If You Never Come Back

by Sarah Smith

  “Would you shut up already? It’s not a weird arrangement. It was either Wes helping me or I would have been pestering you every day to take on my to-do list.”

  “Okay, fair point.” Remy holds his hands up in surrender. “All I’m saying is that it’s clear by his words and your reaction that there’s something between you two still.”

  I deflate at Remy’s dead-on assessment.

  “It’s not necessarily a bad thing,” he adds.

  “Of course it’s a bad thing. I loved him and wanted to start a life with him. Marriage, kids, family, all that. He didn’t love me—and he didn’t want what I want. Why would I try to make something work with him when we’re in two completely different places? Now our best hope is to make it work as friendly exes, but we can’t move on to that stage if there are still feelings between us.” I frown. “And when did you change your tune? You were nodding your head right along with me before when I said I didn’t want to see Wes ever again. You were ready to chuck him out of the bar the night he came in to see me, remember?”

  Remy lifts an eyebrow, giving me his trademark doubtful look. But to my surprise, he says nothing.

  I screw the lid back on the Nutella and place it on the coffee table. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  Remy sighs. “I admit I had it out for Wes when he came back out of the blue looking for you. I was ready to make him pay for breaking your heart. Even the way he wanted to take care of you after you got hurt had me suspicious. I thought it was a way for him to get rid of the guilt he felt after leaving you.”

  For a second, he looks away, like he’s gathering his thoughts for what he wants to say next.

  “When you told me Wes would be dropping by every day to help you, I thought it was a bad idea—at first. But then I stopped and thought about it. Guys do not offer to spend their free time with women they have zero feelings for.”

  Now it’s Remy’s words that are throwing me for a loop. He seems to notice because he pats my hand.

  “I was mad as hell when I saw him come back and give you that half-assed apology,” Remy says. “But there’s something behind his actions.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t. It’s just a feeling. He went through all this trouble to help you. There’s a reason for that. And I think it goes beyond him trying to prove that he’s sorry.” He pats my knee, then stands up. “Gotta head back to work. Thanks for the Nutella.”

  “Thanks for the confusing talk.”

  Remy walks out the door, leaving me alone to think about what he said.

  One week later and it’s clear: there hasn’t been anything to read into about Wes’s actions. Every day he comes over, we chat pleasantly as we work, and he leaves. He’s made zero comments alluding to his feelings about me. Part of me is relieved I don’t have to navigate a landmine of emotions with him; part of me is confused as to why he mentioned anything in the first place if he wasn’t going to act on it.

  I shove aside the thought as I study the sketch I’m working on while lounging on the couch. I squint at the drawing, wringing out my recovering hand. I took a bold step earlier this week and tried to exercise my hand by drawing for a small chunk of time every day. Today is the first day I’ve done it without the support of an ace bandage and I’m thankful at how dexterous I still am. Still, at least a week to go until I’m back to my normal strength.

  Wes finishes up an email while sitting at my desk when his phone buzzes. He glances up at me. “Do you know anything about helicopter fashion?”

  I burst out laughing from my spot on the couch. “Um, what?”

  Another buzz. Wes’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit. Colin is going on a date with Mari Dash. She’s taking him on a helicopter ride tomorrow night. He has no idea what to wear. What the…”

  My head falls back in a chuckle when I think back to the night I ran into Colin at Mari’s concert. After she finished, I introduced the two of them and they hit it off. I give Wes a quick rundown of being invited to Mari’s show in Portland and randomly running into Colin. I skip the part where I pathetically asked about him.

  “Tell him to wear his white button-up and roll the sleeves up to just below his elbows,” I say, recalling how Mari fawned over his muscled forearms later that night. “She went wild for that look the night we met her.”

  Wes relays my fashion advice to Colin. “Colin has been advised. And that sounds like one hell of a night.”

  We chat more about how crazy it is that I actually got to hang out with our favorite EDM DJ.

  “I should have mentioned it to you before,” I say. “It was just…we were in kind of a weird place. What with you coming back out of the blue and us fighting.”

  “It’s cool.” Wes clears his throat, his cheeks turning red. He walks over to me and peers at my drawing. “Whoa. That looks amazing.”

  “It’s just a sketch of the living room.”

  The longer I look at it, the more flaws I see. There’s nowhere near the amount of detail I usually devote to even a still life sketch. But I can’t push myself. Easing back in little by little is the way to build up my stamina and keep my skill.

  Wes sits next to me, grabbing the ace bandage from the arm of the couch. Gently, he grabs my forearm in his hand and begins to wrap it. My skin tingles at his touch, even after all this time.

  “So no packages for me to ferry to the post office today?” he says, jolting me out of my thoughts.

  “Nope. Only digital files, and I emailed those this morning.”

  He leans back against the couch, letting out a soft groan when he stretches. “How about a drink then? We made it to the middle of the workweek. We should celebrate.”

  I chuckle. “You’ve been out of work mode a long while if you think that making it to Wednesday is worth a celebration.”

