by T. K. Leigh
“Losing you, Lo,” I say past the lump building in my throat, the mere idea like a knife through my heart.
“Wes…,” she begins with a sigh, pulling her hand from mine.
“So when you take into account all of that…,” I interject before she can list all the reasons I should keep my distance. I know her concerns. It doesn’t mean I can accept them. I doubt I ever will. “I’d argue our first date was on the Ferris wheel.”
“The Ferris wheel?” She scrunches her brows. “I’m not sure that qualifies. Hell, I was practically coerced into getting on that dang death trap by Imogene.” Her expression falters briefly at the mention of my niece.
“You could have walked away.”
A contemplative look crosses her face before she blows out a breath, shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t, Wes. From the beginning, I’ve been completely powerless when it comes to you.”
Easing toward her, I bring my hand up to her cheek. “And I’ve always been utterly powerless when it comes to you, honeybee,” I admit, my lips descending toward hers.
She closes her eyes, jutting out her chin in preparation for my kiss. But at the last minute, I shift gears, feathering my lips against her forehead before dropping my hold on her.
She snaps her gaze to mine. “Wha—”
“You need space, and that’s what I’m giving you. When you’re ready to fight for yourself, for us, I’ll be here.” I leave one last kiss on her forehead, lingering for several long seconds as I breathe in her powdery fresh scent before pulling back.
Spying Hazel off to the side, I give her a grateful smile, then turn, making my way toward the glass doors.
Just as I’m about to push through them, Londyn’s voice stops me.
“Hey, Wes?”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder.
She hesitates, chewing her bottom lip. “Do you… Do you want to come over tomorrow? Maybe grab lunch or something?”
My shoulders fall, relief rolling off me. “I’d love to.”
Chapter Seventeen
Weston
I sit on my couch Friday night, sipping on a scotch, watching a news report of the peaceful protest at the courthouse earlier today. When they segue to yet another story on the Buckhead shooting and the woman responsible, I change the channel, not wanting to sit through a reminder of what’s going on. To most, it’s a sensational story. To me, it’s a cruel reality.
Navigating toward my movies, I search for something that’s heavy on the humor and low on the drama. There’s one movie that always fits the bill. One movie my sister and I would watch whenever we needed a pick-me-up. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. We all wish we could have one day to abandon responsibility. If there were any day I wish I could do just that, it’s today.
It’s strange to watch this now that I’m no longer a teenager. Back then, I thought the premise was entirely believable. From stealing your parents’ car. To sneaking into a five-star restaurant. To dancing on a float during a parade in downtown Chicago. But that’s the thing about being a teenager. You haven’t really experienced life yet. You can believe in the ridiculousness of a John Hughes movie because the real world hasn’t left you jaded and without hope.
What I wouldn’t give to go back to that innocence. To believe in the goodness of people again.
Just as Ferris tries to convince the snotty maître d’ that he’s Abe Froman, the Sausage King of Chicago, my doorbell rings. I sit up, furrowing my brow. It’s after ten o’clock at night. No one stops by this late. Hell, no one stops by at all, apart from Londyn. Or my mother.
But if it were my mother, she’d incessantly knock on my door, telling me she knows I’m home because she sees my car. So that leaves only one other possibility.
Jumping to my feet, I hurriedly make my way to the door, not even stopping to check the peephole before opening it. The second I do, my expression drops in surprise.
“Jules?”
She spins to face me, eyes wide, mouth agape, as if startled to see me, despite it being my house.
I tried to talk to her at court, but my mother and Nick ushered her out of there before I could. My only comfort was the look of reassurance from my father, silently telling me he had it under control.
“I-I’m sorry for just dropping in on you like this,” she says in a small voice.
Her eyes appear vacant, her skin lackluster. It looks like she hasn’t slept in days. I don’t blame her. I really haven’t, either.
“I didn’t know if I should even come over, but I needed to get out of that house for a bit.” She pulls her oversized sweater closer into her body. “Can I… Can I come in?”
“Of course.” With a smile, I step back and allow her inside the house that was once her second home. It still could be if she needs it.
I follow her into the kitchen. Skirting around the island, I grab the bottle of red wine and hold it up.
“Would you like a glass?” I ask.
She exhales, her shoulders seeming to relax. “I’d love one. Especially without judgment.”
I grab a glass out of the cabinet and pour the liquid into it before handing it to her. “Mom still thinks it’s reckless to take care of a child and enjoy a glass of wine?”
She rolls her eyes as she swallows a healthy sip. “Now I remember why I was so desperate to go away to college, even if it was to one of her choosing. Living in that house is like a prison.” She stops short, eyes flinging wide, her breath hitching. “I mean…”
“It’s okay,” I say, not wanting her to feel bad for her slip. I’m just glad she’s here. “How did you get out tonight?”
She crosses an arm over her stomach. “I lied and said I needed to swing by the bakery.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.” She smiles, life returning to her eyes. She’s still not the same Julia, but she’s not the scared woman I saw earlier today, either.
“Want to sit?”
