by Ember Leigh
If this is the nomad approach to flings, then I never want to do this again. I went out on a limb with Weston, because he’d shown me just how unique and worthwhile he was. But maybe I’d been the bigger fool to believe those icy blues. A man with a set of abs like his can’t be trusted. That has to be the takeaway from all this.
This isn’t exactly the glorious end to my vacation that I imagined. But somewhere in the painful crush of heartbreak and loss, I decide that I need to purge all of it and move on.
So I sob and cry and weep like the heartbroken fool I didn’t want to be, and approximately two hundred tissues later, I sit up with renewed focus.
I’m alone on this island. Completely fucking alone. All my friends have flown back to their respective corners of the world, and the one man I briefly—psychotically—thought I could create a future with has not just left but ghosted me.
I could choose to see this as a sign for me to slither back to my comfy little snake hole back in upstate New York. My flight is still booked for two p.m. But no. For how stupid and childish and avoidant Weston has proven himself to be, he did instill some good lessons into me. I won’t go into all of them now, because I’d like to continue hating him for the time being, but his words on living the life I’ve always dreamt of didn’t go unheard.
And the truth is, I don’t need him to create that life. I don’t need anybody but myself and my own damn motivation. I thought that my life might have been better with him in it, but if he doesn’t want to be there, then all I can say to him is, fine, bye, and maybe in a few weeks also, Why can’t I stop thinking about you; this is really gonna bother me for the rest of my life.
Permanently bothersome or not, I’m not going to let this detract me. Weston will only prove to be a wobble in my path, not a complete detour. At this point, the detour to the life I’ve always dreamed of would involve going back home.
So after I take the morning to finish packing, shower, and compose myself, my first stop is Edward’s office. Signed contract in hand.
His eyes light up as he pulls open the door, and when he invites me to sit down, the first question out of his mouth is, “Where’s the second shooter?”
“He’s, uh…” Shit, I didn’t rehearse in my head how I’d handle this. “He’s not able to accept the offer due to a personal emergency.”
His personal emergency being his own nomad heartbreaker tendencies.
Edward nods tersely, gaze falling to the contract I’ve placed on his desk. “This position does require two photographers. The normal workload throughout the year is...substantial. There’s no way you can do it on your own. I mean, it will literally involve being in two places at once.”
My heart races. I’m not going to let Weston’s decision affect my own. I want this job. Not only that—I need it. It has become the beacon of my commitment to lead an outstanding life. Even if it fizzles and goes nowhere. I want to at least try.
“I totally understand. Which is why I’m already lining up a different second shooter,” I say. It’s a lie. Well, I’d like to call it a white lie, so it sounds less intense, but truly, this is false information. I will be lining up a second shooter. As soon as I get the green light from Edward to begin building a life in Aruba.
His brow arches. “You have someone in mind?”
“I have a few different routes I’m pursuing,” I tell him, looking down at the contract while the words tumble past my lips. “But I can assure you that I will have the second shooter confirmed by the end of the week. I don’t take this responsibility lightly. I understand that the smooth functioning of the photography sessions depends on both of us. And my high standards and eye for perfection will ensure that I don’t let you down.”
I’m talking like the mission statement of my own damn resume. But if I’m making this up as I go along, then why not see where it leads me?
I have to at least try.
Edward nods slowly, lacing his fingers together. When he pins me with a look, I can see question marks there. But at last he says, “Well, for some reason, I think you’ll make good on that word. Our current schedule allows for just a single photographer this upcoming week, so it might work out. As long as you can find your second shooter by Monday, it will be fine.”
He offers me his hand, a smooth grin on his face.
And while fireworks explode inside me, I shake his hand.
Here we go.
Chapter 29
WESTON
When the email from Cliffhangers Gear arrives a half hour after my plane lands in Ohio, I’m not surprised. The only thing I feel less than surprise is excitement when the email tells me my account has been accepted as a representative.
My upcoming stint in Thailand officially has purpose. My life has meaning again. I can now officially brag to my family that I know what I’m doing with my life.
Whoopty fucking doo.
The days in Bayshore churn beneath me. I don’t leave the bedroom of my parents’ house most days, and if I do, I go get lost in the woods. My father and I have exchanged barely twenty words since I got home, and my mom knows something is wrong, but I don’t give her the chance to probe.
The Friday after I fly home, I’m starting to feel stir crazy. Just before lunch time, I pack up my notebooks and pencils, toss on my satchel, and start walking downtown. I can hear Nova teasing me about my bag in my head. Every time I look at it, I think of her. Which is ridiculous, because I had this bag for years before Aruba. She should not be the primary memory associated with this bag.
But damn near everything she touched has now become Nova-centric. She is a catchy tune I cannot stop replaying in my head. The type of song I sing even when I’m upset, or trying to have a conversation, or doing literally anything other than think about her.
Nova didn’t just crawl into my insides, she stained me. Which is exactly what I was afraid of.
