It took me a long time to realize I wasn’t directly responsible for her being beaten that night or for the abuse she suffered as a child. Contacting HIB saved her life. I didn’t act as fast as I’d wanted, but my actions helped. Our secrets are what broke us, and in the end, we both realized that we knew less about each other than we’d presumed.
Three years have passed since we stopped occupying the same space. I run a hand through my hair, taking a long sip of air. The pain from not having her close hasn’t disappeared yet. My lungs keep gasping for air, but I still feel like I’m choking. After our first kiss, Abby became my oxygen, and since she left, I’ve been trying to learn how to breathe without her. But it’s so fucking hard.
I miss her voice, our friendship, and the way I felt when she was around. I miss her body pressed against mine, kissing her whenever I got the chance. For a couple of weeks, we were together. It was a short-lived affair where everything was too perfect, almost staged. I treated what we had just like any other relationship—carelessly—and it broke into a million pieces. Looking at this painting, I remember those special times when she’d open up to me and I saw the real Abby. She claimed that I had no idea who she was, but my heart saw through to the real girl behind the happy mask.
Sterling shouldn’t be selling this piece; it’s too special. The silhouette of the woman watching the sunset is Abby. She’s leaning against the railing of her room in Tahoe—our haven—and the place where I swear I can still feel her presence. Just like I do right now. It’s like she’s only a few steps away from me.
If only.
I had no idea I missed her this much. Maybe it’s the tone of the painting. It’s muted, the style reminiscent of Monet—one of Abby’s favorite artists. Each stroke has a smudged quality that renders the image watery, like a reflection in a rippled puddle.
“I must have this painting.” a feminine voice says behind me.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I apologize, turning around and taking a step back when I see who is next to the lady. My heart slowly moves inside my chest, stretching, as if waking up after a long nap.
“This painting has been sold,” I lie. My voice is firm.
My eyes divert to her. She stares at me wide eyed while holding her breath. My pulse accelerates. I take a lungful of air, and my chest loosens up. Her presence brightens the entire room. My God, she’s even more beautiful than I remember her. She looks stunning in a short, red dress that accentuates her curves.
Abby, I whisper.
She looks different, like a grown-up version of the girl I met almost ten years ago. Abby wears just enough makeup to highlight her beauty. Her gorgeous brown eyes appear bigger with her hair pulled back into a fancy bun. My gaze is drawn to her smiling lips. Never in my entire life have I wanted to kiss a stranger.
Today, I’m dying for just a touch of those full lips.
She looks familiar, yet so different from the young girl I once knew.
Why is she here?
Sterling never mentioned they’d stayed in touch. Maybe she’s visiting and decided to drop by and check out his art. Abby was fond of my brother and always supported him, even when we didn’t understand the symbolism in his work.
“It has a price tag next to it,” the woman says, tapping the sticker twice.
Then huffs, looking around. “If necessary, I’ll offer more than the asking price.” This lady is adamant about having it.
The woman has no idea who she’s dealing with. There’s no fucking way I’m letting her buy it. I’ll pay triple if I have to, but this painting is mine. Neither Abby nor I respond. Our gazes lock; the air around us has changed. The world stills. Everyone around us disappears into the background.
“Hi,” I greet her after a few seconds of silence.
“Hey.” Her voice is so soft I almost miss the word.
“I see you made it, big brother.” Sterling pats my back.
“Mr. Ahern. Jane Tabel. It’s so nice to meet you,” the lady introduces herself. “This painting of yours is magnificent. I’d love to buy it.”
“It’s not for sale.” I glare at him.
Sterling takes off the price tag and shrugs. “He’s right. My assistant must have priced this by mistake.”
Abby narrows her eyes at him and snorts.
“Oh well, I’ll contact you via email, because I’d love something similar.” She nods at Abby and me and leaves.
“Wes, have you met my partner? This is Abby. Abby, meet my asshole brother, Weston.”
“You’re not funny, and up until a few minutes ago, this was for sale,” Abby says blowing out a breath and throwing her hands up in the air.
I can’t believe she’s working with Sterling when they’ve always frustrated each other so easily.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to pay the caterer.” She tilts her head and turns her full attention to me. “It was nice seeing you, Weston. Sterling, you’re in charge.”
My heart deflates when she turns around and leaves me behind.
“She hates me,” I sigh, watching her go.
Sterling rolls his eyes. “She hates me because I just called her my assistant. And I didn’t warn her about you coming. You never confirmed that you’d swing by, and honestly I’m not here to babysit her feelings, or yours.”
“Is she your partner?” I frown, trying to understand the meaning of that word.
She was never interested in art, so why is she here?
“Yes, she owns half of this business.” He grins. “She took a chance on me, not that I needed the financial backing. But it meant so fucking much to me that she offered and used the money Dad left her. She believes in herself and in me—and it’s a fuck you William Ahern, Sterling-is-worth-it shout out to heaven.”
“I doubt Abby did it to challenge Dad.”
“In my head, that’s how it went. So don’t take away the illusion, big brother,” he laughs.
