Page 56 of If You Never Come Back
His eyebrows wrinkle together at the sudden presence of my fingers on his lips.
“Don’t say anything more,” I say.
His mouth moves against my hand and he hums what sounds like gibberish, but I shake my head no.
“I mean it, Wes. Our relationship—our past—it’s history. I don’t want to rehash it, okay? Let’s just focus on being friends now, nothing more.”
It stings less than I thought it would to say these words. I take it as a sign that I’m doing the right thing.
Wes stills against my hand, his eyebrows smoothing back to their rightful place along that smooth ridge of forehead. He nods, looking back to our glasses, which now sit empty on my coffee table.
He makes a grunt-noise that sounds a lot like a throat clear. “More?”
“No, thank you.”
He twists the cap back on the bottle, then shoves it back in his bag. “I should get going.”
“Thank you for helping me today.”
“No problem.” He zips his bag, stands up, and flashes a forced smile at me. “I’ll see you later.”
The door shuts. Instead of making myself dinner like I would normally do in the early evening, I stay seated on the couch, staring at the empty glass the faintest hint of gold liquid at the bottom.
I did the right thing. I drew boundaries and obeyed them. I sink deeper into the couch, unable to move. Then why do I feel so hollow?
Chapter Eighteen
Iset down my paintbrush and stretch my neck from side to side. Another cityscape painting is nearly done and my muscles are in knots as a result. I’m just starting to feel well enough to paint and sketch again, but as much as I love it, it’s hard work getting back into it after an injury.
I’m wringing my hands out when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I holler, pressing my palms against the tops of my thighs to stretch them.
Wes enters. “Still at it?”
“Always.”
There’s been no more shared tequila between us since last week, and that’s for the best. No more awkward moments. Just polite conversations that prove we’re moving on.
I press a fist into the muscle knot that has so conveniently wedged itself where my neck meets my left shoulder.
When I pivot to face him, Wes is frowning.
“You’re not pushing yourself too hard, are you?” The concern on his face and in his tone sends a warmth straight to my chest.
“Of course not. This is all part of recovering. Working my wrist and my leg every day so that I don’t get stiff. It’s going to be sore at first, but that’s part of the process. I’m feeling better every day and by next week I’m sure all soreness will disappear.”
Wes crosses his arms then starts to put together packages to take to the post office. I continue with my painting.
He turns back to me, his face still painted in concern. I stare back in confusion until I realize I’m absentmindedly rubbing my sore wrist. I stop immediately.
“Have you thought about doing something to ease the stress of your muscles after you work them every day?” he asks. “It would be best for your recovery, I think.”
I turn back to the painting. “Like what?”
“Like massaging them.”
“I rub my ankle and my wrist after I finish painting or sketching. I’m fine.”
