The One You Can't Forget

by Roni Loren

  “I can feel you thinking, lawyer girl,” Wes said softly, the words drifting into the darkness of the bedroom. “What’s on your mind?”

  She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Nothing. I’m just lying here.”

  Lying to you.

  Wes shifted a little beneath her, dragging her cheek along his chest. Only then did she realize her face was wet. His muscles tensed beneath her. “Bec, are you crying?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to herd her emotions back into the corral. “I’m fine. My eyes are watering.”

  Wes grunted and slipped from beneath her, leaving her on the edge of the pillow. He reached over, turned on the lamp, and then propped himself up on his elbow to look down at her. Whatever he saw on her face had his expression falling. “Hey, you are. What’s the matter?”

  She turned her head and swiped at her disobedient tears. “Sometimes people cry after sex. It’s a thing.”

  “It’s not your thing, though,” he said, pushing her hair away from her face. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Please…” she said, a plea in her voice. Not now. She didn’t want to do this now. She wanted a few more moments before she had to let it all go.

  Wes let out a breath. “I scared you.”

  She closed her eyes, her skin somehow hot and clammy all at once.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” he asked. “I said too much tonight, and I freaked you out. I shouldn’t have said—”

  She shook her head. “You can say what you want.”

  “Not if you’re not ready to hear it. Goddammit. I should’ve waited. I got all caught up, and I should’ve—”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” she whispered, the words like glass in her throat.

  “What?”

  She opened her eyes to look at him, finding that handsome face looking confused, concerned, caring. She hated herself in that moment. Hated that she’d done this to them both, that she’d let it get to this point. “That’s the thing.”

  “What is?”

  She met his eyes, more tears slipping silently from hers. “I’m never going to be able to hear it. There will never be a right time.”

  Wes stared at her as if the words hadn’t registered, but then his eyebrows lowered like storm clouds over the sun. “Oh.”

  “This thing with us, I can’t… This wasn’t supposed to be like…” The words weren’t coming out in any kind of logical way. She couldn’t make them cooperate. “With you. I’ll never…”

  Something chilled in his expression, a hardness sliding in place. “You’ll never want a relationship with me,” he said flatly. “Did I translate that right?”

  Yes. No. It’s not like that. “Wes…”

  He pushed up to a full sit and reached for his shirt, which was at the end of the bed. “No, it’s fine. I’m not that slow. I think I got it. I told you I wanted more. You have no interest in that. Message heard.”

  “Wes,” she repeated.

  But he shook his head. “Don’t. I get it, Rebecca. I was just supposed to be a distraction. I was supposed to be fun. I changed the game tonight without permission. My mistake. The lawyer just wanted a fling.”

  She sat up, pulling the covers up to cover herself, her heart pounding hard. “Please, don’t leave like this. It’s not you—”

  He scoffed and gave her a derisive look. “Please don’t do that. Don’t do the It’s not you, it’s me speech. You’ve told me from the start that I’m not your type. You told me you didn’t want anything serious. I’m clearly a bad listener.”

  Everything inside her was folding in on itself, collapsing as Wes climbed out of the bed to pull on his pants. She’d known this had to happen, but she didn’t want it to happen like this. “Wes, you know this never would’ve worked. I’m your rebound. And I’m—”

  “Ha! Fantastic. Now you’re fucking psychoanalyzing me, too? You and my brother should open a practice. Poor, addictive Wes is on the rebound or getting addicted to a girl or setting himself up for another failure.” He zipped up his pants with enough force to risk injury. “But no one seems to realize that I’m a grown-ass man. Yeah, I screwed up. Big time. I’m the first to admit that. But I also have been through enough now to know my own goddamned mind. I know what I feel. And unlike you, I trust those feelings.”

  He held his arms out to his sides. “So yes, this has been quick. Yes, I haven’t been in a healthy relationship probably ever, but that’s how I know what’s special when I see it now. This—how I feel, how things have been between us—is not normal. It’s been abnormal in the best possible way. Which is why I was willing to take the risk and tell you that tonight. Because I didn’t want to let it slip through my fingers.”

  Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks now, and she hugged her knees to her chest.

  “And you may not want a relationship with me,” he said, his voice bouncing off the walls, “but I’ll be damned if you try to tell me this was just physical for you. Because that’s bullshit. You know this was good. You know this was different.”

  Was. The past tense rang in her head. Was. They were now a was.

  She wanted to agree, to tell him he was right, but all she could say was, “I’m sorry.”

  He stared at her and then shook his head. “Right. You’re sorry. Me too.” He walked over to the dresser to grab his phone and keys. “Thanks for the food truck, Rebecca. I guess I at least got paid for my services, even if I had to take off more than my shirt.”

  She stiffened like he’d slapped her. But before she could respond, he was out the door.

  Gone.

  Like so many other people she’d loved in her life.

