If You Never Come Back

by Sarah Smith

  His mouth falls open, but no words come out.

  I wipe my face on my sleeves and scoff. “Seriously, Wes. Screw you.”

  When I glimpse his face, it’s red. With anger, with hurt, with frustration, I don’t really know and I don’t really care. All I know is that agreeing to meet with him was a mistake. Yes, he said sorry. But that’s just a word, a drop in the bottomless bucket of tears I cried for him when he left.

  I spin around, swipe my coat from behind the counter, and dart out the door.

  “Shay, wait!” he calls from behind.

  I stomp down the sidewalk, ignoring the sleet pelleting my face. Why the hell didn’t I bring my hat? I squeeze my hands into fists, realizing then that I don’t have my mittens either. It’s the end of February for god’s sake.

  “Cuz! Where are you going?”

  Shoving my hands in my pockets, I ignore Remy’s calls and walk straight ahead in the exact opposite direction of my apartment, with no particular destination in mind.

  “Shay!” Wes booms from behind.

  Fresh tears freeze the second they touch my cheeks thanks to the biting arctic wind. I try to pick up my pace, but the sleet has turned the concrete below into an ice rink. I wobble for a second, then steady myself, stepping forward with renewed caution. Just then I feel a firm hand on my arm, turning me around.

  “Would you just stop for one second and listen to me?”

  Wes’s pained eyes stare back at me. His dark brown hair glistens as the icy rain falls on his uncovered head.

  “I’m done listening to you.” I jerk out of his grip.

  He shakes his head. “You think I wasn’t heartbroken too when I left? I was a mess. I could see that I hurt you and that killed me. I didn’t call or text because I didn’t know what to say.”

  His eyes glimmer. My throat squeezes. He’s trying not to cry. But one thing sticks out, one word is missing in all that he says: love. And that’s the problem.

  Wes may have been heartbroken too, but that doesn’t take away the one key difference between us: I loved him—I still love him. But he never loved me.

  My breath catches when I try to keep a sob from ripping free. “Reeling from a breakup is awful. But do you know what’s worse? Telling someone you love them and watching them walk out on you.”

  Frozen raindrops hit my skin like needles as I wait for him to respond. But there’s nothing. Just his silence and his presence, both reminders of what I wanted most in the world but couldn’t have. Because he didn’t want it.

  “Shay, I—”

  “Stop,” I bark. “I don’t know why you even came back.”

  I spin around and jog ahead, hoping the slickness of the sidewalks discourages him from following. I pick up speed, ignoring the burn in my legs, ignoring the rational part of my brain that’s telling me to slow down, that it’s too damn icy for me to be running in my knock-off Ugg boots.

  But I shove aside that voice, letting my legs lead the way. Wes didn’t come back to make things right with me. He came back to clear his conscience.

  I run and run and run until my lungs are on fire, my hair and face dripping with icy rain. And then I lose my footing on a slick spot. My feet fly out from under me the second I lose my balance. I hit the pavement back-first. All I see are stars.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two sets of hands gently grip both of my arms, hauling me up to my feet. I blink until the stars turn to actual images. Remy stands to my right and Wes stands to my left. They steady me, then hit me with dual concerned stares.

  “I told you to stop,” Wes says once I’m back on my feet.

  “And I told you to go away,” I snap.

  Remy shushes us both. “Can you two save your lovers’ quarrel until we can figure out if Shay is okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I bark.

  But just as I speak the words, pain shoots through my left ankle and my left wrist. When I try to put my weight on my left leg, I nearly fall, but Remy and Wes hold me in place. I grip Wes’s coat sleeve with my left hand, wincing at the pressure in my wrist.

  “Easy,” Wes says.

  I wince through gritted teeth. “I think it’s my ankle. And wrist.”

  He and Remy exchange concerned frowns, then Remy pulls up the rideshare app on his phone.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Getting you home.”

