Erasing Faith

by Julie Johnson

  And, right now, that was enough.

  Chapter Forty-Nine: FAITH

  ERASERS

  Did you ever stop to think that even if I am a monster… I might still be your soulmate, anyway?

  I sat on the floor, my eyes aching almost as much as my fists, and replayed his words over and over until they crowded out every other thought in my head. Honestly, hearing him ask the question I’d been asking myself for three long years was a little more than I could handle.

  I hadn’t lied, when I’d told him he changed my life — changed me. He’d flipped my world on its axis and walked away, leaving nothing but bitterness to fill the void he’d created. Since that day, when I woke up in the hospital and learned that life as I knew it was over, I’d had only one mission: to eradicate his memory completely. To cut away every impression he’d left on me, and start over.

  I’d learned quite quickly that while, in theory, forgetting Wes would be easy, in reality it was damn near impossible.

  Wes…

  Well, Wes was like math.

  See, as a little kid, I’d sucked at math. I can still remember sitting in Mrs. Sampson’s second-grade classroom, learning my multiplication tables for the first time and failing to grasp the concepts she was trying so desperately to illustrate on the chalkboard. Every day she’d give us a worksheet… and every day I’d find myself staring at the incorrect answers I’d scribbled down on said worksheet, dreading the part that came next.

  The eraser.

  I’d drag that damn piece of rubber back and forth across my faulty calculations, scrubbing away my errors with each swipe and watching with a growing sense of frustration as the crappy school-issued eraser turned my penciled answers into a blurry smudge of charcoal. No matter how hard I pressed, the marks never came away clean. The faint shadows of my miscalculations were imbedded deeply in the paper, impossible to remove without tearing away fragments of the worksheet as well.

  I couldn’t expunge the memory of Wes, any more than I could scrub out those embarrassing math mistakes. Not without shredding parts of myself along with him.

  In the end, as much as I might want to, I couldn’t deny the truth in Wes’ words.

  You don’t choose who you fall in love with in this life.

  You can’t erase your soulmate.

  The marks they leave are etched in permanent ink.

  ***

  He came back, after a while, and we ate a dinner consisting of the same stale crackers and canned soup I’d turned my nose up at only hours earlier. At this point I was so ravenous, I’d have happily eaten my left arm, if it meant the hollow ache inside my empty stomach would go away. I tried not to eat too quickly, but my fingers shook as I scraped the final remnants of soup from the sides of the can.

  We didn’t speak.

  At first, I didn’t mind the silence. But after a while, the persistent quiet began to fill with that uncontrollable, electric feeling. The space separating us seemed to crackle with invisible sparks as every molecule in the tiny cottage began to charge and collide with tension. The air was so thick with the things we’d left unsaid, I soon felt starved for oxygen — each breath I dragged into my lungs made my chest ache a little more, until the lancing pain beneath my ribcage was almost crippling.

  I grabbed my duffel bag and began to rummage through it, looking for the pajama set I’d packed. After a sleepless night followed by a day of exertion — both physical and emotional — I was exhausted and had no intention of sleeping in dirty street clothes again. What I really wanted was a long, hot bath to soak away the grime — but that would require me to ask Wes for some privacy and, as I was stubbornly determined not to be the one who broke our silent stalemate, that wasn’t an option.

  Unfortunately, I knew from experience that he was just as stubborn as I was.

  Snatching a soft pair of shorts and matching tank from my bag, I headed for the “bathroom” in the corner. The curtain was too small to conceal much, but it was better than stripping down to my skin under nothing but the weight of Wes’ eyes. As for his ears — I knew all too well that every sound I made would carry easily past the flimsy hanging fabric.

  I tried not to let that bother me when I plunked down on the toilet and started to pee. Maybe I would’ve been fine, if it hadn’t been so many hours since I last relieved myself. Maybe, if I hadn’t chugged a half-gallon of water after my cleaning marathon, I could’ve done the deed and remained entirely aloof about the whole ordeal.

