Wesley

by Leanne Davis

  “Wesley?” I try again. My voice as quiet as I think the moment deserves. “Why are you afraid to kiss me?”

  “I’m… it’s…”

  “What? What is it?” I begin peppering little, puckered kisses at his neck. I speak to his ear so he doesn’t have to face me. “You can tell me. I don’t think it’s me. I won’t—I swear to you, I won’t judge you. I just care. I want to know and to understand.”

  “It’s… confusing.”

  I could sit back in surprise, but his arms keep me securely against him. Unless I struggle and indicate I want to move, there’s nowhere for me to go. “Confusing how?”

  Quiet again.

  I kiss the skin I can touch, but I whisper into his ear. “This is hard for you. But I already know something is going on, so you’ll just have to tell me.”

  “I’ve never…”

  “Had sex?” I lift my head this time. But he sets his hand on the back of my head and shoves me onto his shoulder. Okay. No eye contact. I keep my forehead on his shoulder.

  I say, “That’s okay.”

  I’m floored. I didn’t expect that. I assumed he had sex quite often in his unsupervised youth. From living in group homes and on the streets to traveling everywhere the sun shone, to doing whatever he wanted for years, and yet he never had sex?

  “I’ve never kissed anyone like this, at least not willingly.”

  His words are muttered because his mouth is now buried in my hair. The chaos of my hair. I want to protect him. I’m sure he doesn’t want to look at me right now. Things are beginning to align. In one perfect second, it all lines up in the straightest, most perfect line ever.

  The cigarette burns. The lady who “hurt” him. I consider that physical pain. Emotional pain. Shit, as if all that isn’t bad enough. But sexual abuse. Sexual pain. Fuck. I didn’t connect those dots even though they were all right there.

  “You have unwillingly,” I state, keeping my tone neutral. I don’t think pity is what he wants. I don’t know. My insides feel like they are quaking with understanding now, but I’m not sure what to say, and I don’t want to make it worse.

  “It’s just… a little confusing.”

  I push on his shoulder. He waits a split second, and I can feel his physical desire to not let me push back. He wants to keep me tight against him, so he can control me and prevent me from looking into his eyes. But I know the gentleness in him, and I won’t let him do that. He won’t bully anyone or let others be bullied around him. It’s why he did not back off when Wyatt’s aggression rose its ugly head. After too much time being the victim of it, he refuses to be one ever again.

  I think my understanding finally catches up to his reality. “You get turned on kissing me, but that’s what she did to you, and you didn’t like the other things she did.”

  He swallows. His gaze, of course, isn’t watching mine. It’s off to the side, and his shoulders shrug.

  “I know it’s not the same,” he mumbles. His skin feels warm wherever my bare skin touches him. His face especially, because he’s embarrassed and humiliated. I imagine his pride taking a hit having to admit he’s never had sex. I bet he never kissed anyone like this either, except a woman who sexually abused him. That happened when he was nothing more than a child. A little boy. A lost, hurt, unprotected, little boy. Of course a deep-throated kiss freaked him out. It probably sent him instantly back there. It’s not like anyone ever knew the horror of what happened to him. Or got him the counseling or help he needed. No adult ever told him that he did nothing wrong, or that it was not his fault, and he had no reason to be ashamed. As for the pervert who hurt him, she was a predator, and all the blame rests with her. He never had his feelings or emotions validated, which must have made him feel humiliated, scared, and in pain. So much pain for so long.

  If something happened to me as a child, my father would have hugged me and held me. Then he would have talked to me and checked in with me periodically. Even good friends and loved ones would have moved heaven and earth to get me justice but mostly, to validate what I went through in order to help me heal.

  Whatever it took, they would do.

  When did anyone ever do anything for Wesley?

  Not until Tara decided he should not go to jail. That was the most opportunity he’s ever been given. It’s all clicking inside me. The affinity he has for Tara and Ryder is because no one ever gave him a chance before. That’s all he ever needed—just one chance. Look at him. My heart shatters in my chest. Pieces feel like they are floating in my blood, scraping my veins. He’s had no one.

