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Okay but, like, how did he say it?” Remy asks from the opposite end of the couch, eyebrows wrinkled together in concentration.

  I shove a spoonful of Nutella in my mouth, savor it, swallow, and sigh. “Like he meant it.”

  Remy squints at me from the opposite end of the couch. Yesterday’s visit from Wes is doing a number on me. That’s why Remy is here on a break from Dandy Lime, helping me decipher just how I should feel about the words Wes left me with before he walked out the door.

  I wish I could have been here with you when you made your dream come true. I’ll always regret that.

  Remy hums before leaning back on the couch. He swipes the jar of Nutella from me and dives in with his own spoon, then hands back the jar. “More importantly, how do you feel about it?”

  I throw my good arm up in the air. “I have no idea.”

  “Lie,” Remy scoffs. “It’s written all over your face. And you wouldn’t have texted me this morning asking me to come over to chat about Wes and your conversation if you didn’t have an inkling.”

  I shove his arm. “It’s not a lie. I admit, there were some definite, hard-core emotions swirling within me when he said that. I just don’t know how to deal with them.”

  “You both agreed to this weird arrangement you have going on.” Remy pats my arm, chuckling. “So is he officially your caretaker? Your personal assistant? No, wait, errand boy! I like the sound of that much better.”

  He falls back on the couch, clutching his stomach as he cackles. I poke him in the ribs, the one spot I know is his weakness. He yelps and frowns.