Page 39 of If You Never Come Back
I hold my breath. “No. I can do this on my own.”
I type in my passcode, then listen to the voicemail first.
“Shay.”
Just the sound of Wes’s low tone and gravelly register makes my insides implode. He sighs deeply. When I blink, I can picture the wrinkle of his brow, how he’s clenching his jaw when he pauses.
“I know I have no right to come back into your life like this, but…”
Another long exhale. My entire body hums and it feels like betrayal. It’s practically a reflex how every part of me begs to be close to him at just the sound of his voice. I force myself to focus back on the moment.
“…I just want to talk, that’s all. Just give me a chance to explain myself, to let me say sorry in person. Please, babe?”
I punch the phone into the couch cushion next to me. Remy jerks back.
I roll my eyes. “Oh please, I know you could hear it. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise.”
“True, and that’s exactly why I’m confused. What about his message made you so angry?”
Something hot settles under my skin. I can feel the heat all the way from my feet to my cheeks. “He has no right to call me babe. Not after how he left me.”
I swallow back the fire burning in my chest, the flames licking at the base of my throat.
“That’s fair,” Remy says. “Do you want to read his text?”
I shake my head, then hand my phone to him. “No. Delete it for me. Please.”
“You sure?”
“Erase it. Now.”
Remy offers a solemn nod. I take a sip of water, looking up at him. He stares down at the screen, carries out my order, and sets my phone back on the coffee table. “It’s done.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He grabs my hand. “Come bartend for me.”
“Remy, we’ve been over this. I’m too busy with work, I don’t have time.”
“You had time to go off the grid and shellac a dozen blank canvases with every kind of paint.”
I cross my arms, scowling at them. “I was working.”
“It would be good for you to spend a few hours every night away from your apartment.”
I start to object, but he cuts me off.
“You can make time to sling a few drinks. Don’t even try to tell me it’s not possible.”
Instead of arguing I say nothing, refusing to admit he’s right. Bartending for a couple of hours a few times a week would be easy to work in.
But that would open myself up to the risk of seeing Wes in person. He’s already tried to catch me there once. I have no doubt he’ll try again.
I bite back the groan of disappointment I’m aching to let loose. “What if he comes into the bar?”
“Then I’ll throw him out.”
“That simple, huh?”
