After I Was His

by Amelia Wilde

  There are two more numbers. One of them is a wedding scene. And then there’s us, in real life, arguing in the kitchen. Good-naturedly. The show ends on a gentle note. Gentle, and powerful, and lovely.

  Then a burst of music—a burst of applause. The curtain plummets toward the stage, then sweeps back up, and I am all joy, except for a black pit of despair where my heart should be. I can’t avoid it now. I can’t avoid looking at the first row.

  The rest of the cast bows first. That’s how it goes—groups of two and three, the main chorus, everybody. They all go first. Does the music always play so fast? Jason strides downstage, waves, bows. My throat sears with happiness for him—the audience is loving him. Loving him. His parents are right in the front row, along with his younger sister.

  He turns, his hair ablaze in the light, beaming, and throws his arm out wide.

  It’s my turn.

  I feel it, but I don’t let it show—that last urge to turn and run, into the curtains, into the backstage, and away from all of this. Away from that empty seat. I can’t face it. But I have no choice. It’s opening night, and this is my final bow.

  I keep my eyes toward the back of the house, the applause reverberating off the concrete walls backstage and filling my ears. It’s warm under the lights, so warm, but that cold pit of fear at the bottom of my stomach anchors me to the stage, my feet heavy.

  I bow.

  I take Jason’s hand.

  We bow together, and I raise my head and I fucking forget.

  I forget not to look at the front row. I forget the dagger of pain that’s been hovering over me, waiting to strike.

  There are three empty seats.

  And in the very center, with an enormous bouquet of flowers, all alone, stands Wes.

  Looking at me.

  My heart shatters and the pieces fly out into the far reaches of my soul and back again. There are hot tears on my cheeks—where the hell did those come from?

  “Wes,” I say, even though I know he won’t hear over the orchestra and the surge of applause.

  “Whit.” I see his mouth shape the word. I see the set of his jaw. I see the ferocity in his eyes.

  And the next thing I know, he’s gone.

  32

  Wes

  She’s the only person in the entire world.

  Whitney, dark-haired and elegant, and so alive under the stage lights that she looks like she could burst into flames at any moment. My hands are steady around the heft of the bouquet, but my stomach rolls and dives.

  Dayton took his fucking phone out the moment the curtain call started. He looked at the screen, whispered something to Summer, and got the hell out of there. I can hear her, somewhere off to my right, her voice the only recognizable thing in the hellish cacophony of the applause. It rockets off the wall of the stage and bounces back over me. I don’t turn my head to search for Summer. Whitney’s all that I need.

  It’s too loud—it’s tearing me apart—but that asshole shrink I met this morning walked me through a sheet of things to do like I was five years old. The worst part is, that bullshit is already working. It’s tenuous around the edges. The thunder of applause threatens to blur into the low rumble of that IED tearing through the tank, again and again.

  Focus on the here and now.

  Whitney’s eyes glow darkly in the stage lights, her costume hugging every curve. She’s breathing hard, like she just finished running, and her body leans toward me, even as she keeps her back straight and chin up. Her eyes burn, and I let them capture me, pull me away from the sound. I breathe in deeply. Your brain doesn’t know the difference between fear and excitement. The bouquet is solid in my hands, the stems still vibrant beneath the tissue paper it’s wrapped in.

  “Come on up.” The voice comes from far away and I have to tear my gaze from Whitney’s. It takes every effort, but I know they’re talking to me—somehow, I know. A short woman, dressed all in black, she’s beckoning me to a low flight of stairs at the edge of the theater. Access to the stage, hiding in plain sight. She’s smiling so widely at me, and I go. I go to the stairs and she puts a hand on my shoulder. “For Whit, right?” Her words blur together. Must be Wes. Make her night. It must be Rowan, Whit’s director.

  The crowd noise shifts.

  “Hold it,” Rowan calls to someone behind me. People are getting ready to leave, gathering purses and programs and talking to each other. Whitney stands at the front of the stage, a smile still on her face.

  But her forehead is wrinkled.

  Her eyes dart from seat to seat.

  She’s looking for me, and trying to make it look like she’s not.

  It takes everything I have not to run across the stage to her. No. I walk. I keep it under control. At the last moment, she whispers, “Oh, Jesus,” and she turns, and those same dark eyes sear into mine.

  One instant, and her face lights up. It’s just like the sunrise—one moment, the world is murky and gray, and the next, color spills into every corner. Color blooms across her cheeks and her hands fly to her mouth.

  “You—” The tears come next, welling up. “You still mad?”

  “Whitney.” The words are impossible to contain. The way she makes me feel—that squeeze, that ache that fills my entire chest—it’s beyond measure. “I love you. I’m so fucking sorry. And I brought you flowers.”

  She flies into my arms then, pushing the bouquet that I’ve spent the last two hours tending to out of the way. She presses her face to my neck and holds on tight.

  Everything falls away.

  The chatter from the crowd.

  The rush of the other actors and actresses across the stage.

