Page 41 of If You Never Come Back
The tiniest glimmer hits Wes’s eyes. A second later he blinks, and his face is serious again. “I’ll be here.”
* * *
“You sure youdon’t need me to stay with you?” Remy asks while cashing out the register.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. I promise.” I prop the last chair on top of the last table. “You can wait in the office.”
“Fine.” He practically growls it.
There’s a soft whoosh sound when the door opens. I look up. Wes again. For a few seconds, all we do is stand and stare at each other, as if we didn’t just see and talk to each other twenty minutes ago.
I swallow and gesture for him to take a seat at the bar.
Remy shoots me one last look, but I shake my head. He stomps to his office in the back, shutting the door behind him.
I walk over to the bar and stand across from Wes. “Tequila, right?”
“Yes, please.”
“What kind?”
“Whatever kind you want to give me.”
His tone is so soft, so pleading, I nearly break. But I keep my focus on the task. I contemplate serving him the lowest quality swill we have, but that bottle is practically empty and I don’t want to open a new one just for him. Yes, it’s petty, but I can’t help it. Six months ago this man left me a sobbing heap on the floor of my apartment. Downing that nail polish remover masquerading as tequila would be a lenient punishment.
I sigh, opting for a bottle of Jose Cuervo, pour it in the glass, then slide it to him.
“What do you have to say, Wes?” There’s no need for pleasantries, not with a history like ours.
“Your hair. It’s short now. It looks really pretty.”
“Save it.” I bite my tongue to keep from yelling. Compliments are not allowed between us right now…or ever again.
“I’m so, so sorry.” Everything in his tone, in his face, reads sorrow. It’s not enough, though.
“For what?” I want to bark the question, but I strain to keep my voice at a respectable tone.
He clears his throat, glancing down at his drink for a second before answering me. “For everything.”
“Try again.”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry for how I hurt you, for the things I said, for the way I left. I wish I could take it all back.”
I swallow back another quip, letting the silence dance between us.
“I’m sorry I didn’t try to contact you when I left. I just didn’t know how to make things right.” He takes a sip and pauses to breathe. “But I’m back now. For good.”
He waits like he’s expecting me to say something. I say nothing.
His face falls. “I’m…you’ll never know just how sorry I am, Shay.”
Pursing my lips is the only way I can get the lump in my throat to keep from growing into a full-fledged sob. Remy was right; emotions can hit when you least expect—at the exact moment you don’t want them to. I may not have cried over Wes these past couple of weeks, but I suspect I’m about to make up for it now. All that anger, sadness, and frustration from before comes tumbling back like an invisible tsunami leveling my insides. My eyes water, but thankfully no tears fall—yet. I spin around and pretend to dry a glass while I silently deep-breathe, hoping I can keep from crying in Wes’s presence.
“Shay,” he practically whispers. “Talk to me. Please.”
I close my eyes. I can barely handle how sincere he sounds. Still, I stand, my back to him, still saying nothing.
“How…how were things with you?” he asks.
