Page 9 of Somewhere in the Sunset

“Home safe and sound,” he says. “Are you good from here?”

My pulse beats painfully, but I force myself forward into the lounge. “Yes,” I lie.

The thought of another night tossing and turning because my bed doesn’t feel right without Luca next to me is unbearable. I press a hand to the arm of the couch for stability as I slide off my heels again, my feet immediately soothed by the softness of the rug. I throw my bag onto the coffee table next to my birthday cards. I amsoexhausted. From everything. This apartment doesn’t even feel like home anymore, and I still want to burn the place down, more so than I did before.

From the threshold, Weston says, “Okay, well .?.?. Goodnight.”

“Wait,” I say abruptly, spinning to face him. “Do you want a new shirt?”

He raises an eyebrow with a sense of amusement. “I think I’ll survive the five minutes from here to my place. Thanks, though.”

“Okay. It’s just that I have a closet full of Luca’s clothes and .?.?. Never mind,” I say, but my voice is weary. I cross to my kitchen and turn on the faucet, because no matter how late it is or how drunk I am, I simply can’t go to bed with dirty dishes in the sink. In my mini dress, I dunk my hands into the hot water and close my eyes. I’ve just about got my tears in check.

“Are you okay?” Weston asks quietly.

I grip the edge of the sink, my back to him. “Did you miss the part where I told you the love of my life left me? It only happened on Monday, and I’m still surrounded by all of his things, so no. I’mnotokay.”

“Yeah, me either,” he says. “My girlfriend broke up with me last night.”

I spin around from the sink with water dripping from my hands. Weston is still at the door, both hands pressed to the frame, expression twisted. He looks just about as broken as I feel.

“You can come in, you know,” I say. The distance between us seems too far.

He hesitates briefly, and just when I think he’s about to shake his head to decline, he steps forward into my apartment. There is uncertainty in the way he moves as he joins me in the kitchen and leans back against the counter with one foot crossed over the other. He stares down at the vinyl floor, swallowing the lump in his throat.

I haven’t really focused on him until now. His jaw is sharp and well-defined, lined by the faintest trace of stubble, and there’s a beauty mark right in the center of his left cheek. One of his arms is completely covered in tattoos, from the back of his hand snaking all the way up beneath the sleeve of his shirt, each design intricately woven together.

“Why did your girlfriend leave you?” I ask. There’s no polite way to phrase such a question.

Weston doesn’t look up from the floor. The anguish pulses from him when he admits, “She didn’t feel loved by me. But the truth is, I don’t think I realized just how badly I loved her until last night. And that’s about four years too late. She won’t even answer my calls anymore.” He clenches his jaw and scoffs to hide his pain as he waves his phone helplessly. The screen is empty of any notifications. He sucks in a breath. “How about you?”

“The opposite,” I say, but my voice is breathless. “Luca thinks he loved metoomuch, and now he wants to be selfish. He wants to find himself .?.?. Whatever that even means.” The confusion that’s haunted me for days returns, hanging over me like a storm cloud. I still can’t make any sense of what it is that Luca wants, and I think that’s why the breakup has been so hard. Not because I’ve spent seven years of my life with this person, not because my future vanished in a split second, but because I don’tunderstand.

Weston lifts his head. He fastens his eyes on me, an all-too-familiar pain rising to the fore, and then closes the distance between us. He steps in front of me and pulls me against his chest, arms wrapped around me.

“What are you .?.?. ?” I mumble against his damp shirt, my arms hanging limply by my side.

“Goddamn it, hug me back,” he says.

I press my face into his chest and envelop my arms around his back. He’s large and muscular, and as he holds me tight, the ground beneath my feet finally stabilizes. The world stops spinning and I feel steady.

Weston’s chin rests atop my head, his soft breaths getting lost in my hair. When the moment lasts a little too long and I try to let go of him, he doesn’t release me. He only holds on tighter. “I needed this,” he whispers.

And then we unravel from one another and immediately turn away. I dunk my hands back into the sink and Weston retreats from the kitchen. That was too much intimacy to share with a perfect stranger, and now it’s awkward. Unbearably so.

“I better grab the Uber,” he says, but his voice carries across my apartment and I realize he must already be at the door. “Goodnight .?.?.” And then with purpose, withweight, he adds, “Gracie.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Goodnight, Weston.”

The door clicks shut, and he’s gone.

WESTON

Fuck.Fuuuuck.

I swear to God, I am never drinking again. It wasn’t even worth it. Did the tequila make me forget about Charlotte? No, it didn’t. What a waste of money only to feel like death has come calling my name.

The bathroom tiles feel like ice as I hang over the edge of the toilet bowl, trembling in my boxers, my insides burning with acid. My skin beads with sweat. Every time I try to move from the bathroom, a new wave of nausea washes over me and I find myself right back in this spot, praying for a miracle. Promising God that I won’t ever drink again if he cures me right now.

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