  And now here we are. Shit. I thought it was only a surprising attraction between two very different people. People in a triangle with Wyatt. I see now that Wyatt was really not a factor in this particular equation.

  Maybe I’m not that much into this equation. Other than Wesley wanted to kiss me. I think I might be the first woman he ever wanted to kiss. It is something different than everything he knows. Perhaps it did not appeal to him. Must’ve been hard on his ego, confusing, as he said. All his parts work, I’m sure they’ve always worked just fine but something in his head and heart keeps him from using them. That to me is where his confusion rests.

  My heart is thumping. My hands are sweaty with instant nerves. This is hard. And big. I feel like I could damage him if I react the wrong way or say the wrong thing. Even if I didn’t care about him, I wouldn’t want that, not for anyone. No one deserves this pain or the deep hurt inside. His need for help and clarification and care must be deep.

  But caring about him has my heart twisting and aching for him.

  I search for the right words. I think of several long, poetic things to say that would explain how evil was done to him, and it was never his fault, and that I want to be the vehicle for his recovery. He should never feel embarrassed with me regarding kissing or sex or how society says he should react to women. There are no shoulds or should nots. There is just us. But that is way too much. My heart hammers at my indecision. I don’t know what to say.

  “But it kind of feels the same, huh? What she did. What I did.”

  “I know it’s not.” Again he repeats himself.

  I touch his cheek with my fingertips but keep my head down on his shoulder, trying to give him comfort and privacy. His innermost scars are being exposed to me and his initial reaction is to run away to avoid confronting them. To leave town so he’d never have to think about them again or experience them as he clearly is now. I can feel his muscles tensing and I know he wants to take flight from this. Wesley is big and strong, and he has the ability to pack a hundred pounds for miles. With his stamina, he can probably run for hours, but he flees any sense of intimacy that reminds him of sex. Anything remotely intimate, and he leaves. It’s worked so far. He’s been able to avoid it entirely. He can avoid delving into it. I imagine his shame. All tucked away inside this large, outwardly strong body.

  “I think… I think you just reacted. You didn’t plan to do that. There’s no shame in that. There’s—” Oh, God, I’m going to say the wrong thing. He’s going to toss me off him and run away. Or I’m going to hurt or humiliate him or draw the wrong kind of attention to this, when all my breaking heart wants to do is save him from it. Help him. My heart is full and aching with his sweetness. His innocence shines in so many ways. I don’t doubt he’s seen every type of sex there is. He also doesn’t like it. He doesn’t have an adult-like reaction to it. No desires. He knows he desires sex, and he even wants me. But it’s never been separate for him. He’s had to deal with it in any way he could, and now it’s all jumbled up and confused in his brain.

  But he likes me.

  And I know I like him.

  He just doesn’t have any positive feedback.

  “I can fuck you.” It suddenly bursts out of his mouth. It’s just as strange a reaction as running full tilt down a driveway from me. It’s the equivalent of that. I truly believe he’s trying to take the stigma out of it. The intimacy. If we fuck, then he doesn’t hav
e to feel anymore. I think he’s embarrassed about the visceral reaction he has to kissing me. He probably immediately compared his abuse as a child by an older woman with me. But I don’t believe he confuses us. The act itself hasn’t been separated for him. He’s a damn mine field of mistakes. I know that. I don’t even know what to say. I just know I have to address this better than I have so far.

  He quits holding me. His arms drop down, and his hands grip the log he sits on.

  “I know you can,” I agree. I nod my head and add softly, “But I was thinking, maybe, first, you could take me out to dinner.” I keep my head bent on his tense shoulder. I’m still holding onto his opposite shoulder, and my arm is wrapped around the massiveness of his back. Yes, it’s a bit challenging to figure out how to help this giant of a man with his physical strength. But it’s my emotional health and strength he most needs in this world.

