Page 15 of If You Never Come Back
Three weeksinto Wes’s “I’d like to see you as much as I can” proposal, and the two of us have sprinted yards past the “smitten” boundary.
We’ve seen each other every single day since the night he surprised me at Dandy Lime. If I’m working a bar shift, he’ll come in an hour before close and nurse a tequila on the rocks while waiting for me. If I’m free, we grab dinner or a drink. If I’m working from home, he stops by my apartment, always with a meal packed for us to share. There is always sex. Never has there ever been a more enjoyable three weeks on this planet.
I’m constantly smiling, giddy, laughing. Remy comments every time he sees me. That I seem like I’m floating on a post-orgasmic cloud 24/7. I brush it off, but he’s right. I am obnoxiously happy. And it’s different from the joy I’ve experienced with the guys I’ve been with in the past. Every time I see Wes, my stomach flips, my heart skips, my breath catches. One look at him, and it’s like a beam of sunlight explodes from within me. Simply being around him—cuddled together in my bed, watching Netflix on my couch, holding hands while walking down the street—is an unfamiliar, all-encompassing contentment I’ve never known before.
I stare at the most recent work on my easel. The image smiling back at me is evidence of just how different these feelings and these past few weeks with Wes have been.
Against the stark white of the canvas, a charcoal rendering of his face half-smiles back at me. With my fingers, I smudge the mass of black that is his hair. Then I take the pencil, darkening in his eyes. When I finish, I lean back and study it. Heat glides up my neck and cheeks. After a second, I roll my eyes. It’s a sketch of him and yet I’m as giddy as if he were standing here in front of me, displaying that panty-dropping grin.
I’ve never once drawn a guy I’ve dated before. The thought’s never crossed my mind. But with Wes, it’s different. Everything is, from the way my hand tingles when he holds it, to the safety I feel when I fall asleep in his arms. It’s a feeling that’s grown ever since the night we agreed to see where things could go during his time here. Now it’s full-fledged emotions linking me to him.
I scan the floor, where a handful of watercolor paintings I’ve done of Wes lay, drying in the patch of sunlight streaming in through the window.
A knock at my door makes me jump.
“Just a sec!”
I flip over the canvas on my easel so the image faces the wall. With careful hands, I check the paintings. Dry, thankfully. I scramble to stack them together and tuck them behind the canvas on the easel. I take slow, deep breaths, the evidence of my growing feelings hidden safely away.
When I open the door, Wes stands, cloth bag in hand. “Thought you might want a little something to eat before your shift tonight.”
I thank him and step aside to let him in. We kiss, plop on my couch, and dig into the turkey club sandwiches he so lovingly made.
“Avocado?” I say around a bite. “What did I do to deserve such luxury? That stuff’s expensive.”
He kisses the tip of my nose before taking a bite. “You mentioned the other day that you gave it up to save money. Thought you deserved a treat.”
While chewing I nuzzle his neck, then sink my back against his chest.
“How’s work going?” Wes asks.
“Good. Busy, which I love. A guy hired me to illustrate a storybook of his first date with his girlfriend. It’s a gift for her birthday next month. Super romantic.”
Wes finishes one half of the sandwich, then swipes the other half from the coffee table. I dig into the container of carrot sticks.
“Now how the hell are the rest of us supposed to measure up to a romantic gesture like that?” he says.
I snuggle closer to him. “I think you’re doing pretty well.”
We finish our sandwiches and he takes our trash to the kitchen. On his way back to the couch, he halts at my desk. He hunches over, staring at the illustrations I’m working on for the book.
“Damn, Shay. These are fantastic.”
He runs a finger over the edge of the paper, careful to avoid the actual images. I smile at his mindfulness. I mentioned the first week we started spending time together that smudges are the bane of my existence, so I always set down tissue paper under my hand when I draw.
I walk over to him and flip the pages over so he can see the rest.
“Disneyland was their first date,” I say. “Epic, right?”
Wes’s eyes cut to me, and I have to remind myself to breathe. It’s the exact same stare I captured in my charcoal drawing. It draws out the exact same reaction from me. Proof that no matter if he’s on paper or in person, he absolutely does it for me.
He winks. “Not as epic as ours. You can’t get much better than a slap in the face followed by making out in the bathroom.”
I shove his arm, and he reaches for the side of my stomach, tickling me until I squeal. Instinctively I jump back, bumping my easel.
A thud on the floor makes the two of us turn around. There lie my charcoal painting and every single watercolor work I’ve done of Wes, all of them face up.
My hands fly up to cup my mouth. The gesture does little to muffle my choked gasp. I take a step toward the sheet nearest me, but it’s too late. Wes is kneeling on the floor, a watercolor of his face in his hand, examining it with a narrow stare. He’s like a scientist studying bacteria growth on a petri dish.
