by M. C. Frank
The housekeeper—Helen—takes me to the third floor, to Wes’ bedroom. She shows me his walk-in closet and leaves me to it. I pick up a shirt and a pair of pants that I’ve seen him wear once before, pressed and folded, fresh out of the laundry, and resist the temptation to bury my nose in his scent. Only just, but I resist it. There’s a white dog asleep on his bed, his chest rising and falling with every breath. He has only one ear. Hook, I think. A lump forms in my throat as I remember the time he told me about him.
I walk back into his room, and head for the stairs, when something catches my eye. It’s on his desk. There’s this massive oak office facing the sunlit window, a leather chair pressed against it. Outside, tiny snowflakes keep landing on the ledge—it’s snowing again. I walk over, my shoes sinking into the soft carpet.
There’s a book open on the desk, a couple of pens with their caps off and a notebook. I press my palm on the flat, sleek surface of the wood, fingering the soft, silken edges of the book. And right there is the thing that caught my attention in the first place: a bright yellow sticky note is pasted to the left page of the heavily-underlined book. I step even closer and lean over to take a look.
A few words are written on it in Wes’ neat scrawl.
I read what it says.
Then I read it again, pressure building behind my eyes.
I also don’t judge you guilty.
That’s all it says. Underneath it he’s scribbled a small reference. I squint down to read it: John 8:11. What the heck does ‘John’ mean? Is it Shakespeare? I don’t think it is. I wipe my eyes and glance at the book. One phrase stands out, highlighted in a bright, green color.
It’s the same words. ‘I also don’t judge you guilty.’
I sit down. The huge desk chair swallows me up; it smells like new leather and Wes. I just stare at the underlined words for a bit, and before I’ve realized what I’m doing, I’m reading the whole chapter.
The big, black book, it’s an English Bible—I’ve never touched one, let alone read it. It looks less imposing than I thought it would, just a regular, boring book. But this story. . . It’s the opposite of boring. The opposite of religious, unintelligible gibberish. It’s the story of a ruined, abandoned woman, who is being judged by everyone and. . . Well, not just judged.
Killed. She’s being killed by everyone.
It resonates in a way I never thought a story would. It’s raw, human, real. It’s my story. I’ve never been abandoned, not in this way, but I have been left. By a mother. I have been judged. I have been guilty. I have been waiting for the other foot to drop, waiting to die. Struggling to stay alive while I was dying.
Just like Wes has been struggling to stay alive. The memory is still vivid, the memory of how I found him, hunched on the floor of that pub, trying to drink himself to freedom. Trying to escape those eyes, thousands, millions of eyes, the world’s eyes that are following him everywhere.
This world, trying to kill us all. Succeeding in the end—if you want to get morose. We’ll all die in the end. Without one chance at freedom, most of us. But here it is. Someone, finally, who doesn’t judge. Someone who is only there to help.
Someone who just is. Imagine that.
I read the story, drinking in every word. I read it twice, while the light slowly fades outside the window.
Wes would be so proud to see me reading right now—and it’s not even a script. But for once Wes is the farthest thing from my mind. At some point Hook wakes up and comes to curl himself around my ankles, and I start scratching his neck absently. I read the entire thing through a second time. Then I fold the sticky note and put it in my pocket and go downstairs to thank Helen.
The driver is waiting to take me back to the hospital, true to his word.
◊◊◊
I find Wes in the same position I left him, legs hugged to his chest, facing the window.
“I brought it,” I say. “Now you can go home, isn’t that good?”
“Just leave it on the chair,” he replies, his back to me. “Thanks.”
His voice sounds rough, as though his throat is scraped raw. His accent is more British than I’ve ever heard it—and, may I add, hella hot. I sit on the bed, curling my left leg under me. Our backs are nearly touching. He’s jostled as the bed bounces under my weight, but he doesn’t move an inch.
“No,” I say. “I brought what you asked me for. Forgiveness.” I take out the little yellow note and place it in his hand.