  She listened for the slam of the door and then, wrapped in her sheet, barely made it to the living room to lock up. She curled in the fetal position on her couch and let the tears have their way. Knight trotted over from his spot by the door and laid his head on her thigh, whimpering, which only made her cry harder. When she stroked his fur, he jumped onto the couch and curled up next to her as if to tell her she wasn’t alone. But she was. Again. Always.

  At least it was now and not one year, five years, ten years into something with Wes where she wouldn’t be able to recover. At least this pain was familiar.

  She’d gotten good at goodbyes.

  chapter

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Wes leaned on his elbows at the bar, watching the light catch the facets of the crystal lowball glass and the amber liquid inside. He’d ordered the most expensive whiskey on the menu and could smell the smoky scent even over the food scents in the bar. His knuckles were bloodless against the glass and had been that way for the last twenty minutes.

  “Something wrong with your drink, sugar?” the female bartender asked as she grabbed a few bills from the vacated spot two stools over.

  Wes didn’t look up. “No, it’s fine.”

  “All right,” she said brightly. “Well, you let me know when you need a refill, or if you need me to pry it from your hands and dump it down the sink.”

  He lifted his head at that. “What?”

  She shrugged and nodded toward his grip on the glass. “I’ve seen this argument before. If you need me to help you win it, I can.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need any help.”

  “No worries.” She tapped the top of the bar. “Give ’em hell.”

  Then she was off to the other side of the bar where a raucous group of women were keeping her busy.

  Wes stared down at his glass again. This was exactly why Rebecca couldn’t say yes to something with him. Because his first instinct when he’d left her house had been to come here, like muscle memory. Get your heart handed to you, drink until numb, repeat.

  But he hadn’t taken a sip yet.

  He’d imagined the taste of it on his tongue, had felt the smooth burn of
it on the back of his throat. He could almost feel that beginning tingle of his limbs getting numb.

  But then he’d pictured his parents. Marco. Dev and Suzie. The kids in his class. He imagined their faces and how they’d react if Wes ended up drinking again. He forced himself to remember what that life had been like, what misery had filled his days when he was drunk. He imagined the bus sitting empty and abandoned and never becoming a restaurant. The kids in his class talking about what they could’ve had.

  That had kept the drink in its place.

  He could hear the emergency broadcasting system blaring in his head. This is a test.

  A test to determine if Marco and Rebecca had been right. Had this thing with Rebecca only been a rebound, a new obsession to distract him? The ache in his chest felt like it was more than that. He’d blown it by rushing things with Rebecca, but maybe it’d been an impossible road to begin with.

  He’d told Rebecca he knew his own mind, but then he’d acted like she didn’t know hers. She’d told him from the start that she didn’t want a relationship, that her job and her parents’ divorce had soured her on marriage or anything long-term. She’d told him and he’d ignored that, so whose fault was it, really?

  He was the one who’d let himself believe that because his perspective had changed, he could change hers, too. That wasn’t fair.

  But at the same time, he couldn’t help feeling like he’d missed something. He hadn’t read all her signals that wrong. He wasn’t that dense. Rebecca had been swept up by this whole thing, too. He’d caught her watching him sometimes with a look that had taken the air right out of him. Tonight, she’d told him he was an amazing person and magic with the kids. She’d said it with complete sincerity, with…love, and then they’d fallen into bed like they couldn’t get enough of each other. No part of him believed that she’d said those things just to pay lip service to him or that she’d slept with him just for the hell of it. But something had spooked her, and she’d shut down.

  He’d come here thinking that she’d sent him away because she didn’t think he was good enough for her. He was the recovering alcoholic. He was the former delinquent. He was the one with the shot credit and lost restaurant. But the longer he sat here, the more that didn’t ring true.

  I’m never going to be able to hear it.

  When she’d said those words, he’d been so taken aback by the whole situation that he’d immediately taken it personally, but what if it wasn’t about him? What if she meant that in all situations?

  I’m never going to be able to hear it.

  I’m never going to be able to hear it.

  I’m never going to be able to believe that someone loves me.

  The second he ran those altered words through his head, something clicked inside him. That was it. He knew those words like they were written on his heart. He’d felt that when he’d first gotten to Carolina and Ed’s place. Wes hadn’t trusted their kindness, their love, their acceptance of him. He’d expected them to leave or send him away, like everyone else.

  Rebecca hadn’t been left without parents, but her mother had abandoned her and her father’s version of love was barbed and merit based. She’d had a life in high school, and her friends and teachers had been ripped away from her in the most tragic way possible. Good things were temporary in her life. Love was always followed by loss.

  I’m never going to be able to hear it.

  She’d created the loss this time. He couldn’t hurt her if she sent him away. He couldn’t leave her behind if she pushed him out the door first.

  Wes let go of the glass and put his head in his hands.

  This is a test.

  Rebecca had given him one whether she’d realized it or not, and he’d failed with flying colors, making it all about him and his ego. Nice one, Garrett.

  Wes lifted his hand and motioned the bartender over.

  “What can I get you, hon?” she asked.

  Wes handed her the glass and a twenty-dollar tip. “The whiskey’s down for the count.”