  “Remy, I live a mile in the other direction. I don’t need a car to take me.”

  “You can barely walk, Shay. No way you’re walking a mile in your state.”

  “I can carry her.”

  Remy and I both whip our heads to Wes. “What?” we say in unison.

  “I’ll carry her to her apartment,” Wes repeats.

  “No way,” I say.

  Remy shakes his head. “Do you see how slick the concrete is? That’s just what we need, you slipping on ice so you fall down and injure yourself and Shay.”

  Wes mutters something, but it’s so low in volume I can’t understand it. Soon, a car pulls up and the three of us get in. We share a silent two-minute ride together until we halt at the front of my building.

  Remy leads me to the front door but Wes stops him. “I can make sure she gets up there okay. You still need to lock up the bar, don’t you?”

  The conflict plays out on Remy’s face, clear enough for me and Wes to see. Stay here and be the honorable cousin taking care of me but risk getting his unlocked bar robbed.

  I huff out a frustrated breath at the thought of Wes setting foot in my apartment. The last time he was there marked the end for us.

  But he’s right. I’m going to need help making it up the stairs.

  “It’s okay, Remy,” I say.

  Remy shoots wide eyes at me, but I pat his shoulder. “I promise, I’m good. Wes is right, you need to get back to the bar and lock up.” I tug on the hem of my coat, aware that I’m the cause of tonight’s chaos. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t—”

  Wes shakes his head. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I upset you, and that’s why you ran off.”

  Remy slow-blinks, zipping his coat all the way up to his chin. “Well, now that we’ve played the blame game, I’m off.” He turns to me. “Text me when you’re settled in your apartment okay? And let me know if you need anything. I can come right over when I’m done.”

  I clear my throat. “I’ll pay you back for the ride later, okay.”

  “Don’t even worry about it.” Remy turns his darkened stare to Wes. “Take care of her.”

  He crosses the street just as Wes bends down to scoop me up.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I try to wiggle out of his hold, but he has me firmly against him.

  He kicks the entrance door open, then starts the three-story trudge to my door. “Carrying you.” He says it without a single labored breath.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re hurt and it’s my fault.”

  I have nothing to say to that. Instead, I focus on the feel of his hot breath hitting a sliver of exposed skin on my chest, right above where my zipper came undone when I slipped on the ice. That tiny hint of contact awakens my senses. I soak in the heat of each exhale as it hits my skin, the way his hard body feels pressed against mine.

  We make it to my door and he’s barely broken a sweat. He sets me down, I unlock the door, and take a step inside. And then he scoops me back up and heads for the couch.

  “Watch out for—”

  “The dip in the floor,” he says, cutting me off. “I remember.”

  I swallow hard as he sets me on the couch. The fact that he remembers makes me feel like I mean something, like I still matter to him—even though I know I don’t.

  I focus instead on shoving off my coat.

  “Let me.” He kneels next to me and my entire body flushes. It’s as if I didn’t just stand outside for ten solid minutes in the freezing rain. I feel so hot at his presence, at the prospect of his touch.

  With gentle hands, he pulls off
my coat, then my shoes.

  His dark eyes connect with mine. “Your clothes are soaking wet.”

  “You’re not going to change me.”

  He turns away just as I catch the beginnings of an eye roll. He pads to my dresser on the other side of my apartment, returning with some yoga pants, a hoodie, and wool socks.

  Before I can demand that he turn around, he heads straight for the bathroom and shuts the door. I do the quickest change I can manage with a throbbing wrist and ankle.

  “Decent!” I call out to him.

  He emerges with an ace bandage in hand and sits on the coffee table. “What hurts more, your ankle or your wrist?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you.” His brow furrows, clearly put off by my question.

  “Did it occur to you to ask if I want your help in the first place?”

  My phone buzzes, interrupting our frown-off. A text from Remy.

  Remy: You make it inside okay?

  Me: Yes. Wes is helping me get settled.