  The orchestra, playing the audience out.

  There’s nothing but Whitney’s voice, her scent, her breath against my cheek, and then—

  Her lips against mine.

  She kisses me like I’m the only thing keeping her on earth, and who knows? Maybe I am. But she’s doing the same for me. Without her…

  I can’t think of my life without her.

  There’s a sound like the beginning of rainfall. It’s soft, in the distance, like raindrops in the forest, and I surface from Whitney’s kiss to realize that people are clapping.

  For us.

  My grip tightens on the bouquet. I can’t bring myself to let go of her. I know it must be unprofessional as fuck, but I am lost in her eyes, in her touch, and she’s the first person I’ve ever found who can hold me. All of me. Even the broken, shattered parts. “I’m going to get you in trouble.”

  She puts her hands on my face, her soft palms against the rough stubble there. “I swear to Christ, Wes, if you ever leave me again—”

  “It’ll be the end of me.” The air scorches my lungs. “I’m done being without you, Whit. One week was all it took. I’m a fucking broken man.”

  She nips at my bottom lip, audience be damned. “Sometimes, we must be broken, so that our spirits can find new ways to—”

  I lean in and press my lips to the creamy skin at the curve of her neck. “Break me again, if that’s what you want. I’d rather be torn apart at your hands than live without you.”

  “That’s—” Whitney shudders underneath my hands. “That’s kind of gross, Wes.” I freeze. Have I fucked this up again? Then Whitney laughs, and the tension flies out of me. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

  “At breaking me?”

  “At being—you know, predictable.” Whitney looks up into my eyes and someone in the front row screams, Kiss her again! “I can be calm. I can follow whatever routine—”

  I take her face in my hands and the bouquet drops to the stage floor. “Listen to me now.” She goes still, her hands pressed up against mine. “I don’t want you to be calm. I want you to be mine. Do you hear me? I love you. I love you.”

  “I love you,” she whispers.

  I can’t help myself—I lean in one more time. I’m not the kind of guy who takes orders from anyone. I’m the kind of man who gives orders. But I relent.
I let her pull me in and I devour her, right there in a crowded room, where anything could happen.

  Anything at all.

  Epilogue

  Whitney

  “One more sweep, and then I’ll be good to go.”

  I tap my foot at the door to our apartment and try to tamp down the excitement sparkling in my veins. It’s unreal. It’s so powerful that it’s almost making me irritated.

  “Wes, you’ve done five sweeps. We’re ready to go. We can buy anything we forgot on the road. Plus, aren’t we meeting Ben before we go?”

  He appears from the bedroom, an easy grin on his face. “No rush. Ben texted. He’s got other plans in the city. Some woman he met, I guess?” He raises his eyebrows. “You, on the other hand… You look like you’re trying to hurry me along. You look like you really want to get out of here. It’s like you want me to cut corners.” Three long strides across the entryway and he’s swept me up in his arms. Hot damn, he smells good. It doesn’t matter how long we live together. I’m never going to get over the intoxicating, manly scent of him, like leather and a clear day. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and holds it there for a long moment.

  Things have been relatively calm since the whirlwind that was opening night. The image of him standing there onstage, flowers in his hands and sorry on his lips, is burned into my brain. In a nice way, I mean. And afterward? Wes and I went back to my apartment—our apartment—and he told me everything. How the explosion had haunted him. How it had wrapped tighter and tighter around his mind until he couldn’t escape it. How the guilt—guilt—tore him in two, and it was only his last-ditch attempt at talk therapy that finally pulled him out, and back to me. It was not easy, sitting in that theater. My heart squeezes thinking about it. We talked until four in the morning, and then…

  Well. You know what happened then. A guy spills his heart out like that? With a face like Wes’s? Don’t even get me started on his body.

  “Oh, fuck,” I say into his mouth. “You can’t do this to me. I’m dying to get going.”

  He puts me down, my feet making contact with the floor. My heart pounds. “You are absolutely right, love. Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You forgot something in the bedroom.”

  I tsk at him. “There is no way I forgot anything in the bedroom. For one thing, I’ve been playing along with this little planning obsession of yours for five days. Everything’s practically labeled. And it wasn’t me who made us stay up last night to double-check that everything was—”

  Wes pulls something from his pocket, presenting it to me on the palm of his hand.

  It’s a little velvet box.

  Black velvet.

  A deep flush of happiness rockets from my toes all the way up to the top of my head. “That’s—”

  “That’s a ring box,” Wes finishes for me, looking down at it like it’s so commonplace, to be holding a box like that in his big hand. “In case you were looking for clarification.”

  “How could I—” I swallow down an expansive joy so I can get the words out. Holy shit. I didn’t realize I’d feel like this. I didn’t know it would be like sprouting wings and flying away on a warm updraft. It’s so amazing that I feel slightly wine-drunk, and we’re not even close to Vino. “How could I forget something like that? With all your careful planning? Weren’t, you know, weren’t you the one who was supposed to—”

  “I wasn’t going to give this to you here.” Wes is fighting off a grin, and when he stops fighting, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “But sometimes it’s good to be spontaneous. Someone I love taught me that.”

