by Amelia Wilde
“Wes,” he says, but he couldn’t have said that. The explosion underneath the Humvee incapacitated him. I dragged him out myself, saw the mess of his left leg with my own eyes, the blood, the wreckage.
A hand covers mine, soft and small, and I jerk away. “Wes?”
I blink and suck in a breath. Air in the lungs. Breathe. You’re not in a fucking Humvee. You’re in Macmillan’s, with Whitney, of all people. Her eyes are huge and dark, and she brings her hand to her chest slowly. No sudden movements.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?” Her voice comes from far off at first, then snaps back into my focus, along with the sounds from the rest of the bar. Glasses clinking against one another as Keith pulls them from underneath the counter. The soft murmur of that couple at the bar. She laughs at his joke. The front door opens, letting in a long curl of fresh spring air. Even in New York City, I can smell the trees in bloom.
“What are you talking about?” I grab a menu from the holder on the wall. “I’ll buy you an apology dinner, if that’s what you really want.”
7
Wes
It takes three trains to get to work from Newark, and I hate every single one of them.
Each one is more crowded by the minute. I’ve been leaving early, to avoid rush hour, but there’s no such thing. No matter what, the train is a mess by the time I get into the city. People are too close, and inevitably there’s some crazy asshole when I step off at 60th. My shoulders tense, the pain reaching a hand up to my temples and pressing in hard. By the time I get to the office, it’s a matter of plastering on a half-pleasant expression and downing the coffee I couldn’t hold on the train. I have to have my hands free.
Except today.
I’ve got all my stuff with me in two black suitcases, because after work, I’m moving in with Whitney.
Newark is a minefield in more ways than one, so after the dinner at Macmillan’s, we agreed to split the rent for one month, two months maximum.
“A short-term thing,” she’d said lightly.
“I want my own place.”
Her shoulders had sagged a fraction of an inch, but the smile never left her face. “Of course.”
Then she’d ordered a brownie to go and told them to add it to the bill.
That girl has a pair of brass ones, that’s for sure.
It brings a smile to my face, thinking about that damn brownie, even while I’m dragging two suitcases from the subway to my office, head throbbing. The tension seeps out from my head to my shoulders, an iron rail I can’t shake off. I ended the lease on my place in Newark over the weekend. There’s no going back.
At the office, my shoulders relax. I know what’s going to happen here. Same as every other day.
Visionary Response’s headquarters for New York City are in a low-slung building in Midtown. We scan ID cards to go through the lobby to the elevators. I usually take the stairs, but two rolling suitcases would make that an enormous pain in the ass, so elevator it is. The wheels squeak on the polished floor. Up to the fourth floor, across a carpeted lobby, and in through a set of glass doors. Up front, we’ve got a hallway lined with meeting rooms, and then a big, open bullpen full of cubicles. Mine is toward the back left corner, and my boss, Greg, is striding up the aisle toward me when I get in. I’m still twenty minutes early, even with the suitcases.
“I know you love the job, Sullivan, but this is a little much.” He gestures to the suitcases with his titanium all-day coffee tumbler.
I shrug my shoulders in an “Aww shucks” way. “I couldn’t let you down, boss. You need me here.”
He laughs and steps out of the way, so I can pull the suitcases into the cubicle. I line them up on the outer edge so they won’t be in the way. “It’s freakishly clean in here. Did you know that?”
I snort. “Please. I’ve seen your office. I know about the dust buster.”
“I’m not ashamed of the dust buster. It’s a Black & Decker.” I pick up the pile of papers in my inbox and leaf through them. “Seriously. Are you taking a trip or something?”
“Moving into the city today.”
“Commute was killing you, huh?”
He has no idea. “It’s a bit far from Newark.”
“Where’s the new place?”
“About eight blocks.”
“Army buddy?”
I almost laugh out loud but catch myself at the last moment. “No. The opposite of an Army buddy. It’s actually my sister’s old roommate.”
Greg raises his eyebrows. “Your sister, Summer?”
“I only have one sister.”
“She was living with a guy?”
My God. “No. One of her friends from college.”
He doesn’t understand, and then he does. “You’re living with a woman?”
“I hate to break this to you, Greg, but you live with a woman too.”
“She’s my wife.”
“I’m not getting married in order to sublet an apartment. Come on, Greg. I’d have invited you.”
“I’m flattered.” He takes a long sip of his coffee. “You don’t think things will be a little...tense?”
“Tense? Why?” I give him a wide-eyed stare.
He takes the bait. “You, in a small apartment, with a living, breathing American woman? You’re telling me that’s not going to heat up?”
I think of Whitney’s lips on mine, the sparkling flavor of a mimosa on her tongue, the way she moved against me like there was nothing in the world that could stop her from the kiss. And then I think of the way she looked at me at Macmillan’s, that flash of vulnerability in her eyes.
“No. It’s not going to heat up. It’s not that kind of arrangement.”
Greg raises his tumbler toward me. “Yet.”
Yet is his thing. Whenever we haven’t achieved something in the department, it’s only a matter of time. We haven’t done it yet. We don’t have those skills yet.