  He’s now frozen under me. Every muscle in his whole body. His breathing is still and shallow. What do I do? I’ve never encountered a situation like this. Not where it’s all on me to talk it out. Or not. I don’t know which is better. My reaction to him now, with this huge admission from him, is going to be a key if he heals from the effects of this someday. But if I make this worse, it focuses on an already tragic childhood trauma and its unhealed effects, and I could inadvertently humiliate him or make it seem shameful. My brain is buzzing in my own panic. I truly have no idea how to handle this. What if by trying to spare his shame or embarrassment, it seems like I’m brushing over it? What if I draw too much attention to it? Which is worse for him? The shame or the denial?

  “Oh. Right. Yes.” He shakes his head. “I won’t be any good at this.”

  Sex? Dating? Kissing? Talking? Somehow, I think it’s all of the above. But I also know the feelings I have for him are different. Which is better than anything else, because this feels real and right and different.

  “Wesley, I just want you to be you. Whatever that is.”

  I let my words sink in, and I curl into his arms. I can’t think of anything better to do than to just give him human touch and caring, which has been lacking in his life.

  I lean back. It’s shadowy now and hard to see each other clearly. “Do you like me?”

  “Like you?” His head tilts at my question and his puzzlement is obvious. He doesn’t know why I’m asking this or how I mean it.

  “Yes. Do you like me?”

  “That’s not why I—” he stops himself.

  “Meaning you like me?”

  “Yes,” he admits. It’s an unwilling reply. Like pulling teeth from his jaw. I can feel his reluctance.

  “It’s not giving me any power over you. If you think admitting anything to me makes me have something on you, it doesn’t, because it’s mutual. I like you, too.”

  “But—but I won’t stay here. So, it’s pointless and… and there’s this shit… and then Wyatt—”

  “Wyatt? He’s really not the problem. He will be fine. He has his own issues, like we all do. He doesn’t like me the right way just as I don’t feel that way about him. And Wesley? It’s not pointless. You are not pointless. Having… I mean, spending time with you isn’t pointless, even if it ends.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I truly feel that way. I wanted to share whatever time you had to give me more than I wanted to share the next year with Wyatt.”

  “How?” His tone is ragged. His voice cracks with more emotion than he’s shown to date. “How could you want me?” This is the sentence that guides Wesley’s decisions to keep on the move and away from any attachment. How could anyone want him when no one ever had?

  “Because of how I feel around you. It just is.”

  “I ran away. I freak out… I’ve never… I’ll be terrible…”

  Finally, there is a crack in his flight suit. He is panicking and worrying and obviously ready to be done with me out of his own insecurities, but at least he’s spoken.

  I press my index finger to his lips in a signal to shush. I wish I could see his face and have him see the sincerity that must shine from my eyes. But I know the dark cover is also the only reason he is still here and even speaking to me.

  “Did you like it when I kissed you?”

  His head nods yes, for I still have my finger on his mouth.

  “But it was also confusing, huh?”

  He shrugs.

  “It’s not a performance. I won’t rate you or compare you to others. Someone can care about you, Wesley, and have these experiences specific to you… to us. Like, I don’t need you to be good at it. I can show you whatever you think isn’t going to go right. We can figure it out together. That’s what caring about someone you’re doing this stuff with means. It means it’s not like it is with anyone else. It means we care about each other, how it feels for both of us. All things. We only have to be together. We don’t have to do anything or everything until it’s right. In all ways. For both of us.”

  I take a breath. Honesty. I went with total honesty. He’ll run now or stay. I guess that’s all I can do is try. I lean forward and kiss his lips, surprising him. His head pops back. I cup his face. “I won’t do anything more than that until you want to. If we do anything that makes you feel like running, well, if you can’t tell me about the urge, then you can just run. It’s okay. If you stop and don’t want to tell me why, that’s okay, too. It’s all okay. I swear to you.”

