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There’s something haunted about the man—almost like he’s built a fortress around himself.
“I spent the night on his couch. He didn’t touch me.” It occurs to me that he’s bigger than Jesse and that he certainly had the opportunity to be a macho man about things. But other than that palm on my ex’s shoulder, Weston didn’t do anything aggressive. I bite back a sigh because I actually found his nonreactive energy very soothing. “And he didn’t lay one finger on Jesse even when he could have.”
“No one is perfect,” Eden sighs with a stretch. I remember very well several long nights my sisters spent with me right after the break-up, discussing in great detail what they would like to happen to Jesse for hurting me. There is no vengeance quite like an older sister.
“I want to do something nice for him,” I proclaim quietly. I’m not sure if I’m saying it for Eden or myself. Everything happened so quickly over the last few hours that I didn’t have time to feel anything other than a revolving door of alternating fear and relief. Now that I’m able to reflect, my mind fills with memories of Weston and the worried way he looked at me. My gut twists for a million reasons. “He saved me. Even if he won’t admit it. Even if he didn’t really want to.”
And for a girl who doesn’t always feel important or seen by anyone, that means something.
She snuggles into the leather of her massage chair. “Well, if anyone will come up with the perfect gift, it’s you. That’s your superpower.”
We fall silent through the various lotion massages and hot wax treatments, sipping water and enjoying each other’s companionship until our toes are perfect. After a quick hug, I leave the spa with a sense of confidence imbued by Eden’s words. But hours later, as I stand empty-handed in the middle of the mall, I can’t help but feel that she may have been mistaken. Well, not totally empty-handed. I did pick up a massive cinnamon roll for lunch along with an iced coffee the size of my head. Ensley would kill me if she found out that’s all I’m eating today, but the stress has left me craving something sugary and terrible for me. And if I don’t put some caffeine into my bloodstream, I’ll turn into a walking zombie.
Staring down at the sad remnants of my cinnamon roll in its cardboard coffin, I replay the blooper reel of my botched gift-hunting mission.
First, I hit a sporting goods store, figuring a human-shaped slab of muscle like Weston must have a hobby that involves flexing. But unless “bronzing like a Greek God” is a competitive sport, I’m out of my depth. Does Tai chi count as a sport or martial art? Gift cards feel as impersonal as a mass-texted “Merry Xmas” and Weston’s leap to my defense against a loose cannon like Jesse was about as personal as it gets.
Plan B: the vintage record store. Apparently, vinyl is the new black. After circling like a confused shark for half an hour, it hit me—I have no clue about his taste in music. Is he a secret death metal fanatic or does he groove to soft jazz? The idea of gifting him an ear-sore makes me cringe so hard it hurts. Besides, even though they’re coming back into style, does he even own a record player?
Then, in a moment of desperation, I wander into a high-end kitchen gadgetry store. Weston strikes me as a man who appreciates a hearty home-cooked meal, but is he the chef or just the consumer? Thanks to exhaustion and stress overload, my understanding of current kitchenware is literally non-existent.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes me out of my daydream. I’m perched by a plastic palm tree outside a Sunglass Hut, playing the world’s saddest game of Clue. Time’s ticking, I’ve got under two hours to rush home, transform from gift-hunting mess to work-ready, and my trophy haul is zilch. Zippo. A big, fat doughnut.
As I pop the last, best bite of my cinnamon roll into my mouth and drop the box into the nearest trash can, I realize I need to learn more about Weston to properly say thank you. Baby steps. Tiny, non-stalkerish, non-romantic investigations. Like alow-keydetective. And with that resolve, I feel a small ping of anticipation. The hunt is on, and I know I can do it.
Chapter Six
Weston
“What’s wrong with you today?” Mom huffs at me from the passenger side. When she unsnaps her seatbelt, she lets it go so carelessly that the plastic buckle slaps against the door with a bang. “You almost missed the turn for the doctor’s office, and you can’t park worth a damn.”
Even as annoyance rattles around inside me, I push it back down. “I’m just tired. Forgot how hard it is when you first start working nights again after being a normal daytime person for a while.”
I sit for a moment with my eyes closed, letting the engine idle with my hands on the wheel. I really am exhausted. I only had a handful of hours between last night and having to go pick up my mom, and I didn’t sleep a wink. I tossed and turned the whole time. I could chalk it up to there being a stranger in my living room, or the change in my sleep schedule. It would make things a lot easier if that were the truth.
She sucks her teeth, resting her hand on the door handle. “Sure you weren’t out last night getting drunk or spending time with some girl?”
I almost snap at her to go ask Banjo herself, and I’m surprised by the urge. No matter how irritated I get with her or how prickly she can be, I don’t ever go around provoking her or intentionally poking her where it hurts. I’m just tired. That’s it. That’s all it’s gotta be.
It has nothing to do with how nice it felt to be smiled at, or how much thinking aboutherlaugh softens all my rough edges. No, nother. Not anymore. Elowyn. Somehow, I feel like even thinking the soft, sexy syllables of her girly name possesses the power to unwind me. That would be trouble. And the woman in the passenger seat already gives me enough trouble for a lifetime.
“C’mon, or we’re gonna be late,” I groan, trying to smooth the exhaustion and exasperation out of my voice. “Took a month to get you this appointment, so I don’t think we can just reschedule.”
“Believe me, I know,” she says, before trundling out of the car and toward the entrance without a backward glance.
We’re in the office for at least thirty minutes before being taken back to an exam room, which puts her right on edge. By the time the doctor gets to her, she’s in quite a mood, and I don’t envy the guy one bit. He’s young, which is already a strike against him where she’s concerned, but he has a nice smile and kind eyes, which I hope will turn her around. The testing is extensive, and after well over an hour of little lights in her ears and beeps through huge headphones, I can tell from the look on the doctor’s face that it isn’t going well.
He tells her that he has to walk me over to the receptionist to discuss a paperwork formality, but once we’re out of sight from the examination room window, he stops me in the hallway.
I search his face. “You don’t look like you have good news for me.”
He puts his hands in his coat pocket, shuffling on his feet. “It’s… it’s pretty extensive. I don’t know how she’s made it this far without obviously needing help, to be honest with you.”
Sucking in a breath, I rock back on my heels. “What do we do? Is there any kind of treatment or surgery or—”
“She’s going to need a hearing aid,” he cuts me off with a shake of his head. “She may need an implant one day if it gets bad enough, but as of right now—does she use the closed captioning when she watches TV? Any time an alarm or timer has gone off at home and she doesn’t seem to notice it? Have you noticed any gaps in her understanding when you talk? Does she ask you to repeat yourself often?”
I run through a checklist in my head, answering the doctor’s questions for myself. Sometimes she doesn’t answer the phone when I call her, but I always chalked that up to her being busy or simply not wanting to talk to me. It never occurred to me that she just didn’t hear it ring. I wonder how much more she’s been hiding from me. I also realize how dangerous things could get if she missed a severe weather alert or couldn’t hear the smoke detector. His diagnosis makes sense, knowing her as well as I do.