  She smirked. “I never had any doubt. In my experience, anyone who makes it past the first five minutes is who I’m putting my money on.” She dumped his drink in the sink. “I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

  Wes slid off the stool and smiled. “No, you won’t.”

  She lifted the empty glass in salute, and Wes headed out the door. He had somewhere to be, but the minute he stepped outside into the humid night air, his phone buzzed against his hip.

  The ringing was shrill in the calm quiet of the evening, cutting through the gentle hum of the streetlights and the passing cars. His hope spiked. Maybe Rebecca had come to the same conclusion he had, but when he pulled the phone from his pocket, it showed unknown number.

  He stepped away from the bar and hit the button to answer it. “Hello.”

  “Is this Wesley Garrett?” said a clipped male voice.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Officer Mullins. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but we have a situation that we need your help with.”

  “A situation?” Wes asked, confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What is this about?”

  “Do you know a Steven Gregoire?”

  Wes stilled, the words chasing out the last remnants of confusion and making his heart pound. “Yes, he’s a student of mine at an after-school program.”

  “He’s in trouble. He’s asking for you,” the officer explained. “We need to send a car to your house so we can get you to him. The situation is serious.”

  “Wait, what’s going on with him?” Wes asked, worry surging. “And I’m not at home.”

  “Where are you? It’s very important that—”

  “I’m out.”

  “Address,” the cop said, all business.

  “But what is this—”

  “Address, Mr. Garrett. Please. Time is a factor here.”

  Wes turned to find a number on the building and gave the bar’s address.

  “Has he been arrested or something?” Wes asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Wes rubbed a hand over the back of his head. “Not yet? What does that mean?”

  “The situation is in progress. We’re sending a car, and the officers will brief you with what we need from you. Steven is negotiating with us, and he won’t do anything until he can talk to you and his lawyer.”

  “Negotiating?” Wes pinched the bridge of his nose, his mind racing. “His lawyer?”

  “Mr. Garrett, your student is holed up in his home threatening to shoot himself. We’ve done everything we can, but he won’t budge until he talks to one of you,” the officer said grimly. “We need your help.”

  Wes’s stomach plummeted. “Steven’s threatening suicide? Jesus Christ. Is he saying why?”

  The cop cleared his throat. “Because we’re trying to take him in. Earlier tonight, he shot his father.”

  The view of the building wavered in Wes’s vision, but he forced out a response. “I’ll be ready when you get here.”

  The cop car rolled up a few minutes later with flashing lights. A short, broad female cop got out of a passenger side and greeted Wes only long enough to tell him her name was Officer Clement and to verify he was Wesley Garrett. She pulled open the back door. “Please, sir, we need to get you to the scene.”

  “Of course.” Wes tucked his phone in his pocket and hustled into the car, but when he slid into the backseat, he found he wasn’t alone.

  Rebecca was already there, face pale and eyes red and puffy from crying. “Wes.”

  The car door slammed behind him, and he turned to her, confused. “Bec. What are you doing here?”

  “He asked for me, too,” she said, her voice rasping. “I’m…his lawyer.”

  “Shit.” Wes laced his hands behind his head. “This is bad.”

  Rebecca peered past
his shoulder, no doubt seeing the flashing beer sign in the window of the bar before the car rolled forward. She glanced back to him, her features sagging into heartbreak. “Wes, this is a bar. Did you? Are you…?”

  “I didn’t drink. I was pondering.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey.” He tapped her knee. “Things you don’t have to apologize for. My demon. Not yours. But I won. I’m stone-cold sober right now and completely focused on Steven.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she lowered her voice so only he could hear. “Wes, this is my fault. I let him go home. I waited. He shot his dad.”

  Wes curled his fingers into his palms and took a breath, trying to beat back his own panic. “Those are things we are not going to think about right now, and this is not your fault. We have no idea what happened. All we know is Steven is in danger and may not make it out if we don’t help. We have to focus on that right now. Steven needs that.”

  “Right.” She nodded and met his gaze, fear there, but a resolute look coming over her face. “I can do that.”

  “Okay.” He reached out and took her hand and was relieved when she curled her fingers around his. “Can you give us any more information, officers, so that we know what we’re walking into?”

  The male officer flipped on the siren, even though traffic was nonexistent at this hour, and sped toward the side of town near the youth center. Officer Clement turned and briefed them from the passenger seat.

  “Shots were fired late this evening, according to neighbors. When medics arrived, the father had made it onto the porch but had lost a lot of blood from a bullet wound. They rushed him to the ER, and all we know is that he’s in surgery. When we tried to go inside, his son, Steven, pointed the gun at his own head and threatened to pull the trigger if we came any further. Our top negotiator has been talking with him, but he wanted to see his lawyer, who he said was you, Ms. Lindt, and his cooking teacher, you, Mr. Garrett. Normally, we don’t bring civilians into these situations, but we plan to keep you well away from the danger. We just want you two to talk to him by phone and let him know that you are nearby and willing to listen. We need you to convince him to put the gun down and come out.”