Nodding, she follows me into the living room. I lower myself to what’s always been my spot on the couch, Julia sitting on the opposite end of the sectional in hers. The only thing missing now is Imogene.
And Londyn.
“Shitty day?” Julia comments, her focus on the television.
“What makes you say that?”
She nods at the screen. “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. That was our go-to movie after a crappy day.”
I sigh, swiping my nearly empty glass of scotch off the coffee table, finishing it. “It’s been a pretty shitty week, to be honest.”
“It sure has.” She takes a long gulp of her wine.
I glance at her, hesitating, a thousand questions swirling in my head. But I don’t want to do anything to chase her away now that she’s here. The heavy stuff can wait. For now, I just want to enjoy watching a movie with my sister. Like we used to.
Our conversation remains light as the movie plays, mostly reminiscing about the memories it brings forward. Like the time she stole our father’s car and drove to Savannah for the day. Or the time we both skipped school to catch the Braves home opener. Or the time we threw a party at our house when we thought we had it to ourselves, only for our parents to come home after their flight was canceled due to a huge snowstorm up north.
With each memory, our laughter increases, reminding me how important she is to me. Ever since Julia arrived at our house all those years ago, we’ve had a bond that transcends that of brother and sister. I have to believe it’s this bond that will help us get through this, too.
Once the credits roll, Julia reluctantly pulls herself to her feet. “I should probably get back before Lydia sends out a search party.”
I stand, walking beside her as she makes her way toward the kitchen. “Probably not a bad idea.”
After she rinses out her glass, she sets it on the drying rack, then heads toward the foyer. As she approaches the front door, I reach past her to open it, then face her.
“I’m really glad you stopped by tonight. You’re w
elcome anytime. You know that, right?”
“I know.” She lingers in the doorway for a protracted moment, not wanting to leave, but not able to stay. Suddenly, she throws herself at me, flinging her arms around my waist and hugging me tighter than she has in recent memory. Probably since Gampy and Meemaw’s funeral. “Thank you, Wes. You’re a good brother.”
I squeeze her, wanting her to feel love that doesn’t come with any conditions attached, as so often seems to be the case with my mother. And I get the feeling may also be the case with Nick.
“I love you, Jules. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” she repeats, savoring in my embrace for a beat before pulling away, swiping at the tears that had escaped. “Thanks again.” She gives me one last smile, then steps into the chilly night air, tugging her sweater against her body as she walks swiftly to her car.
I watch her, hating the idea of sending her back to that house with Nick and my mother. After everything that’s transpired, I have questions. And a premonition that only grows stronger with every passing minute.
“Are you okay, Julia?” I shout when she reaches her SUV.
She stops, glancing over her shoulder. “What do you mean? I—”
“Are you okay?” I repeat, striding down the walkway toward her. “You can talk to me. About anything. About Nick. You can trust me. You don’t have to keep it all hidden because you’re worried about what Lydia will say.”
“And I appreciate that,” she counters, squaring her shoulders and looking straight ahead. “But there is nothing to talk about.”
“Nothing? So there’s nothing going on with Nick? You never picked up on anything…off about him?”
“Off?” She scrunches her brows. “What do you—”
“Has he ever touched you in a way you didn’t like or that wasn’t appropriate?”
“Of course not!” she exclaims, but doesn’t look me directly in the eyes.
If I didn’t know Julia as well as I do, maybe I’d let it go. But after growing up together, I can tell when she’s lying. When she’s hiding something. And there’s no doubt in my mind she’s lying to me. The way she chews on her bottom lip and fidgets with the hem of her sweater makes it obvious.
“Look me in the eye and tell me he’s never touched you,” I demand. “That he’s never hurt you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Wes.”
“Do it, Jules.” Jaw clenching and expression tense, I lean toward her. “If he’s never hurt you, this shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Please, Wes.” She keeps her head lowered, shaking it, the truth clear in her silence. But she still refuses to admit it.
“Say it, Jules,” I continue, not letting her get away so easily. “Tell me he’s never touched you without your consent.”
She digs her hands through her hair, still shaking her head, each word I utter seeming to cause her more and more anguish.
“That you honestly believe his story,” I growl, my voice growing louder. “That Londyn came on to him and shot him as some sort of woman-scorned revenge bullshit! Because if that’s what you believe, if that’s the truth, you should have no problem looking me in the eye and saying so.”
“Wes, please…”
“Goddammit, Julia!” I don’t think as I clutch her biceps with a harsh grip, the trauma and stress of the past week catching up to me. “Just fucking tell me the truth already!”
“Don’t touch me!” she cries out, wiggling in my grasp, pure terror covering her face.
The reality of what I’m doing washing over me, I snap out of my trance, quickly dropping my hold. The instant she’s free, she spins around and flings her car door open.
In all my thirty-six years, I’ve never touched a woman like I just did Julia. My stomach tenses, throat constricting.