  Or, maybe not.

  All I knew was, as soon as my ass hit porcelain, I was peeing like a racehorse. And it lasted forever — one of those pees that’s so long, it’s embarrassing even when you’re the only one to witness it, all alone in the privacy of your bathroom. Except I wasn’t alone, and the damn witness to my humiliation was my satanic maybe-soulmate, standing inches away.

  The steady streaming sound was so loud, it seemed to echo back at me from all sides.

  Thirty seconds passed and I began to pray it was almost over, though I knew I still had half a tank left to empty.

  At forty seconds, I felt my cheeks beginning to flush with mortification.

  At fifty, I was ready to curl up in a ball and die, rather than face Wes after this.

  When I neared the minute mark, I heard a chuckle from the other side of the curtain and dropped my head into my hands with a groan. This was even worse than my dirt-eating dive from the trunk.

  Finally, finally, I expelled every last drop from my bladder and flushed away the evidence of my embarrassingly long pee. I took my sweet time changing into pajamas. Only when I was sure the color had faded from my cheeks, did I dare pull back the curtain and step out to face him.

  His eyes immediately met mine and I was pleased to see they held no teasing. My gaze swung swiftly away and I beelined for the duffel, repacking my dirty clothes and pretending I was in no way embarrassed. I’d just zipped my bag closed when I heard a muffled laugh from the other side of the cabin.

  My eyes snapped back in Wes’ direction, but I found his face bore no traces of amusement.

  “What are you laughing at?” I growled, glaring for all I was worth.

  “Nothing,” he said, his voice flat. His expression was the picture of innocence.

  “Good.”

  I’d begun to turn again when his stone-faced facade cracked and a snort escaped. I watched as his expression filled with mirth — a full-out grin on his lips, the skin on his forehead crinkling, a happy light dancing in his eyes. He was so handsome in that moment, looking at me with sheer joy on his face, that it was hard to hold onto my anger.

  Hard — but not impossible.

  When his chuckles turned to full-blown laughter, I narrowed my eyes on his face and gave him my best death-stare.

  “This isn’t funny,” I grumbled angrily. “I don’t understand why you’re so amused.”

  “You know…” He stopped laughing just long enough to gasp out a reply. “They used to call Secretariat ‘Big Red.’”

  His eyes pressed closed and his shoulders shook uncontrollably as he laughed at his own joke.

  My lips twitched, despite myself. “Oh, piss off,” I muttered.

  His bark of laughter reached my ears and I made sure to turn away before he could see the small smile on my lips.

  ***

  The cabin lights were off and I was securely beneath the bedcovers — the quilt was pulled practically to my chin, covering every inch of flesh besides my face. I’d stacked two pillows against my left side, effectively dividing the bed in half, and was huddled as close to the mattress edge as physically possible. Pressing my eyes closed, I relaxed my features into what I hoped was a peaceful, unconscious expression and feigned sleep.

  Better that than face Wes when he decided to make an appearance.

  I heard the screech of the screen door opening a few moments later, and my entire body tensed in anxious anticipation. The thumping of my heartbeat matched the steady echo of his boots against the hardwood as he
crossed the small room toward the bed. When his footsteps faded into silence, I lay as still as possible, struggling to keep my expression serene and my breathing rate even.

  A minute passed.

  I fought the urge to twitch.

  One more ticked by.

  My nose itched like a bastard but I didn’t move.

  I counted sixty more seconds in my head until, finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. My eyelids slivered open and I peeked out from beneath my lashes.

  He was standing at the end of the bed, arms crossed over his chest in a casual stance, staring at me with an amused expression. His quirked eyebrow said Did you really think I was buying your terrible fake sleeping act? and the twisted smile playing out on his lips asked Do you truly believe your pillow barricade and paper-thin blanket will protect you from me if I want to touch you, Red?

  I gulped.

  He grinned.

  I glared.

  He reached for his belt and began to unbuckle it.