“Never. I’m not going to go after my sister’s best friend.”
“A guy like you doesn’t have to go after women. I’d bet my quarterly bonus on it.”
“We don’t have a quarterly bonus, unless you’re holding out on me.”
“Guess we’ll find out,” says Greg. Then he laughs at his own joke and leaves me to start my day.
“You didn’t bring much.”
Whitney eyes the suitcases as I pull them in the front door of the apartment. It’s almost seven, and I can tell she’s been waiting because, once again, she looks flawless. Nothing like a woman who rushed home from the office at five. Her makeup is perfect, red lipstick making her lips look luscious enough to bite, and her hair is in a sleep twist at the back of her neck. “Two suitcases? Is that really all?”
“How much does a person need to live for a month?”
“A month, two, who knows. I’d pack three suitcases for a week.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re right. I’m far more talented than that when it comes to clothing arrangement. I could fit three weeks’ worth of outfits in one of those.” Whitney steps into the entryway and gently presses the door closed behind me. I get a breath of her scent. It’s light and floral, as if someone had bottled the spring air. I could breathe it for hours.
“I’m sure you could. But I don’t need help packing, obviously. Where’s the room?”
8
Whitney
Living with Wes isn’t going to be easy.
Of course, there are levels to everything. On one level, I have a handle on the rent for the next two months. A man like Wes is far too picky to decide on a place in four weeks—I can feel it in my bones.
Rent’s simple. The hard part? I’m stone-cold sober, except for a half-glass of wine, and I still think he’s three-mimosas hot. Hotter, even. I opened a bottle of moscato at six when he still hadn’t shown up, but I’m too much of a lady to welcome a new boarder full-bottle tipsy. Especially given the three-mimosas attractiveness radiating off his cut body.
Wes clearly isn’t into small talk, so I allow myself one last glance down his business-professional-clad body. The clothes do nothing to hide the muscled breadth of his shoulders, and since I’ve seen him shirtless semi-recently, I don’t have to leave his abs to my imagination.
He looked unbelievable in a tux. He looks almost as good wearing dress slacks and a button-up that somehow manages to bring out the color of his eyes.
“The room?” he prompts again, a hint of impatience in his eyes.
“Right. Of course. I’ll give you the grand tour.” The apartment I formerly shared with Summer isn’t huge, but I’ve spent the last seventy-two hours making sure it’s spotless. “In here is the living room.” One couch, one overstuffed chair. Blanket thrown over the back of the couch. It looks effortless, but I spent five minutes on the arrangement. “And through here is the kitchen.”
I thought about baking cookies, but he’s already agreed to stay here. I’m not a fucking realtor, anyway.
“Okay.” His voice is low and even. He has the kind of voice that makes me wish he’d say more, but he’s apparently feeling quiet this evening.
I lead him down the hall to the bedrooms. “On the right is the bathroom. I keep towels and things in the linen closet in there, and I got a second set for you, in case you were moving in without any.”
He stops outside the bathroom door and amusement brightens his green eyes. “You thought I went to Road House, and now you think I don’t own towels?”
I lift my chin. “A courtesy, Wes Sullivan, to make your moving-in experience a little easier.”
One side of his mouth quirks upward in a grin that reminds me of Summer, though I can’t ever remember her being anything more than mildly sarcastic if she’d had a hard day at work. I have no idea what Wes is going to say. Something snide and asshole-ish, as is his way. “Thank you.”
I wasn’t expecting that, but I roll with it without even blinking. “You’re welcome.” I step to the end of the hall, where two doorways face each other. “I have the room on the right. This one’s yours.”
He looks at me, stone-faced. “I don’t think so. I always take the room on the right.”
What? This time, I do blink, lost for a witty comeback. “You might always have—” No, that’s stupid. Now I’ve started something I can’t follow through on, and there he is, staring at me while the heat rises to my cheeks. Act, Whitney. Act. For God’s sake. This isn’t any worse than the improv class I took two summers ago. “If you think—”
Wes laughs, relenting. “I’m kidding.” His face relaxes and for an instant I think I’m seeing him unguarded, the way Summer must have when they were growing up together. “It’s more than a little weird to be living in your sister’s old room.”
“What, your parents never—” Never what? Moved? Died? Caused such upheaval that you were lucky to keep your bedroom another nine months after—
“They never made us switch, if that’s what you’re asking.” Wes pulls the suitcases down the hall and peers into the room. “I moved into the basement when I graduated high school. That lasted about three weeks.”
We look into Summer’s old room together. She left her queen-sized bed here, the mattress wrapped in an airtight protector because she lived in perpetual fear of bedbugs, but I bought a new set of sheets and a comforter to go with them. My instinct with bedding is always to get the fanciest available, but my budget prevailed. Plus, it’s Wes Sullivan, not the King of England. Still, the sheets are soft enough and the comforter is a middleweight one that won’t be too hot in the summer.
Not that he’ll be here in the summer.
“Summer liked being on this side,” I offer. “She likes the sun on her face in the morning. Hence the wide-open curtains.”