  Remy: Want me to stop by?

  “Shay.”

  I glance up at Wes, his frown now softer.

  “I’m the reason you got hurt. Please let me take care of you. It’s the least I can do.”

  I swallow. “What exactly will that entail?”

  Twenty minutes ago I was raging at Wes, but I’m not exactly in a position to turn him down now. And I’ve inconvenienced Remy enough for one night. I don’t want him to spend his evening checking up on me when he should be sleeping.

  Wes rubs his jaw. “It would entail me wrapping your ankle or your wrist—whichever hurts worse because I can only find one ace bandage in your bathroom. Then I’ll carry you to your bed so you can sleep. I’ll take the couch.”

  I start to object, but he shakes his head.

  “You might have hit your head when you fell. Do you remember if you did or not?”

  I shake my head no.

  “And I’m guessing you’d shoot down my suggestion to take you to the hospital to get checked out.”

  “Yup,” I answer, the faintest hint of bitterness in my tone.

  “Then you need someone here to keep an eye on you to make you sure you don’t have a head injury or something serious. Just for tonight.”

  When I don’t say anything in response, he sighs. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  One night. One night of my ex sleeping on my couch, four feet away from me, after his request for a chat turned into a horrible argument.

  I let out a soft exhale. “The pain in my wrist is starting to ease up, but my ankle’s still throbbing. Can you please wrap it?”

  He nods, then kneels in front of me. He slides my sock off, then softly rests his hands on my bare ankle. I swallow, ordering my senses to keep it together. There’s nothing personal about this touch. It’s all business.

  And it’s happening because he hurt me—because he thinks he owes me.

  I text Remy that I’ll be fine without him. He texts that he’ll check on me in the morning.

  Wes wraps the bandage tightly around my ankle, then slips the sock back on. “Ready for bed?”

  “I need to brush my teeth first.”

  He scoops me up and carries me to the bathroom before I can utter a word of protest. When I’m finished, he carries me to the bed, then props a pillow under my ankle. Then he fetches me an aspirin and a glass of water. I mutter a thank you.

  “Just yell if you need anything,” he says. The way he stares down at me tests my renewed resolve. His gaze is watchful, tender, and almost too much.

  I fixate on my ankle to distract myself. “Okay.”

  He turns out the lights, then settles on the couch. The rustling of fabric fills the silent space. I close my eyes, imagining him taking his clothes off in the darkness.

  My throat aches with the knowledge at how none of this means anything to him…and how it means everything to me.

  Minutes pass. I know I should be trying to sleep, but I speak up anyway.

  “Wes?” My voice is a sharp whisper.

  “Yeah?”

  He sounds alert when he speaks. I exhale, relieved that I didn’t wake him. “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you, Shay.”

  With those final words, I fall asleep.

  The soft sounds of metal hitting ceramic wake me. I open my eyes and peek up at Wes standing in my tiny kitchen, stirring a cup of coffee.

  For a split second his brow jumps to his hairline, but then it eases back to its rightful place. My chest squeezes at the sight of him in my apartment…that used to be our apartment.

  “Sorry, did I wake you?” he asks.

  “It’s fine. You made coffee and that’s exactly what I need right now.” I push myself up to a sitting position and feel the tell-tale pressure of my bladder. I clear my throat. “After I, um…”

  I look at the bathroom. Wes drops the spoon on the counter and jogs over to me.

  “Right, you’re probably dying to pee. Sorry.”

  Like some sort of firefighter on a romance novel cover, he hauls me up with zero effort like last night and walks me to the bathroom. When I’m finished, I hobble the three feet to the kitchen counter just as he tries to reach for me.

  “I’ve got it, Wes.”

  “You really shouldn’t stress your ankle.” He stares at my ankle while he speaks.

  Leaning against the counter, I blow on my mug of coffee, then take a careful sip. “I’ll survive, I’m sure.”

