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Tell them that I’m falling for him and don’t want to admit it.
That it’s been such a short time and impossible to feel this about someone, but I do. And I hate it. I hate the anxiety of being in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way about me and has bigger issues which he needs to seek help for.
“Wesley is Wesley. When things were good between us, they were good. When they were bad, his true colors showed.” Emerson relaxes her shoulders, smiling softly. “I always worry about him, despite him being a dickhead half the time. I don’t know… he has a troubled past, and I wish he could just move on, you know?”
I know. I want the exact same thing.
“From what I’ve heard, it’s just a giant mess. What about that Farrah girl?”
Emerson shakes her head, rolling her eyes with disgust. “Ignore her. She thrives off attention. If you ever meet her, you’ll know what I mean. She will make a move on any man… she’s even tried to hit on Logan.”
“What about these claims that Wesley got her pregnant?”
“I don’t know… he told me it isn’t his. I kinda believe him. Wesley’s not a kid person. I don’t see him wanting a family. He doesn’t take to mine, and he hates being around small kids.”
I smile widely and with a bout of happiness. Those simple words comfort me in ways I don’t expect to feel at this moment. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, all along, I was focusing on what I expected he would want rather than what he actually wants.
I grab my cell, open up a text, and send without any hesitation.
Me: I love you.
I probably should regret it. But I don’t. I bask in this euphoric state, allowing myself to live if only for this moment, and follow what my heart and head are so desperately in sync with.
And moments later, in the middle of Emerson’s drunken cha-cha with some old lady, my cell lights up on the table, and his name is there, in bold.
Wesley: About time. I love you too, baby.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hell has found a place inside my pounding head.
I curse the sangria that lured me in with its delicious sweetness. Red wine and I do not mix. It isn’t just my head throbbing, my stomach doesn’t take well to it either. Waves of nausea taunt me as I lay here regretting my decision to unwind, drink, and be merry.
With a sudden rush, I race to the bathroom, stubbing my toe on the side of the bed, hobbling through the pain until I’ve made it just in time to dry heave into the bowl.
I’m dying.
Plain and simple.
I continue to sit here, falling asleep for minutes, maybe an hour, until loud banging against the door wakes me up.
“Milana!”
The scream isn’t appreciated at this moment, high decibels echoing inside my sore head, causing my eyes to flinch from the repeated agony. A frantic Emerson barrels through the entrance dressed in her nighty with her hair looking like a bird’s nest.
“Oh my God. Are you okay?”
My mouth tastes awful, laced with metallic something and incredibly dry. I clear my throat, and above a whisper, ask, “Do you have to be so loud?”
“We have to get out of here… now.”
“Why?” I move my body that seems to ache all over. I recall the sangria and the dancing. Salsa, cha-cha, and perhaps, if my memory is accurate, the tango.
“What happened?”
“Our flight got moved forward. We need to leave in thirty minutes.”
In a state of panic, all my senses are on alert. Thirty minutes? I look at my room, an empty suitcase and clothes are strewn everywhere.
