Chapter 16
16
S ometimes, when I find myself drowning in emails or trying to tackle my mile long to-do list that never seems to get any shorter, I think back on my life six months ago. I try to remember the person I was back then, even though she feels like a complete stranger. That Ariana struggled daily with worries about her decision to quit her soul-crushing receptionist job, wondering if it was the biggest mistake of her life. She had the bandwidth to do things like visualize her goals and journal her plans. She fit working out and meditation into her schedule with ease. Hell, she even had enough free time to get bored and feel lonely. Ariana of the past would’ve killed to be where I am now, and yet, when faced with the mountain of work on my plate and the prospect of a relationship, part of me yearns to go back to my past self. Her life may have been lackluster, but it was easier .
That probably makes me sound like an ungrateful jerk. I’m very aware of how lucky I am that my leap of faith has worked out so far. I’m living the dream of having a successful business and making art as my livelihood. But what people don’t tell you is that when you start to achieve your dreams, it doesn’t stop there. You don’t get a gold star and then spend your days basking in your accomplishments. No, you have to keep working. You certainly don’t have time to celebrate. Instead, the bar moves higher and the pressure to maintain success becomes a weight that threatens to crush you if you lose focus.
I realize now how foolish it was that the implicit motivation behind my goals was that if I met them, I’d be happy. That if I proved I could make something of my shop and my art, that would prove that I was something. Instead, I’m still me—flawed, stubborn, self-deprecating me. Only now I’m fucking exhausted on top of all that.
Oh, and somehow I’ve ended up with my dream boyfriend. I hate that Wesley, the man I’ve been obsessed with for a year, is relegated to my mental back burner because there are more pressing things to focus on. Every time he texts me, the fluttering excitement is swiftly followed by a surge of guilt, especially when he tries to find ways to spend time with me.
I feel like such an asshole telling him no. Both my heart and my body yearn to say “fuck it” to my schedule and be irresponsible, but my mind has a firm grip on the reins. I can’t let myself be reckless. Not when my shop is finally doing well. Not after all my hard work.
Wesley is what I wanted—what I still want. But this week has proven that just like my business, the dreams of a relationship are not the same as actually living them. Being with someone means you have to have time for them, and I can’t figure out how the hell that’s going to work when I’m already drowning. What ki nd of person starts a new relationship knowing they have nothing left to give?
It doesn’t help that I can’t talk to my best friend about my predicament. Kelly is amazing, but she’s terrible at keeping secrets. One mention of what’s going on with Wes, and Doug would be calling me to demand an explanation. The last thing I need right now is to add the pressure of Doug’s judgment and temper to my uncertainty about things with Wesley. So I’m left trying to deal with the mess of my frazzled mind and emotions on my own, which is never good. I vacillate all day long between convincing myself that I need to call things off since I can’t give Wesley the time and energy he deserves, and being unable to fathom letting the opportunity to be with him slip through my fingers.
By the time Saturday afternoon arrives, I’m no closer to knowing what to do, and terrified of what will happen when I see Wesley again tonight. My mind is a complete disaster, my worried thoughts amplified to the extreme after a week with no outlet or time to work through them. To make matters worse, Wesley’s not texting as much as he was earlier in the week. Being the terrible new girlfriend I am, I didn’t even notice the lack of messages until I’d pulled myself away from my desk to shove some food in my mouth and check my socials.
Fuck, I bet I won’t even have to make the choice to call things off. He’s probably already sick of my shit and is planning on breaking up with me.
Dread roils in my gut all day, enough of a distraction that I barely make a dent in my workload. It doesn’t help that I spend the morning fighting off a full-blown panic attack when I get an email from my manufacturer saying that my order is delayed, and they have no estimate for when it will arrive. No stock means lost income, as well as losing momentum with my shop’s success .
I make a bloody mess of my legs as I attempt to shave them during my hasty shower, my whole body seeming to vibrate with stress and anxiety. As I’m heading out the door, I realize that I’ve forgotten to pack half the things I need for an overnight stay, and then trip in my haste to rush back inside, scraping my palms raw on the gravel path as I attempt to brace my fall. I abandon collecting my toothbrush and cute pajamas in favor of hoping to at least arrive on time for our date. Who knows if I’ll even spend the night if I turn up bloodied and wild-eyed? Wes will probably take one look at me and tell me he made a mistake asking me to be his girlfriend.