My touch is tentative, just the necessary contact so I can give him the piece of paper. But as soon as my fingers brush his, he grabs my hand, holding it there.
A thrill runs through my body as his warm hand engulfs mine and I want to grab him and kiss away all the hurt I’ve caused him. Without letting go of my hand, he turns on his back, wincing as though his every muscle is in pain.
Recognition lights his face as he looks down and sees the yellow note. He doesn’t open it to read it; he doesn’t need to. He knows what it is immediately; he smiles up at me faintly, and butterflies gather in my stomach.
I start to move my hand away, but his fingers tighten around mine.
“You are forgiven,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “You are loved. You know you are.” I sit up, my hand still in his. “I read it, Wes. The entire story. How that woman, the hooker or whatever she was, was forgiven; how they weren’t allowed to judge her, and the only One that could didn’t want to. How she was forgiven. Not guilty.” I steal a look at him. He’s listening, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I. . . I’m sure it’s true for us, too.”
He sits up too quickly and his shoulder bumps against mine. The bed’s hinges creak.
“Us?” he asks.
“I need to be forgiven as badly as you do, Wes.” His eyes are glued to mine, luminous, fiery. His lips are slightly parted. “I want to change, too,” I take a deep breath. “I want to change like you did. I see you, and you’re so confident and focused, like you’ve grown up. And look at all the things you’ve achieved, the things you’re doing. . . You’ve overcome your worst enemy, you’re standing up for yourself. I want that too. I want to stop being scared all the time, stop pushing everyone away, stop running away. I want to be brave. To know that when the time comes I can face it. . . face death with courage. I want to be able to look back at my life and know I did something good, worthy with it. I mean the stunts are all right, but something to prove that I. . . ”
His mouth is on mine and he’s kissing me roughly, his lips trembling against mine. I lace my hands around his neck and we drink each other up as though we’ve been dying of thirst for the past three months. He cups my chin in his long fingers and prods my lips open with his mouth. A rugged sigh escapes his lips as he pulls me to him.
I explore the changes in his body, the bulging muscles on his arms, the lean contours of his back, the sharp jut of his hipbones. He slips a leg on top of mine, roping his hands around my waist and hoists me onto his lap, pressing me to his chest.
“Ari,” he murmurs against my lips. “Ari, dammit, I’ve missed you like breathing.”
“I’m here,” I whisper, arching my back as he runs his hands up and down.
“You are,” he says, releasing me slowly. He ducks his head to meet my eyes, and presses a hand to the side of my face. “You’re here,” he repeats, as though he’s trying to convince himself. “I’ve missed being this Wes, the Wes I’m with you.”
I’ve missed who I am with you, too.
I had no idea before today. Before the familiar feeling of his skin molding to mine, before his lips crushing mine, before his body pressed against mine. I had no idea that we become a different version of ourselves when we’re with someone; that we’re different when we’re alone. I’m different when I’m with my dad, my grandparents, with Katia. Not different as in not myself. Different as in better. A better me. A more open me, a safer me.
Like I’m right now. With him.
That’s what I didn’t know.
W
e stand still for a second, our bodies tangled up together, just looking at each other. Filling up on each other’s sight.
His eyes are hooded, searching mine, his lips swollen from kissing me. He takes my chin in his hand, cradling my head in his other, his fingers teasing the soft hairs at the nape of my neck.
“I hate your wigs so much. So much. All of them. Did you know that? I mean, I don’t hate them, but your real hair is just. . . ” he runs a hand over my head. A second passes. “Be with me.”
That’s it. Three words. It sounds so simple the way he says it, looking at me sincerely, his heart in his eyes.
After everything that’s gone on between us, it’s just those three words and we’re back in Corfu again, kissing on his yacht, the inky sea splashing quietly in the backdrop.
But it’s not simple. Not at all.
There are lies and hurt and so much time that’s passed between us. So many things we haven’t said, so many things we should have done differently.