“I’m proud of you, Slugger.” Proud of her too for believing in herself.
Although, this isn’t what I imagined she’d be doing after rehab. I thought she’d be behind a desk crunching numbers. Is she following her dreams?
He grins. “I’m kind of proud of you too, big brother. You seem to have fixed your shit.”
I smile, not sure if I can say that everything is fixed, but at least I’m not as fucked up as I was when he kicked me out of the company.
“Anyway.” He squeezes my shoulder. “It’s time for me to charm the fans. You should catch up with a certain beauty. See if she still carries a torch for you.”
“We’re over,” I remind him.
“You’re telling me that you don’t love her anymore?”
I love the idea of her. I'm in love with our memories. But in no way am I in love with her. “I can’t be in love with someone I don’t really know.”
“You’re not in love, but you love her. She’s right here.” He tilts his head. “Why don’t you give it a try? You have a chance to show her the man you’ve become, and to discover who she is.”
“Who is she?” I ask under my breath.
“Find out, Weston. You won’t regret it.”
— — —
Abby stands close to a door at the end of the hallway speaking with one of the waiters to whom she’s handing an envelope.
“Hey,” I nod at her once we’re alone.
“Sterling didn’t mention I’d be here, did he?” Her voice is guarded, while her eyes wander around the room.
“How are you?” I flinch as I stare at her hands.
It’s hard not to think that if I’d acted faster or been closer to her that day, I could have prevented it from happening. I stop, reminding myself there’s nothing I can change from the past and that I can only plan for what’s ahead.
She crosses her arms, effectively hiding them. “I’m fine, thank you. And I’m on my way out, but it was good to see you, Wes.” She clicks her way across the floor in a pair of high heeled sandals, waving and smiling at some of the patrons.<
br />
“Thank you for coming,” she says a few times to the people who wish her a good night as she moves toward the door. I follow right behind her.
The sudden breeze hits me on the way out of the gallery. It’s slightly chilly for August, but it doesn’t surprise me since the weather in Colorado is always changing. It can feel like winter during summer and vice versa.
“You’re leaving?” I clear my voice because it comes out rough.
But what the fuck? We just reconnected, I expected a hug and a big smile. Something like: Wes, I can’t believe you’re here, and her running into my arms. Fuck, now that I think about it, it sounds so stupid. Why would she receive me like that? It’s not like we left on a good note.
“Yeah.” She waves at me before speeding up.
“What happened to, let’s hope we can be cordial if we ever see each other again?” I ask, trailing right behind her.
“Who ever said that?” She doesn’t stop as she continues walking along Third Avenue toward University Boulevard.
“You, me, both of us in our letters. I can go home and find the ones where you mentioned it.”
She comes to a halt, her chin lifted and her eyes spitting fire. Underneath that strong exterior, I see it. The hurt and sadness that wasn’t apparent while we were at the gallery. Something triggered her defensiveness.
“We said hello.” She looks at her hands. “You’re well, and I’m well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”
Twelve
Abby
It’s hard not to be self-conscious when my hands have so many scars. Thin, pale lines with tiny dots where the stitches once were. People always ask what happened.
“A few broken fingers,” I’ll respond casually. “It was an accident.”
No one asks for details, but I see it in their faces, the pity, the puzzlement over my Frankenstein-like hands. It doesn’t bother me when people flinch or scrunch their noses. They don’t know that I barely made it out alive. When I count the scars, I also count my blessings and not the horrible moments I lived through with Shaun.
But Weston staring at them with horror and pity—that’s so fucking infuriating. I rush toward my place holding the tears that are threatening to break through my armor. I’m not sad; I’m raging. These days I rarely fake my moods, but with him, I have to put up a front. He’s not going to know that his reaction made me stumble and fall.
If a guy who once said he loved me can’t stomach my hands, what would he think about the rest of me?
For a second back in the gallery, I toyed with the idea of spending the entire night talking to him, just like we used to do when we hadn’t seen each other in several weeks. It’s been three years; we’d need an entire week to catch up. My heart pounded hard and fast at the prospect of reacquainting ourselves again. I almost lost control when I saw his tall, dark, and handsome form in the gallery. He remembered my words and spoke about the painting with a passion that reminded me of how we were—us.
Us is over though.
We ended.
Sadly, when I left his side, I didn’t take all of myself, and a big part of who he is came along with my heart. I spent years untangling myself from him. We spent six years as friends but the last three we were something more. We never embraced it as such, but it happened. We were a couple. And like in any love relationship that lasts so long, the two of us became one. His favorite music became mine; my favorite shows were his too. When his last letter arrived, every memory branded in my brain made me feel as though I’ll never be whole again.
He was gone.
I remembered how much we loved to run together. Our hikes. The trips we took along the West Coast while I was in school. Our vacations. Spain. Tahoe.
We always had Tahoe.
It took me a long time to get over him, to find myself and become a whole person. For a moment, while he was standing in front of me, I could only think what it felt like when I’d had him beside me. The safety, the warmth, and the peaceful nights.