Wes rolls his eyes. “The sun on her face, and yet she spent her entire childhood insisting that winter is better.”
“When you’re a kid, the best season is the one you’re in. You haven’t learned to feel the cold yet.”
“Yeah.”
This is veering into actual-conversation territory, and I have to say, I don’t hate it.
“All right.” Wes picks up the suitcases and carries them into the bedroom, setting them down with a confident thud. From here, he looks too big for the room, even though I know it’s a fine size room for New York. God. Why do I want to push the walls outward around him, just to give him an extra few feet? It’s a stupid instinct. Wes Sullivan is a man, like any other man. He doesn’t get more space because he’s hot and happens to have a killer body, all hard and muscled and— “Did you need something?”
“Hmm?” I’ve been staring at him. “Oh. No. Did you need something?”
He looks at me. “Some time to unpack.”
That’s a Get the hell out if I’ve ever heard one, but Whitney the Almost-Famous Actress takes it in stride. I smile at him, like I’m relieved to be getting away. “I’ll be in the living room if you want any company.”
“Good to know.”
I pour myself a second glass of wine in the kitchen and settle into the couch. There’s the muffled sound of dresser drawers being opened—Summer and I found them at a thrift shop and restored them one weekend, which was an entire thing. I’m two glasses in when he appears at the end of the hallway.
I ignore him studiously, but I can feel his eyes burning into my skin.
Wes moves into the living room.
I hold my breath and stare at the Netflix original I have playing at a low volume. Is he going to sit down next to me? Is he—
He goes past the couch to the windows.
What the hell?
Wes stands close to the frames and tests them both, then cuts back across the living room to the front door. I don’t turn my head, but the sound of him yanking on the knob is unmistakable.
Okay. He wins. I stand up, wine glass in hand, and face him.
“What are you doing?”
“The security in this place is a joke. You’re waiting to be robbed.”
I shake my head slowly. “I choose to believe people are better than that. Not everybody who walks by my front door is a bad person.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “They’re not all good, either. You can’t just go through your life assuming everyone’s going to be nice to you.”
I scoff at him. “I would never assume that.” I sit back down on the couch. “I met you, didn’t I?”
9
Whitney
Two Weeks Later
Here’s what I can say about living with Wes Sullivan: it’s a lot quieter than living with Summer. And she wasn’t a party animal by any stretch of the imagination. I had to drag her to Vino Veritas at least every other weekend so she’d get some stimulating human contact. Not that I didn’t love her homebody ways too—she had a knack for pairing wine with baked goods, and picking the best shitty movies on the planet to watch when we didn’t feel like going out.
Wes doesn’t do wine or shitty romcoms. He mostly does silence.
Since our little exchange over whether humanity is fundamentally decent, at the end of which I pretty much called him an asshole—again—he’s kept a frosty distance. He leaves for work early, he comes back late, and he’s quiet as a fucking mouse. I’m sure if I asked him about it, he’d say he was giving me my space.
I don’t want this much space.
If I’m being honest with myself—if I’m being brutally, horribly honest with myself—the solo life isn’t for me. I can put a good face on it. I can put a good face on anything. I have a picture of Hollywood’s Man of the Year in my insurance agency cubicle, for God’s sake. I am upbeat.
But I can’t live in the silence.
Not anymore.
When I get home from work Friday night, Wes isn’t there, as usual, so I slip into the shower and afterward coil my hair into a casual bun at the back of my neck. As for wardrobe, comfortable chic will do. Yoga pants, and a sweatshirt that hits very nearly at the shoulders. I look good.
I pour two glasses of moscato, then think better of it. I’ve got plenty of time, I know, so I head down to the bodega and buy a six-pack of beer. Not the cheapest stuff, but not break-the-bank, either.
I’m standing near the couch, poised as if I got up when I heard the door, when he gets home.
“Hey,” I say, as he drops his bag on the table in the entryway and flips the lock on the door. “How was work?”
He deadbolts the door, tests it with a tug on the knob, and turns to face me. “It was fine. Some guy from my department brought bagels.” He looks startled, as if he didn’t plan to say this to me, but shrugs it off. An awkwardness descends between us and he clears his throat. “What about you?”
“Work was fine. I sold a lot of insurance policies.” The beer is making my hand cold. “The thing is, it’s too quiet in here.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Too quiet?”
“I—” I always have things to say, but looking at Wes in his office outfit has me lost for words. “I didn’t mean to call you an asshole the last time we talked. Not overtly.”
“Last time we talked...”
“When you were telling me that this place is a prime target for robbery.”
He gestures to the door. “I added a deadbolt.”
“I appreciate that.” I swallow. “But I only responded the way I did because it made me feel sketched out about living here, and this is my home, so I don’t want to have to—”
He blows a breath out through rounded lips. “My fault. I shouldn’t have made a big deal of it. I’m sure the building is perfectly safe.”
“Do you want to watch a movie?” I blurt out the question because my hand is freezing, and that’s the point I’m dying to get to. I want to break the ice. I want to make it comfortable to live here, and more than just in the “Rent is paid this month” kind of way. I don’t expect to be best friends with Wes.