  Crap.

  I flipped over and faced the wall, wincing as I listened to the unmistakable sound of his clothing dropping to the floor. A few seconds later, the quilt lifted, he slipped into bed, and I was forced to concede that he’d been right: my paltry pillow shield felt perilously thin, now that he was reclined mere inches from me. The darkness seemed to thicken and the air grew heavy as I listened to him settling in, heard the tired sigh he released as his body relaxed for the first time in days.

  The teeming dark, swimming as it was with secrets and lies, felt somehow safer than facing him in the light of day. Lying there in the shadows, still and silent, with his skin so close to mine I imagined I could feel his heat through the pillows dividing us, he was more threatening than he’d ever been… and yet, also far less.

  “I call you Wes in my head,” I whispered.

  I heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by the soft crinkling of fabric as his face turned on his pillow. Though I didn’t look, I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back through the quilt.

  “I know it isn’t your name.” I swallowed. “That man… Benson. He told me it was just your cover.”

  He kept silent, so I heaved in a steadying breath and spoke on, unable to stop now that I’d started.

  “I just…” My voice was so hollow I barely recognized it. “I don’t know how to look at you and not see Wes, even though I know he doesn’t exist. So maybe…” I trailed off, suddenly feeling foolish.

  He cleared his throat but when he spoke, his voice was still rough, like he was speaking around a mouthful of gravel. “Maybe what, Red?”

  I pressed my eyes closed. “Maybe, if you gave me something else to call you, I could stop seeing you as my Wes, and start seeing you for who you really are.”

  I was immediately mortified that the words my Wes had escaped my mouth, but it was too late now. They were out there, thrumming in the air around us. I knew, if there’d been light enough to see by, my cheeks would’ve been redder than a fall sunset.

  He was silent for so long, I feared he wasn’t going to answer at all.

  “Never mind,” I mumbled, feeling like an absolute idiot. “Just forget it.”

  I heard him sigh. “Joshua Collins.”

  My eyes flew open. “What?”

  “My cover name in Budapest. It was supposed to be Joshua Collins.”

  Supposed to be?

  “I had it all worked out. The backstory had been prepped for weeks. I was prepared.” His voice was low, now, and full of strain. “And then… Then, you looked at me with those big melted caramel eyes and… Fuck. I just… lost it.”

  Though my heart was racing inside my chest, I bit my tongue to keep from talking. I knew from experience I’d have to wait if I wanted the full story from him.

  “And before I knew it, I was telling you my name was Wesley Adams. Which has to be the single most reckless thing I’ve done in my entire career.”

  My heart began to pound faster. “Why?”

  “Covert Ops 101, Red: never pick a code name too close to your real one. And, no matter how you slice it, Wesley Adams is a bit too damn close to Weston Abbott for my liking or anyone else’s.”

  Weston Abbott.

  Just like that, I finally had an answer to the question I’d been turning over in my mind for the past three years.

  His name was Weston.

  Which meant… he was still Wes.

  He’d always been Wes.

  My mouth opened and closed mutely, like a fish gulping for oxygen, trying to process the fact that he’d given me a name nearly identical to his own. And, suddenly, only one question remained that really mattered.

  Why?

  I’d parted my lips to ask just that when I felt the bed shift as he flipped over to face the opposite wall.

  “No more questions. I’m tired, Red. Go to bed.” His tone booked no room for argument and within seconds, I heard his breathing rate slow into the telltale rhythm of slumber.

  Perfect.

  Exhaustion had effectively fled my system as soon as the words Weston Abbott left his mouth. I’d never felt more awake as I stared at the wall, contemplating everything.

  His words just now. His actions back then.

  As I replayed memories in my mind, I knew it would be another sleepless night for me.

  And yet, with his name echoing off the walls inside my skull, I couldn’t seem to make myself care at all.

  Chapter Fifty: WESTON

  OVERTIRED

  I was tired as hell when dawn broke.

