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Maybe he doesn’t see me the way I wish he could because...
...because I don’t actually know what I want.
I just want him.
I want the version of him that protects me so sweetly, without this need to hide a distorted reflection only he sees.
I’ve been changing my plans because of him for years, haven’t I?
So why the heck can’t one—just one of my well-crafted blueprints—work out?
Drawing in a deep breath, I hold it for a count of ten, willing my mind to calm.
Ha. I might as well ask for a ticket to Maui while I’m at it.
I hate how my plans have always been so self-focused. Always about what I want, whether it’s a prestigious position in historical preservation or the raging need to hear from West after he went off to war.
Have I ever considered Weston’s goals—especially this new West I’ve fallen too fast and too hard for?
He’s still battling with war wounds embedded in his mind like stray shrapnel. While I was here, focused on my education, finding my career...he was literally tortured.
If I love him truly, beautifully, just as I’ve always believed, shouldn’t I focus on him? On what he wants and needs? If he’d let me.
All the sighs.
Maybe I’m not quite as mature as I thought.
Maybe I’ll only force my eyes open and see the real Weston McKnight when pigs fly.
* * *
My mind is still a jumbled mess the next morning, a pale lump of grey matter against the brilliant pumpkin-orange dawn of Halloween.
My only saving grace is that I have a pack of loud, hungry guests to feed, the stragglers who decided to stick around after the car show ended.
I pull a batch of cinnamon muffin dough from under the mixer, dish them out, and pop them in the oven before grabbing the scrap bowl for Hercules.
When I tiptoe onto the property of he-who-won’t-be-named, the big baby’s happy to see me, grunting with delight as he props himself up against the boards to sniff at my hand.
“Here you go, Houdini pig. Enjoy your special day. Plenty of pumpkin for the pumpkin,” I say, dumping a generous pile of pureed pumpkin from Gram’s last-minute 'serial killer pumpkin bars' into his trough.
Oh, how I wish people were as easy and forgiving as animals.
That wish doubles when I see my sandals on the grass outside Hercules’ pen, the ones I’d left in Weston’s living room last night. Looks like he left them near the pig’s trough where I’d be sure to find them.
A new crack spiderwebs through my heart.
Welp. There’s my answer.
A lonely pair of shoes tells me exactly how Weston feels.
He never wants to see me again.
I feel a boulder on my chest as I carry my shoes back to Gram’s. At least breakfast is a happy distraction as I throw together everything else for the guests.
Half an hour later, the happy people file in—everyone except Carson. For most of them, it’s their last breakfast before checking out. So once they’re served, I gather the supplies I’ll need to clean and sanitize each room.
Faye starts running her tail off yet again, always overeager to help.