  Tears. Tears in my eyes. In all my life, I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who dissolved into tears at her own proposal—if that is indeed what this is—but here I am, my vision blurring. I blink them back. I can’t believe he’s doing this. I can’t believe how far he’s come.

  How far we’ve come.

  “Marry me,” I blurt out. “Wait. Stop. I’m sorry. I thought I’d throw in a twist, and now I’ve completely squashed this moment like a little bug under my heel—”

  Wes raises one thick finger and presses it against my lips.

  “Whitney Coalport,” he says solemnly. “I’ve loved you since the moment I slammed that door in your face.”

  “Highly romantic,” I say around his finger, the words muffled.

  “And if you would shut up for two seconds, you would get to hear that I never want to spend another day of my life without you. Even if that means baking in the middle of the night. Even if that means the occasional surprise vacation.”

  I want to crack a joke about how everyone loves baking in the middle of the night, and how the midnight cake incident was one time, but my throat is tight with wonder and love. The Wes who shut that door on me wouldn’t have gone on a surprise vacation in a million years. Not that this vacation is anything like a surprise—he’s been planning the trip for three months.

  That’s Wes.

  “You’re the only one I want to ruin my plans.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. It’s deep and lingering and by the end of it, I’m surprised to find that I’m still wearing panties.

  Wes looks into my eyes. “Is that a yes?”

  “That’s a hell yes.” He gathers me into his arms again, and I lay a hand against his chest. His heart is pounding, jumping against his rib cage. “Oh, my God, are you okay?”

  “Never better.” Wes shoves his hand back into his pocket and grabs the final bag from the floor. Our suitcases are already in the car downstairs. All that’s left is a duffel bag of our road trip essentials. It’s been packed for a week—the last chargers went in this morning, along with the other tidbits we keep on our nightstands.

  He takes my hand and heads for the door.

  “Hey. Don’t I get to see the ring?”

  Wes laughs. “I thought you liked to be surprised.”

  “I like to be surpris-ing. There’s a difference.”

  “I’ll be in charge of the ring.” He withstands my good-natured harassment all the way to the elevator bank and steps inside. “Ground floor, please.”

  I lean down to push the button for the ground floor and when I straighten up, there it is. Nestled in the open box, atop Wes’s palm. A thin silver band, gleaming from its perch, and a solitaire diamond. It takes my breath away.

  “Surprise,” he says.

  “I love you, too. Are you going to let me wear it?”

  He lets out a breath. “I think I have to, now that you’ve seen it.” Wes slips it onto my finger while the elevator glides downward, toward earth. It’s a perfect fit. Goose bumps race from my fingers over my shoulders, down to the base of my spine. I have a ring. Oh, my God, I have Wes’s ring.

  He puts an arm around me and presses a kiss to my temple. The elevator glides to a stop and the doors open. For once, I’m speechless.

  “There’s one more surprise.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m going to let you pick the route.” He turns me toward him, puts two fingers underneath my chin, and raises my face to his. “Do your worst, Whitney Coalport. You want to take us to the ends of the earth, I’ll follow you.”

  I think of all the nights he’s spent hunched over his laptop, comparing hotel destinations and traffic patterns, and I can’t do it. “You know what? Let’s not. Let’s do everything according to plan.”

  The way he kisses me then is completely off-script.

  “Okay,” he agrees. “Let’s give it our best shot.”

  Need more Wounded Hearts? If you haven’t read Dayton and Summer’s story, now’s the time. This roller coaster of a romance novel is available here on Amazon.

  Author’s Note

  Our hero Wes Sullivan is a creation of my imagination, but his struggles with PTSD reflect reality for many veterans and servicemembers. One of readers suggested that I include information about the Veterans Crisis Line here for anyone
who might need it—endless thanks to you, Ramona.

  If you are a veteran or servicemember in crisis, or are the friend or loved one of a veteran or servicemember in crisis, please consider contacting the Veterans Crisis Line. They are available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year via phone, online chat, or text.

  Call 1-800-273-8255 (Press 1)

  Send a text to 838255

  Chat at veteranscrisisline.net

  Connect with Amelia

  Amelia Wilde writes steamy contemporary romance and loves it a little too much. She lives in Michigan with her husband and daughters. She spends most of her time typing furiously on an iPad and appreciating the natural splendor of her home state from where she likes it best: inside.

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  See you on the other side! <3

  Also by Amelia Wilde

  Wounded Hearts

  Before She Was Mine: Dayton Nash survived the war, but he might not survive falling in love with his best friend’s little sister.

  After I Was His: War has torn Wes Sullivan apart. Whitney Coalport could put him back together…if they don’t destroy each other first. Available June 5!

  The Dirty Series

  Dirty Scandal: Graham Blackpool is never getting married. But when a sex scandal forces him into a fake engagement, he finds himself wanting to say I do…