  “Do you… understand what… what I’m…”

  “Going through? No. I’ve never experienced anything like it. But I empathize. I think you’re trying to tell me you were sexually abused when you were eight. A little boy. She kissed you with her tongue. She put cigarettes out on your bare skin. That’s enough to tell me that a monster tortured you.” I touch his face again. Tears spill out of my eyelids. I press my face to the side of his. “You haven’t kissed anyone since you’ve been old enough to. I sense you saw a lot of sex in your childhood and teen years. I get the feeling it was ugly and more like a casual pastime. I think you’ve never experienced it as a good thing. Yet you’ve been told that you’re a guy, and you should want it all the time. I think you probably do want it, too. There’s nothing wrong with you, Wesley? Okay? Hear me.” I kiss his lips swiftly again. Just a brush of my lips. I grip his shoulders, wishing I could shake the belief into him. “But there is nothing good inside your head about it. It’s not your fault. It’s just… don’t blame yourself.”

  “And you don’t think that’s… a… a… I don’t know… you don’t take it personally?”

  “That you chose me to try something new with out of all the girls you’ve known? I’m the one you choose to try and move forward with? Yes, I take it very personally. I take it as, wow, you must have the potential to care about me. Wow, I must be very special to you.”

  “You’re the only special person I’ve ever met.”

  I smile but the sadness of his statement makes my heart clench. I’m the most ordinary person he’s ever met. My great life’s dream is to be an orthodontist. Yet, he thinks I’m somehow rare? If it were anyone else, I’d laugh at the absurdity of being particularly special. With my ordinary looks and crazy chaotic hair, and yet I know somewhere deep in my gut I am special to him.

  Sure, it’s a strong draw. Of course, after being so lukewarm with Wyatt, it’s intoxicating to be needed and wanted like this.

  “I’m not. But I think my greatest strength is I’m a kind person who will never purposely hurt you. Or mock you. I’ll always try to understand whatever you’re going through.”

  He sucks in a breath. “Even if I’m a virgin who gets freaked out at kissing you?”

  “Especially then, Wesley.”

  He’s quiet for a long, long time as I again embrace him, and he pets my hair. I lean on his chest and lift my head up and ask, “What did she do to you?”

  He sighs. His body kind of folds, and he feels like he’s smaller and clutching me. I picture the little boy needing someone, and yet there was no
one.

  “She used to kiss me and… and…” He can’t find the words as his hands hold me.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I soothe, kissing his neck and chin and collarbone with soft, little kisses. Hopefully, the opposite of any of his memories. “She did it. Not you. It wasn’t your fault, Wesley. None of it is.”

  “She… she just kinda fondled me.” The last two words are whispered, and I have to be that close to hear them. Then he hurries on, his tone gaining strength as he speaks of what he finds easier to say and that was the stuff related to sex. “That’s it. She was a mean, old bitch who liked to stick her cigarettes into my back and laugh at me.”

  “There is no excuse, okay? Eight years old. Eight years old. There is no excuse for those actions. She sexually molested you, Wesley. Whether you want to admit or own that, it’s what happened to you.”

  “I don’t see what it has to do with… with this… us… I don’t understand—”

  He isn’t real dialed into his emotions. My shoulders are folding over. Does he really not see? He breaks my heart. And will break my heart. And I’ll sign up for all of it. I know that with a long exhale. Because if I could undo even one of these negative thoughts or experiences, or just ease it for a while, as long as he’s in Silver Springs, then I’m here. I’ll do it. Willingly. I’m all signed up and ready. Or as ready as one can be for this.

  “If I told you Wyatt forced himself on me and rubbed my genitals when I didn’t want him to and stuck his tongue down my mouth when I didn’t want him to, would you be shocked if I had a hard time kissing you at first? Would you see that I might have issues?”

  His body ripples with tension and movement. “Did he…”

  “No! Wyatt would never. Ever. See my point? Would you be shocked if that had been the case?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What would you do if I told you it was hard for me to kiss, because of my past experience to do those very things, those very acts, even though I wanted to? What would you do? Ignore it? Push me?”