  He bends down to reach the bag he brought. I focus on the black nylon and my breath catches. It’s the same bag he packed the day he left me.

  I swallow again, letting the sting wash over me. He unzips it, then looks up at me. “What?”

  When he looks back at his bag, recognition falls across his face. “Sorry, I…it’s the only backpack I have. But I guess you know that.”

  “It’s fine.” I nod and blink, forcing a smile.

  He walks over to the kitchen, fetches two glasses, and sits next to me. When he pulls out a bottle of tequila from his bag, my eyes go wide.

  He must notice my reaction. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s tequila.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  I shake my head, letting out a flustered huff of breath. I try to smile. “It’s just…”

  The amber-hued liquid glimmers in the sunlight streaming in through the nearby window. I stare, mesmerized by the honey color.

  I clear my throat. “After you left, I said never again. To tequila, that is.”

  “You did?” He looks so surprised.

  “Well, yeah. It kind of became our drink. Remember?”

  He nods before his eyes fall to the floor. When they land back on me, a sad smile plays at his lips.

  “After I left, tequila was all I drank,” he says. “It got to be a problem.”

  Questions dance at the tip of my tongue. Did he indulge in a week of post-breakup binge drinking like me? Does the mere thought of tequila ever send him into an emotional tailspin? Is he scared that he’ll never be able to look at another bottle of that honey-hued devil’s booze without picturing my face?

  “We’re good now, right?” he asks, his expression unsure.

  I don’t answer him. I just bite my lip and glance between him and the bottle.

  “One drink, Shay. Please?” I open my mouth to decline, but he speaks first. “We should be able to do one friendly drink together.”

  Despite my hesitation, I agree. I want to be able to share a cordial drink with Wes. This is as good a time as any to try.

  “So you carry tequila in your bag at all times?” I ask.

  “Bad hab
it.”

  He pours me a glass first. I’m about to sip when I catch his furrowed brow. I stop before it hits my lips.

  “No toast?” he asks.

  “What is there to toast?”

  He shrugs, his smile taking on a flustered edge. “Just thought the mood called for it.”

  I raise my glass. “To friendship.”

  “That’s so cliché.”

  “To exes getting along.”

  He blinks and I could swear he flinches. “I approve.”

  We toast and sip. The burn coats my entire mouth, hitting all the way to the back of my throat. I wince through my swallow, it’s so potent.

  “Damn,” I huff.

  “It really has been a while for you.” Wes laughs, taking another long sip without a hint of hesitation.

  “This is like water to you, good lord.”

  He shrugs.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “About?”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “About your tequila binge after you left.”

  He sighs, his jaw clenching through his smile. “There’s not much to tell. I packed three bottles of tequila along with my bags and bought a bus ticket to southern Utah. I spent my days hiking the national parks and camped out in whatever quiet remote area I could find in the evenings. I’d swig tequila after dinner until I got drowsy and eventually passed out. Mornings weren’t fun.”

  My jaw drops. “You did that every night?”

  “Pretty much. Whenever I was close to running out of tequila or supplies, I hitched a ride to the nearest town. Bought another bottle and did it all over again.”

  “How long did you do that?”

  He stretches back, gazing up at the ceiling. “A solid month. I cut myself off after that.”

  “Hiking with a hangover every morning for thirty days straight sounds like a special form of torture.”

  “It was. I deserved it though.”

  “Tell me about your hiking trip,” I say, hoping to change the subject to something more pleasant.

  A soft smile takes over his face. “It was incredible. Utah is the most gorgeous state I’ve ever visited.”

  He talks about how Zion National Park was packed to the brim with tourists, but it was so beautiful, it didn’t even bother him.

  “Canyonlands is prettier, in my opinion,” he says. “And a lot less crowded.”

  “What about Arches? Did you get a pic standing under the Delicate Arch? I feel like that’s a requirement for everyone who visits there.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He pulls out his phone and swipes through an endless reel of photos. I gawk at the endless expanses of red rock.

  “These are stunning,” I say.

  “I hiked that area for months and I still feel like I didn’t see it all,” he says. “I’d kill to go back.”

  “I’m jealous.”

  “Don’t be. You kicked off one hell of a career in that time.”

  “True. But I should have gotten out more. It was easy for me to get lost in work. I tend to do that when I’m stressed or trying to distract myself from…well, you know.”

  We sip our drinks at the same time, letting another silence settle between us. Then Wes turns to me, his stare intense, unblinking, and something more. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

  “Shay, I know I did a shitty job of it when I got back, but I still want to apologize. The way I handled things—the way I ended things with you wasn’t right.”

  I lift up my hand to cut him off, but he shakes his head. He leans closer to me. We’re still a respectable distance from each other on opposite ends of my couch, but his move to be closer weighs heavy.

  “No, I need to say this. I was an asshole.”

  He pauses to swallow, moving even closer to me. I swallow too, hanging on every word as if it’s the last one I’ll ever get from him.

  “If I could go back, I would do everything differently. You deserved—you deserve so much better than what I gave you.”

  His tone is firm yet soft around the edges, so full of emotion. But I can’t handle emotional anymore—not from Wes.