“Julia, I’m so—”
She quickly lifts a hand, preventing me from getting any closer to her. “Just stop, Wes. Please.” She draws in a deep breath as she rubs her arms. “I know you mean well, but I am begging you.” She slowly lifts her eyes to mine. I’ve never seen her so tortured before. “You have to stop asking questions. You’re not helping matters.”
I blink, her words catching me off guard. They could mean so many things. “You don’t have to go back there. You don’t need him. Don’t need any of them.”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth to stop her chin from quivering. “I wish it were that simple, Wes,” she admits, tears streaming down her face, an odd look for a woman who’s always hidden her emotions behind a locked door. “But it’s not. I…” She trails off, the words stuck in her throat. “I’m sorry.”
She climbs into the car and slams the door, then cranks the ignition, peeling down my driveway and off into the night.
Chapter Eighteen
Londyn
I stare at the pad in front of me, notes from my conversation with Sophia scrawled on it. It’s been an hour since her phone call, and I still struggle to comprehend the reality that this is what the ADA calls their best offer. I figured I’d plead to one of the misdemeanor charges, have to do some community service, perhaps probation. But this? This doesn’t seem like a bargain at all.
In exchange for pleading guilty to aggravated assault, they’ll drop all the misdemeanor charges. They’ll also recommend a much lighter sentence than the twenty years I could potentially face. One year in prison, suspended after six months, then five years’ probation.
My initial response was to not take it. Why would I? I didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t do anything any other woman in my shoes wouldn’t do.
But can I really put my freedom at risk in the hopes the judge or jury believes my story? Or do I just accept defeat and take the offer, since it’s most likely the best I’ll get?
A knock on my door cuts through my thoughts. I look at it, a heaviness settling over me, knowing all too well it’s Wes here for our lunch date. I’d looked forward to seeing him…until Sophia called.
With slow steps, I make my way to the door, still not sure what to tell him about Sophia’s phone call. He’d appeared so hopeful after I asked him to lunch today. This will surely eviscerate that. Just like it did to my optimism.
“Wes, I—” I begin, pulling the door open before snapping my mouth shut when I see it’s not Wes at all.
In fact, it’s someone I didn’t think I’d ever see again. Someone I never wanted to see again.
“Surprised to see me, Lo?” Sawyer asks, a righteous expression etched on his face.
All I can do is stare at the man who looks as out of place on my front stoop as a rainstorm in the desert. I once thought him to be attractive. Chiseled jawline. Kind eyes. Charismatic smile. But the kindness and grace he purports to possess during his weekly sermons is simply a mask. Sawyer Ross is no more compassionate than I am guilty of the crime of which I’m accused.
A movement over his shoulder catches my attention. I glimpse toward it, blinking when I notice my father standing at the bottom of the steps. I expect to see disappointment, like I did the last time I saw him. Instead, there’s something else. Remorse? That can’t be. Can it?
“Aren’t you going to invite us inside?” Sawyer pulls my attention back to him.
But he doesn’t wait for an invitation, pushing past me and into my condo, ignoring my wishes, just as he did during our marriage. He failed to take into account one important thing, though. I’m not the same person I was during our marriage. I’ve grown. Matured. Learned to speak up for myself. And that’s precisely what I intend to do now.
Spinning on my heels, I storm toward Sawyer as he makes himself at home, setting his briefcase down on my kitchen table before removing his wool coat and draping it over one of the chairs.
“What are you doing here?” I demand as my father slowly makes his way into my condo, silently observing his surroundings.
“Is that any way to greet someone who might be willing to help?” Sawyer turns toward me, smiling slyly.
“Help?” I pl
ace a hand on my hip. “Like you did all those years ago when I told you what happened to me? Because if that’s the same kind of help you came to offer, I—”
“It’s in your best interests to listen to what I have to say, Londyn,” he interjects with a reproachful glare. “Unless you want to spend the next several years of your life in prison.”
I should kick him out. Kick them both out. But what if Sawyer really can help me? Over the past several years, he has proven himself to be quite influential. Has associated with people in powerful positions. Maybe he’ll use his influence to help me. But at what cost?
“May I?” He gestures toward the couch, but his request is simply a formality. He doesn’t wait for my response, walking toward the couch and sitting in my spot. It’s the side of the couch I’ve always sat on, even when we were married. And he knows it.
He smirks, confirming my suspicions that he chose that spot intentionally, to maintain control. Then he nods toward the reading chair, indicating where I should sit, a king holding court.
But I’m no longer one of his subjects.
My head held high in defiance, I cross my arms in front of my chest. “I’ll stand.”
He glowers at me for several long moments, then shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He settles into the cushions. “Your case has made quite the splash in the headlines these past few days.”
“Yes, it has. Which explains why you’re here. To cash in on that publicity.”
He feigns indignation, his hand going to his heart. “How could you say that? Like I told you, I’m here to help.”
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m positive they’re about to pop out of their sockets. “And like I told you, you didn’t seem interested in helping me all those years ago, Sawyer. No. You used me as a way to garner sympathy. Make you out to be the victim. Isn’t that right?”
“Do you think I wanted to admit to the board of the church that my wife left me after sleeping with another man?”