  It had taken me hours to fall asleep, listening to Faith toss and turn on the other side of that ridiculous damn barrier she’d put up between us. Every few moments she’d shift from her back to her side, her side to her stomach, and so on, and each time she’d let out this soft little sigh that would’ve been cute as hell if it hadn’t been so damn late.

  By the time I finally fell asleep, it was practically morning, which meant I was going on day three without so much as a night’s rest. I cracked open my eyes — overtired and grouchy as all fuck — and prepared to take on what was sure to be another infuriating day with the goddamned brunette whose life’s mission was apparently to make me as miserable as possible.

  But all my anger disappeared as soon as I blinked awake and found Faith wrapped around me like a starfish — one leg wound around my thigh, an arm slung across my chest, her forehead nestled into the crook of my neck. Evidently, her unconscious mind wasn’t such a fan of pillow barriers; at some point in the night, she’d shifted onto my side of the bed and tangled her limbs with mine so thoroughly, it would be a miracle if I managed to get up without waking her.

  I froze for a solid minute, just appreciating the feeling of this — waking up to Faith. Her warmth radiated into my skin and the light rise and fall of her chest pressed against mine was more soothing than anything I’d ever felt. I could’ve happily stayed there all day, but that would’ve been a test of my control unlike any I’d yet faced. The need to trace her curves with my hands, to skim my lips against her soft skin was so strong, it took every bit of restraint inside me to keep myself in check.

  Abruptly, I wasn’t tired. In fact, I felt like I could’ve had marathon sex for hours, days, weeks, if Faith had so much as stirred in my arms and arched up to press her lips against mine…

  Fuck.

  Fantasy time was over. I was officially sporting morning wood harder than the oak tree I’d bashed my fist into last night, which meant it was past time to climb out of this damn bed before I lost myself completely.

  Gently, I detangled her limbs from my body and rolled her onto her side of the bed. She barely stirred, even when I rebuilt her pillow barrier and tucked the blankets back up to her chin. As I watched, she snuggled deeper into the bed and let out another tiny, sweet sigh.

  Without taking my eyes off her, I lifted the cord around my neck up to my mouth and pressed it there for a full minute, wishing everything was different. Wishing I could slide back into bed wit
h her, wrap her up in my arms, and make love to her until she forgot about the past.

  I let the cord drop back against my neck before I turned, grabbed my t-shirt off the ground, and walked away.

  Chapter Fifty-One: FAITH

  LEAVING TRACES

  The first thought I had when I woke was coffee.

  The entire cottage was suffused with the rich, delicious smell. My eyes flew open and I saw immediately that Wes had already risen from the bed. His side was barely rumpled, as though no one had even slept there, and I noticed my pillow barricade was safely in place.

  I chose not to analyze the faint feelings of disappointment I felt when I saw that.

  Thankfully, those unwanted emotions were overtaken by immense joy when I spotted the pot warming on the single stovetop burner. The coffee had been cooked in an old-fashioned percolator and it smelled a little burned, but I couldn’t have cared less.

  Caffeine was caffeine.

  I poured myself a steaming cup and drank it black, so happy I almost didn’t miss the heaping teaspoon of sugar I typically dumped in. Stretching my back like a cat in a vain attempt to work out some of the kinks after a night on the ancient mattress, I pushed through the screen door and stepped onto the dew-covered porch. I could see my breath puffing in the crisp morning air, and my coffee steamed steadily as I shifted back and forth on bare feet, trying to keep warm as my eyes swept the small clearing.

  My gaze eventually settled on Wes, who was standing with his back to me about fifty yards away on the edge of the glade. I felt my eyes widen as I took in the dark streak of sweat soaking the back of his gray t-shirt and saw the axe in his hands.

  The man was chopping firewood like a genuine freaking lumberjack.

  I felt my mouth go dry as I watched his muscles bunching and cording with sheer strength. He swung the axe high over his head and brought it down on the log with so much force, I thought he’d likely strike straight through to the stump beneath.