“I’m so sorry.” That’s all that comes out of my lips.
“So, no?” he says immediately. For the first time since he woke up he looks really scared.
I lick my dry lips. “What I did to you. . . What I did, Wes—”
“Okay, you have to stop doing that,” he says, relaxing back. He looks relieved; he can’t stop smiling. “Stop thinking of the past.”
I get up to give him some room. “I can’t.”
“Hey,” he stands up and comes behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Look at me.” I do. His smile is wide, dazzling. “We’ll work out what happened, all right? Now just say you want to be with me.”
“Heather?”
He looks down and rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that didn’t work out. As in, she was sort of into me but all I’ve been into since September is you. We’re not in a relationship, in case you were wondering. That night at Pan’s concert. . . It was a mistake, okay? I don’t do that anymore, but that night. . . it was hard. I could barely stay in my seat, the mere sight of you made me crazy. You were wearing this dress. . . It was pure torture. You were the only reason I was there. I was sort of hoping for a while that she’d make you jealous, but even that wasn’t worth being with someone who wasn’t you.”
I fling myself at him, and the force knocks him back a few paces. He’s laughing again as he tumbles on his back with me in his arms. I bury my face in his chest.
“Ari? I’m going to need an answer here,” he says.
I lift my head so that we’re eye to eye.
“I’m in love with you,” I tell him. “I’m still in love with you. Is that enough of an answer—?”
He’s nodding furiously and kissing me again, his face breaking into the hugest smile as his lips meet mine again.
Out of the blue, tears sting my eyes.
His taste, the feeling of his arms tightening around me, the little sound he makes as air escapes his lungs in a relieved sigh against my mouth. . . everything about him is so warm, so familiar, that an ache starts to throb in my chest.
I feel my muscles tense under his fingers.
He notices immediately and stiffens, breaking our kiss. He places his hands on my shoulders and takes a step back, studying my face. “Something’s wrong,” he says, frowning. “Talk to me.”
tweets
Cathy@triskatfan @clara456 look made a new gif <3 He is so cute omg @therealwes
Jon@tww_brrr Thought I loved @therealwes in TWW but #Peter blew my mind
Nicgirl@nicolereviews Do we have a date for #thenewdarcyfilm by @therealwes? #askingforafriend
Weston SpencerVerifiedaccount@therealwes #thenewdarcyfilm is a wrap
Nicgirl@nicolereviews OMG OMG he said it it’s official RT @therealwes #thenewdarcyfilm is a wrap
James Pan@beethoven6th @therealwes omg you’re so cute I love you kisses and hugs
Weston SpencerVerifiedaccount@therealwes @beethoven6th wanna eff off?
James Pan@beethoven6th @olivercromwell @theovan @aridemos send some love to grumpy @therealwes
Oliver SikksVerifiedaccount@olivercromwell @therealwes I’m your biggest fan #triskat #thenewdarcymovie #dyiiiiing literally
Teddyteddy@theovan Just uploaded a new vid remix of @therealwes @olivercromwell #greyribbon …bit.ly/…
Teddyteddy@theovan check it out everyone …bit.ly/… added a moustache to @therealwes
Teddyteddy@theovan 3rd video in a row gave a fat suit to @therealwes so he and @theannadell match
Oliver SikksVerifiedaccount@olivercromwell @theovan lmao dude
Weston SpencerVerifiedaccount@therealwes @olivercromwell et tu, Brute?
James Pan@beethoven6th @therealwes next time you need to laugh you come to me
James Pan@beethoven6th @therealwes you hear?
Weston SpencerVerifiedaccount @therealwes @beethoven6th I hear. Go drink your milk, kid.
James Pan@beethoven6th @therealwes switch to dm, kid.
Direct Messages
James Pan @beethoven6th
You ok? Ari got you home all right? Don’t piss her off, man, she’s fierce. Also, you’re welcome for the trolling. Stay sober.