  Our faces are only inches apart now. When he breathes, I can almost taste the sting of tequila as it floats out of his mouth.

  “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you,” he says. “Can we…”

  For a second, he hesitates. I take that as my cue to shut down this conversation before I get hurt again.

  I press my hand over his mouth, cutting him off. Because we’re friends now. And us as friends means no more emotionally charged conversations that leave me a bundle of uncertainty, aching for any bone that Wes is willing to throw me.

  His eyebrows wrinkle together at the sudden presence of my fingers on his lips.

  “Don’t say anything more,” I say.

  His mouth moves against my hand and he hums what sounds like gibberish, but I shake my head no.

  “I mean it, Wes. Our relationship—our past—it’s history. I don’t want to rehash it, okay? Let’s just focus on being friends now, nothing more.”

  It stings less than I thought it would to say these words. I take it as a sign that I’m doing the right thing.

  Wes stills against my hand, his eyebrows smoothing back to their rightful place along that smooth ridge of forehead. He nods, looking back to our glasses, which now sit empty on my coffee table.

  He makes a grunt-noise that sounds a lot like a throat clear. “More?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He twists the cap back on the bottle, then shoves it back in his bag. “I should get going.”

  “Thank you for helping me today.”

  “No problem.” He zips his bag, stands up, and flashes a forced smile at me. “I’ll see you later.”

  The door shuts. Instead of making myself dinner like I would normally do in the early evening, I stay seated on the couch, staring at the empty glass the faintest hint of gold liquid at the bottom.

  I did the right thing. I drew boundaries and obeyed them. I sink deeper into the couch, unable to move. Then why do I feel so hollow?

  Chapter Eighteen

  I set down my paintbrush and stretch my neck from side to side. Another cityscape painting is nearly done and my muscles are in knots as a result. I’m just starting to feel well enough to paint and sketch again, but as much as I love it, it’s hard work getting back into it after an injury.

  I’m wringing my hands out when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I holler, pressing my palms against the tops of my thighs to stretch them.

  Wes enters. “Still at it?”

  “Always.”

  There’s been no more shared tequila between us since last week, and that’s for the best. No more awkward moments. Just polite conversations that prove we’re moving on.

  I press a fist into the muscle knot that has so conveniently wedged itself where my neck meets my left shoulder.

  When I pivot to face him, Wes is frowning.

  “You’re not pushing yourself too hard, are you?” The concern on his face and in his tone sends a warmth straight to my chest.

  “Of course not. This is all part of recovering. Working my wrist and my leg every day so that I don’t get stiff. It’s going to be sore at first, but that’s part of the process. I’m feeling better every day and by next week I’m sure all soreness will disappear.”

  Wes crosses his arms then starts to put together packages to take to the post office. I continue with my painting.

  He turns back to me, his face still painted in concern. I stare back in confusion until I realize I’m absentmindedly rubbing my sore wrist. I stop immediately.

  “Have you thought about doing something to ease the stress of your muscles after you work them every day?” he asks. “It would be best for your recovery, I think.”

  I turn back to the painting. “Like what?”

  “Like massaging them.”

  “I rub my ankle and my wrist after I finish
painting or sketching. I’m fine.”

  The soft sound of Wes’s frustrated exhale hits my ears. “No, I mean like you should see a massage therapist. I think that would help a lot.”

  “Business is going well, but I’m not made of money. I can’t pay a massage therapist to rub my wrist and ankle every day.”

  Another frustrated sigh. “Then how about I do it?”

  “Wes, a massage isn’t exactly staying within the confines of friendship, especially for exes.”

  “I’m just trying to help you recover in the safest way possible.”

  “Do you offer Colin or any of your other friends massages when they’re hurt?”

  “No. But we’ve definitely gone above and beyond more times than I care to remember.”

  “Like how?”

  “Let’s just say there have been nights of hard drinking where we’ve had to help each other get cleaned up, undressed, washed up vomit, that sort of thing.”

  “You mean…”

  He sighs. “I’ve helped Colin and my other friends remove their vomit-soaked clothes and get them into a shower. They’ve done the same for me.”

  I laugh. “That definitely counts.”

  “A wrist and ankle massage doesn’t seem so awkward now, does it?” He smiles and shrugs.

  “I guess not.”

  He helps me over to the couch and takes a seat at one end while I sit on the other. I stretch my legs out to his lap. Gently, he pulls my sock off and presses his thumbs against my ankle.

  I wince at the pressure, then hum a second later when the muscles release.

  His eyes dart to me. “Sorry, did that hurt?”

  “No, it actually feels good. Like, a tension release.”

  A gentle smile stretches across his lips. “Good.”

  He resumes and the tightness slowly melts away. I hum my satisfaction.

  “That good, huh?” He laughs.

  “You were right. I definitely needed this.”

  His touches turn firm, dialing up that hurt-so-good feeling I crave.

  I peek up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What do I have to do to make you turn this into a full-on foot massage?”

  There’s a pause, and his eyes turn serious. “Just ask.”