Page 45 of If You Never Come Back
Remy:Want me to stop by?
“Shay.”
I glance up at Wes, his frown now softer.
“I’m the reason you got hurt. Please let me take care of you. It’s the least I can do.”
I swallow. “What exactly will that entail?”
Twenty minutes ago I was raging at Wes, but I’m not exactly in a position to turn him down now. And I’ve inconvenienced Remy enough for one night. I don’t want him to spend his evening checking up on me when he should be sleeping.
Wes rubs his jaw. “It would entail me wrapping your ankle or your wrist—whichever hurts worse because I can only find one ace bandage in your bathroom. Then I’ll carry you to your bed so you can sleep. I’ll take the couch.”
I start to object, but he shakes his head.
“You might have hit your head when you fell. Do you remember if you did or not?”
I shake my head no.
“And I’m guessing you’d shoot down my suggestion to take you to the hospital to get checked out.”
“Yup,” I answer, the faintest hint of bitterness in my tone.
“Then you need someone here to keep an eye on you to make you sure you don’t have a head injury or something serious. Just for tonight.”
When I don’t say anything in response, he sighs. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
One night. One night of my ex sleeping on my couch, four feet away from me, after his request for a chat turned into a horrible argument.
I let out a soft exhale. “The pain in my wrist is starting to ease up, but my ankle’s still throbbing. Can you please wrap it?”
He nods, then kneels in front of me. He slides my sock off, then softly rests his hands on my bare ankle. I swallow, ordering my senses to keep it together. There’s nothing personal about this touch. It’s all business.
And it’s happening because he hurt me—because he thinks he owes me.
I text Remy that I’ll be fine without him. He texts that he’ll check on me in the morning.
Wes wraps the bandage tightly around my ankle, then slips the sock back on. “Ready for bed?”
“I need to brush my teeth first.”
He scoops me up and carries me to the bathroom before I can utter a word of protest. When I’m finished, he carries me to the bed, then props a pillow under my ankle. Then he fetches me an aspirin and a glass of water. I mutter a thank you.
“Just yell if you need anything,” he says. The way he stares down at me tests my renewed resolve. His gaze is watchful, tender, and almost too much.
I fixate on my ankle to distract myself. “Okay.”
He turns out the lights, then settles on the couch. The rustling of fabric fills the silent space. I close my eyes, imagining him taking his clothes off in the darkness.
My throat aches with the knowledge at how none of this means anything to him…and how it means everything to me.
Minutes pass. I know I should be trying to sleep, but I speak up anyway.
“Wes?” My voice is a sharp whisper.
“Yeah?”
He sounds alert when he speaks. I exhale, relieved that I didn’t wake him. “Thank you.”