I don’t know where I’m going, other than I’m heading there. Once I hit downtown Bayshore, the scents of the lake breeze become overwhelming and inspiring. I decide to keep walking. I don’t stop at Hazel’s realty office, though I see her car out front. I swing out to hit the boardwalk that runs along the shore. It lines the entire northern edge of town, and I’m hoping the lapping water will help pull me out of this funk I’ve been festering in for five days.
Five entire days. I’ve never needed so much time to stop thinking about someone. I need to get my head right, and fast. My flight to Thailand is in eight days. I can’t go there still hung up on Nova. I don’t include regrets in my luggage, much less heartbreak. I can’t even believe the word is crossing my mind.
I did not fall in love with Nova.
No matter how many times I repeat these words to myself, I don’t entirely believe them. And I can’t stop thinking about when she confessed—twice—that she was in love with me.
Fuck it all, I almost told her, I love you, too.
But that can’t be true. Because that’s not who I am. That’s not Weston Wanders. Women grace my feed as momentary delights, pretty sparkles to adorn the tapestry of my travels. None of them stay. I do not let them stay.
And more than that, I myself do not stay.
So why am I still imagining a major redo on the ending of that Aruba trip?
What I need is time. And, of course, a flight to Thailand, plenty of new sights, and maybe a new lover. Even though the thought of being with anyone who isn’t Nova is totally unappealing, it still seems like the right medicine for me. And who loves taking medicine? You force it down, even if it doesn’t taste good.
I’m lost in my thoughts—the same thoughts since the second I left Aruba—and walk for so long that suddenly I realize I’m on the east end of town, standing at the back of Dom’s clinic. I look up at the big bay windows overlooking the lake, spotting London on the other side of the glass in her back office. She waves at me. Shit, I’ve been spotted. I wave back, and when she gestures for me to come inside, I can’t imagine any reason not to. I have nowhere I n
eed to go, other than away from my own head, which is the one impossible destination. Why not distract myself a little bit at the clinic?
London pulls me into a fragrant hug as soon as I come into the back office. I can hear the low murmurs of Dom’s voice from inside one of the exam rooms, which tells me he’s seeing patients.
“How are you?” London gushes, gripping me by the sides of my arms as she looks me up and down. “God, you got tan.”
“Living in the tropics for a week will do that,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.
“Did you come to work? I’m in the middle of writing, and your spot is still open.” She grins, waving me toward the table. And that’s when I realize—it’s Friday. I always come on Fridays to work with her. I’ve been so lost in my head, it feels like a millennium has disappeared beneath me.
“Actually, yeah.” I take off my bag, heading to the long table where I always spread out.
“So how was Aruba?” Her chair creaks as she settles in front of her laptop.
“It was good.” It was so much more than good, but I don’t know where to begin, so I won’t.
“Did you end up catching any proposals while you were down there?” she teases. Her enormous engagement ring glitters on her fourth finger. Would I ever buy something like that for Nova? I doubt she’d even like it. She seems more like the type of girl who would want to tie a palm frond around our wrists and call it a day. As an homage to the time I fixed her light stand. If she were here, she’d laugh about that. But wait. Why am I thinking about getting Nova an engagement ring?
“Actually, no,” I say, yanking my gaze off her ring. “But I helped out with the wedding pictures a little.”
“See? I told you—you’re perfect for that stuff. I can see you having a business like that someday.”
Her comment doubles as a spear to the heart. I won’t tell her that I was offered that exact opportunity. I don’t know how the story will sound to anyone on the outside. Besides, it’ll involve telling her about Nova, and I just can’t go there yet. I bring out my sketchbook and open it to a blank page. I begin sketching idly, not really knowing what I want to draw yet.
“Maybe someday, once I’m done traveling the world,” I tell her. My pencil goes skritch skritch skritch.
“Where next?”
“Thailand.” Skritch skritch. “I leave in eight days.”
“Just for fun?”
She has no idea what I do, either. Nobody does. And it’s not their fault. It’s because I have no idea what I’m doing.
“My brand was accepted to represent a company on a promo tour,” I tell her, trying to sound as casual yet self-important as possible. Because this is my ticket to knowing where I’m going in life. This is my career, however much it doesn’t feel like it. “So I’ll be traveling Thailand, Morocco, and a few other countries on up to Ireland.”
“Oh wow.” Admiration shines in her voice. “Doing what?”
“Just…whatever I feel like. Taking pictures along the way. They’ll have some company-specific trips I’ll need to go on, and some equipment I’ll test out and promote. But other than that, it’s just…” Nothing at all. The words echo inside my head. That can’t be the truth. I’m not doing nothing. This is everything.
As in everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything people dream of. Everything I tell myself I need in life.
So why does it feel like the opposite?
“They pay you to travel for them?” she asks with a small laugh. “Wish I could find that gig!”
This, right here: this is the reaction I dream of. Thinly veiled awe. The wow, how do I get your life response. I must not be hiding my confusion very well, or maybe London is just exceptionally astute, because she asks, “Are you not looking forward to it?”
“Of course I am,” I lie.
“Oh. You just seem a little…” She shrugs. “Down.”
I nod, staring at the page without even seeing what I’m drawing. I just need the therapy of the output. I don’t even care what it looks like. “Yeah. True. I am.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Skritch skritch skritch. “I do but I don’t.”