“Can we get some coffee?” he asks as we reach the traffic light.
Two more blocks and I’m home.
I need the safety of my house. He’s never been there. Wes doesn’t belong in there. But fuck if he isn’t still here, right beside me. He’s still the same guy who doesn’t give up easily. I guess he really wants to catch up with me.
“It’s a little late for that.” I stare at the light, begging it to change to green.
“You live around the area?” His voice is loud, but not forceful.
I feel as if he’s trying to reach me but he’s afraid of something. I hope that my therapist has a stronger tea in her drawer because chamomile won’t be enough to control all the emotions fluttering inside me like a bird flying south knowing winter is coming.
“M-hmm.” I glance at the almost deserted streets and sigh with relief when the light finally turns green.
A block later, I arrive at my house. It’s small, barely two thousand square feet with two bedrooms, but the lot is huge. It was a bargain. The lady who sold it to me hadn’t done much to it since her husband died back in the 90s. I’ve been fixing it up for the past six months, and Chester has been enjoying the space. He’s a spoiled pup who believes that the entire neighborhood is his playground and the backyard his castle.
“Abby,” Wes calls after me, as I climb the steps toward the porch. “Please, just have coffee with me. You can’t tell me you don’t feel the pull.”
“What I feel are your eyes pitying me,” I say with my most monotone voice. “The way you stared at my hands. I get it so often, and I don’t even care, but coming from you …”
I punch in the code on the lock and wiggle the handle to open the front door. Then, I turn around and straightening my back to make sure that my voice doesn’t waiver.
“This is me, doing what I do with every other guy who can’t stand the sight of my hands, because if you can’t stomach those little lines, you’ll hate the rest.” I hold them up, palms facing me. “And let’s be honest, we can’t try to get our old friendship back because it doesn’t exist.”
He takes both my hands in his, bringing them up to his mouth. Wes feathers them with tiny kisses then looks at me. “I stared because I always wonder what I could’ve done to prevent that night from happening. Abby, I fucked up in so many ways, but mostly, I regret retreating into myself when you told me what had happened to you.”
Wes stands still, quiet, his expression neutral. I pull my hands from his grasp, missing his warmth immediately and wishing for his lips.
“I was upset and trying to figure out how to fix it, to make it better for you.” He combs his hair with one hand. “You’re right, I focused on fixing people. It was a bad habit. Nothing I say about the past will change what happened. I’m just sorry that I wasn’t there for you—emotionally—when you needed me.”
There’s something about his words, the nostalgic tone that makes me focus inward. I think of the moment I confessed the truth to him. Every piece of my life I’d tried to hold together suddenly fell, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I told Wes about the abuse and the night Ava died because I thought he would understand. Instead, he shut down. I felt lonely. Never in my life had I ever felt so alone, and I’d survived on my own for years.
“Abby,” he murmurs, his voice almost lost in the silence of the night.
I look at him, bite my lip, and see the agony passing over his handsome face.
“It’s just a fucking coffee,” his says in a low tone. “Allow me to introduce you to the person I’ve become, while I get to know the new you.”
I shiver at the sound of his voice. The rough, yet soft tone only he can produce. It’s masculine, raw, and yet still warm. It hypnotizes me and makes me feel completely safe.
Focus, I order myself. Think of what can happen in the long run. Your heart won’t recover if you let him inside. He’s sneaky and will make you fall in love. The next time he leaves, it’ll be a million times harder to get over him.
>
“I loved you,” I say. “God knows I did. But it didn’t work. We broke each other’s hearts.”
We both got hurt, it wasn’t just me. Three years ago, neither of us could do a thing about it. He tried to fix me all the while knowing there was no way he could. We stand silently, and I hate that there’s not much we can do. Everything contradicts itself. He was part of a dream, and now he’s here, but there’s nothing left.
“Thank you for walking me home. Goodbye, Wes.”
I shut the door, leaning against it and closing my eyes. I let him get to me in less than ten minutes. Since the moment I saw him standing in front of my portrait. I can’t afford to be near him.
Damn, I lost money too.
Abby: Hey, who is going to pay for that painting? It’s part of my fund.
Sterling: I’ll pay for it, woman. Did you guys make up?
Abby: No. Did you know he was coming? You should’ve told me.
Sterling: If I wasn’t sure he’d show, why upset you beforehand?
Abby: You didn’t tell him either.
Sterling: We don’t talk about you. You’re like scotch or good whiskey.
I have no idea what that means, but I leave my phone to charge and head to my bedroom to wash away the encounter. In bed, I cry for tonight, for both him and for myself.
I behaved like I didn’t miss him, as if I’d never loved him. I did. There were so many things that made me fall for him, like the way he looked at me, with so much understanding. Wes always knew what I was thinking before I said a thing. His thoughtfulness was enough to make my heart skip a beat.
I miss those pictures he’d send me just because. The caption would read, “I saw this, and it reminded me of you.”
I miss our silent moments. He made me feel steady. And when we were together, I made him laugh like he never did around anyone else.
Back to You Page 8