  He crosses his arms, leaning on the wall across from me. It’s a strangely foreign stance we take in this space where a handful of months ago we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

  He turns his head to glance at the far end of the counter. I stare too, and then immediately dart my eyes away, remembering we had stand-up sex at that exact spot a month before he left me.

  Wes clears his throat. From behind my mug, I peek up at him. His eyes are shy and his cheeks are crimson. Looks like that memory hit him, too.

  “So,” he says after another handful of awkward silent seconds. “How long until you think you’ll be ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “For me to take you to the hospital to get your wrist and your ankle checked out?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not doing that.”

  Just then my phone, which is still on my nightstand, rings. I turn and start to walk toward it, but Wes tells me to rest and finish my coffee while he gets it.

  “It’s your mom,” he says, sliding his finger across the screen to answer it before I can even tell him to ignore it.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Anak! Remy said you fell and hurt yourself last night. Are you okay?”

  I grit my teeth, annoyed. Hopefully, Remy left out the part that Wes was involved at all. If she finds out he’s here, she’ll drive all the way from Redmond to lay into him for breaking my heart, and that’s the last thing I need to deal with.

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Car keys jingle in the background.

  “I’ll take you to the doctor and then when we get home I’ll cook you some biko. That was your favorite dessert when you were little, remember? Always made you feel better, no matter how upset you were about anything.”

  Despite my mom’s overbearing response, my mouth waters at just the mention of that sticky rice cake, the perfect combination of coconut milk, glutinous rice, and brown sugar. I can’t have her babying me though. If I don’t stop her, she’ll fuss over me for weeks.

  “Mom, I don’t need you to come here.”

  “You need to go to the hospital,” she says with absolute certainty, as if she hasn’t heard me at all.

  There’s no use in arguing, so instead I opt for a little white lie. “I’m already going, you don’t need to come. The doctor will examine me and send me home to rest. I promise I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  “Who’s taking you?”

  “A fri
end.”

  The hard clank of her car keys hitting the side table near the entryway of her front door signals that I’ve stopped her. Thankfully.

  “Okay. That sounds fine then.”

  I thank her, and she tells me she whip up some biko for me and drop it off tomorrow. When I hang up, Wes points his frown at me. “Now are you ready to go?”

  “I’m not going, Wes. I just said that to keep my mom from freaking out.”

  “Shay, don’t be stubborn.”

  “Then don’t be ridiculous, Wes.”

  My voice is harsher than I mean for it to be. But it’s barely eight a.m., my ankle and wrist are throbbing, and I’m staving off my worried mom all the while standing across from my ex-boyfriend when all I want is to be alone. I’ve got almost no patience for this.

  “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.” I take a long breath. It barely soothes me.

  He raises a judgmental eyebrow at me. “That’s not going to fly with me. Or your mom.”

  “Fortunately, neither one of you is in charge of me, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

  I take a final gulp of coffee, set the empty mug on the counter, and twist myself around to walk into the living room, but Wes’s gentle hand on my arm stops me. “Just listen to me for a sec, okay?”

  I shrug out of his grip, but stay in place. His chest heaves with the slow breath he takes, like he’s just now remembering that I get notoriously impatient when I’m fussed over.

  “I understand that you don’t want to be around me. But you’re hurt, Shay. You’ll be a million times worse off if you ignore your injury and try to power through it. Think about how that will slow you down with your workload.”

  I squint at him. “How do you know about my workload?”

  His expression softens. “I um, I heard about how your business blew up while I was away. I saw Mari Dash’s Instagram post about you.”

  I purse my lips to keep my jaw from dropping to the ground. How in the world would he know about that? He’s been off-the-grid hiking for six months. Instagram, social media, all that should have been the furthest thing from his mind.

  “How? Weren’t you in the mountains with no cell service this whole time?”

  He opens his mouth, then clamps it shut. “I was, but…” he shakes his head. “I’d go into town sometimes. I looked you up a couple times.”