Weston SpencerVerifiedaccount @therealwes
Thanks for everything, man. I’m so sorry. No words. I’m really regretting everything, but you know that already. But for real, stop mothering me. I’m ok now, going home in a few. I know how hard it is, but I’m not going to do that to you, all right? I’m not going to die on you, not me. I know I almost did, but I promise, last time.
And I am NOT welcome for the trolling. Bye.
James Pan @beethoven6th
I’ll stop mothering you when you stop being an idiot. Hope for Ari’s sake it will happen sooner than your 80th bday.
Weston SpencerVerifiedaccount @therealwes
Love you, man.
James Pan @beethoven6th
OMG so do I! Kisses and hugs and farts
EIGHTEEN
I can’t answer him. I turn my head away and try desperately to swallow my tears. It’s not working. He crouches down next to me, and I feel horrible, but how can I tell him what’s wrong if I don’t know myself?
I gulp down the rising panic, but it’s getting harder to breathe by the second.
‘Say something.’
“Hey, Phelps,” Wes says softly. “Did I pressure you into saying those things? This is me, okay? You’ve seen me at my absolute worst, there’s nothing you can’t tell me.”
I turn my face up to his, letting him see every feeling, every thought in my eyes. Naked. He can see all the way inside me, to the very depths of my heart.
His expression changes; he goes pale, his eyes turning intense and sad at what he sees, but he doesn’t let go of my arm. He stands up and sits on the bed. He motions at the empty spot next to him, but I sit on the chair, facing him.
He clears his throat, sighing. “We’re starting from the middle, aren’t we?” He gives me a tight smile. “I haven’t even apologized for the way I. . . for that call.”
Ah. The phone call from hell. That’s how I dubbed those stupid things we both said that day that I decided to follow Katia’s dumb idea about ‘closure’.
“Wes, after the way I treated you, you have noth—”
“I missed you,” he interrupts me. “I missed you so much it hurt to breathe.” His throat works as he swallows. “The hope of answering the phone and hearing your voice one day was all that was holding me together. And then that finally happened, only for me to find out you didn’t want me.”
“I did,” I whisper. “I do.”
He nods to indicate that he heard, but he’s still not done. “That phone call, the way I acted, it was a huge mistake. I was a complete ass. I. . . I was so blind with hurt pride, that I couldn’t see. . . I couldn’t hear what you were really saying to me.”
I’m so surprised by this that I’m jerked from my thoughts. “What was I really saying to you?”
He shrugs, looking at the floor. “That you needed m
e. And I was too much of an idiot to notice. I left you alone at the time when you needed me most. I know what you’ll say; I know you think you were the one who wasn’t calling me or texting or even talking to me. At all.” He snorts and I draw away, but his hand snatches mine, pulling me closer. “Baby,” he murmurs.
I settle back down, wiping my eyes quickly. His lips move without speaking for a second, but then he goes on.
“I realized it the other day, outside the club. I did it all wrong. I could have waited. I should have waited for you. I wanted to, I wanted to wait forever for you, if you needed it, and then there would have been no call, no Heather, no stupid decisions. No picking me up drunk, and doing CPR on the floor of a car.”
I shiver. So Pan told him.
“The idea of you all alone, thinking those. . . those stupid, horrible things you wrote on that paper. . .” He shakes his head. “The idea that you kept—keep thinking about those things. . . it guts me.”
He takes in a sharp breath. His fingers tighten around mine and a thick vein pops on his arm as his muscle tenses.
“The idea of you hurting and me not being there. . . I can’t stand it. And to know that I’m the reason you’ve been hurting these past few days. . . ” He shakes his head.
“I honestly didn’t know you’d be here when I showed up,” I tell him. “No one told me this was your project. I didn’t mean to bring up the past. And about that phone call, I just didn’t know what to do. A. . . a friend said it was unfair to you to keep you stringing along since I didn’t know when I’d be ready to be with you.”