“Oh. Well, it’s up to you.” London offers a small smile. “I won’t probe if you don’t wanna go there.”
Silence settles between us, and I continue drawing. London takes the hint, and soon she’s tapping away on her laptop. Minutes float by. I enter into that coveted Zen focus state. When London pauses in her writing next, she gasps.
“Oh my god. Weston, that’s amazing.”
“What?”
“Your picture! She’s beautiful.”
I stop drawing and push the notebook away from me so it sits in the middle of the table between us. Who is she? She’s Nova, of course. My subconscious is drawing Nova. It will probably continue to draw Nova for the next decade.
“I met someone in Aruba,” I begin. London rests her chin on her curled fists, leaning in closer.
“Is she the girl you’re drawing?”
“Yeah.” I frown at the picture, then look up at London’s eager eyes. “London, I don’t know what to do.”
Her brows draw together. “About what?”
I expel a deep breath and rub my face. If I’m going to admit this to anyone, it can be London. Because London is safe. I feel the closest with her out of any of my brother’s girlfriends—sorry, fiancées. And I know that if I ask her not to say anything to Dom, she’ll honor that.
“I’m supposed to go on this trip. It’ll last at least three months, possibly six if it goes well. I don’t even have a return flight to the States,” I tell her. “I don’t know when I can see her again.”
“Can you two meet up around the world? She seems like a traveler if you met her in Aruba.”
I shake my head, staring at the flowing outline of Nova on my page. “She can’t live like I do. And I don’t think I can stay in one place.”
“Why not?”
I grit my teeth as the reason bubbles up inside me. I’m not sure I can say it. Admitting it feels too big, too wrong. But there’s something about the past week that’s unlocked something inside me. So maybe I can say the words. After all, I shared a part of myself with Nova and the world didn’t collapse.
“I’m not good at long-term things,” I say carefully. “I can’t hold a steady job, much less a steady girlfriend.”
She snorts like this is ridiculous. “Why would you say that? There’s no reason you can’t do those things if you want them.”
I swallow a knot in my throat. “Well, I’ve tried before. And I didn’t end well.”
“You did?”
I sigh, indecision streaking through me. I could just clam up and leave and not go there. But I feel like I’ve come this far. Why not just a little further now? “Right after I graduated from college, I got a job at this huge advertising firm. Well, I was fired two years later.”
Her face softens. “Fired?”
“Yeah. I’ve never told anyone about it, so maybe you could keep it a secret for me. It won’t go over very well in this family,” I say bitterly.
She reaches out to squeeze my wrist, her bracelets jangling. “I won’t say a word. I just don’t see the link between that and what you’re talking about now.”
“How could you not? I’m not fit for long term. I wanted to keep that job. Believe me. I’m just…” I falter as the words escape me. “I’m unfit, because I’m a failure.”
London laughs, which is not the reaction I’m expecting. She presses a hand to her mouth, like trying to suppress it, but more laughter leaks out, and finally she says, “I’m so sorry. I’ve just never heard you say anything so absurd.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m being honest.”
“You are the opposite of a failure, Weston,” she says, lowering her chin to look me in the eye. “You and your entire family are the biggest bunch of competitive work horses I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I’m sure it might feel like failure if you don’
t keep a regular nine-to-five job like the rest of the modern world, but believe me—that’s not your path. And that didn’t happen to you by chance. There was a reason you were set free from that. Even if goes against your father’s expectations or what you feel like you should be doing.”
Her words stun me into silence. My gaze drifts back to the page.
“I’d actually be disappointed in you if you told me you’d found some boring office job like you used to have,” she says, straightening her back. “That life isn’t the Weston I know.”
“I don’t want it,” I admit reluctantly. “But I don’t want what I have, either.”
As soon as the words escape me, it feels like Zeus himself has sent down a crack of thunder. Something about the words and the revelation and London’s intense honesty has me cracking all the way open. There are no limits anymore. I have nothing to hide behind.
“Then what do you want?”
Nova. I look down at the page. “I wanted to stay on Aruba, but I was too afraid to try.”
She tosses her hands up with a smile, like everything has become crystal clear. “Well, there we have it! Isn’t that exciting?”
I laugh in spite of how heavy it is. Because yeah, it’s exciting. But it’s also terrifying. It’s also inconvenient. Because I’ve set everything up to continue doing the thing I don’t want to do. I’ve structured my life to favor the nomad lifestyle.
I have a flight in eight days that precedes a guaranteed paycheck.
I have a promo tour to complete.
And worst of all, I didn’t just leave Nova, I hurt her. Whatever bridge existed between Nova and me, well—I made sure to torch it upon exit.
“Hey, brother!” Dom’s bass rumble startles me out of my thoughts as he comes into the back office. He approaches me, arms out for a hug, which is one of those things about New Dom that I’m still getting used to. I come to my feet and let him pull me into a quick brotherly hug. He claps my back and then eases into the seat next to London. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. A dopey grin crosses my brother’s face, and all I can think is, I know that life.