The cherry on top of the shit sundae that is my day happens when I start my car up. It takes three tries before the engine turns over, and there’s a concerning thunk when it finally gets going.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I chant the words to myself the whole drive over to Wesley’s house, taking deep breaths to try to even myself out. Through sheer willpower, I’m able to hang on to my composure despite the churning anxiety and pain throbbing in my hands. When I pull into Wesley’s driveway, my resolve to be calm wavers.
It feels like a metaphor for me and Wesley when I park my beat up, dirty station wagon next to his pristine, sleek sports car. My car doesn’t belong here at his gorgeous house with its immaculately manicured lawn, and neither do I.
This will never work. I’m too pathetic and damaged, and I certainly don’t fit in this picture-perfect place with a man so far out of my league he should be dating models. I should turn around and go home. Text him I can’t make it. Break things off before he comes to his senses.
I put my keys back in the ignition, cursing as it once again fails to start. I try again and it makes a pathetic high-pitched whine, but still doesn’t work .
I slam my hands against the steering wheel. “Shit!”
A knock on my window startles a scream out of me, and I look up to see Wesley in his human glamor, watching me in bemusement.
My heart races, my instincts urging me to flee from the pain that’s headed my way, but it’s no use. He knows I’m here and my fucking car won’t start.
I give him a weak wave and unbuckle my seatbelt, shoving my car keys in my purse as he opens the door for me. “H-hey,” I say as I get out of my car, legs trembling with nerves. My lip wobbles as the tears I’d pushed back come rushing back to the surface. I’m only able to hold my composure for a second before they come flooding out, along with a choked sob.
A moment later, I’m crushed against Wesley’s chest as his thick arms band around me. “Baby girl, what’s wrong?!” He sounds bewildered by my tears, but I can’t do anything but sob into his chest. I cling to him tighter, not wanting to face the pain that’s coming my way.
His hands smooth up and down my back. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you, Ari.”
“I-I-I can’t d-do this.” I manage to get the broken words out. God, this hurts too much.
“Do what, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice heartachingly tender.
I want to be a coward. Selfishly, my heart begs me to stop talking. As much as don’t want to bring it up, I can’t stand the thought of stringing Wesley along when he deserves someone who has time for him and fits into his lifestyle. I care for him too damn much to trap him in a shitty relationship with me.
I shudder against him and steel myself as best as possible, but my voice still cracks pathetically as I speak. “B-break up. ”
The arms around me tense for a few long breaths, like time has frozen in the aftermath of my words. He releases me and pulls back to look into my face, heavy hands clasping onto my shoulders like he’s worried I’m going to flee.
“Who the fuck said anything about breaking up? What’s going on?” The rough edge to his voice makes the painful clenching in my chest even worse. His gaze darts over me in panic, before landing on my scraped up palms. “And why are you bleeding ?”
My chest shudders with each of my stilted breaths. I’m already regretting saying anything, because his worry slices through me like a knife. This is going even worse than I could’ve imagined. I reach up to swipe away some of my stubborn tears, and wince as the scrapes on my palms touch my cheek. “I fell. I’m sorry. God, I didn’t want to cry.” Dammit, I’m just making this whole thing worse. I don’t deserve to cry when I’m the one that’s ruining things.
He pulls my hand away from my face gingerly, avoiding my injuries. “Baby, it’s okay to cry when you get hurt?—”
I shake my head. “I c-can’t do this, Wes. I can’t be the person you n-need. Look at me.” I hold my palms out to emphasize my point. “I’m a fucking mess. I’m constantly on the verge of a mental breakdown and this whole week I was guilty because I didn’t have time for you. It’s only been a week and I’m already f-failing.” The ache in my chest threatens to push me back into an incoherent, sobbing mess again. “W-we should just e-end things.”
An endless silence stretches out between us and it’s all I can do to not crumple to the ground with grief for the relationship I’ll never have with him. He drags in ragged breaths, and his face contorts into an expression I can’t read through my tear-blurred vision. Is he angry? Relieved? My gaze drops to the ground, unable to bear finding out.
Finally, he speaks.
“No. ”
No? My heart lurches and my eyes snap back up to his. “But?—”
“No.” He doesn’t elaborate after cutting me off, radiating dominance and finality.
We stare at each other in a bizarre emotional standoff, my tears dried up in shock. It doesn’t take me long to give up my fight. I should be upset that he’s dismissing my concerns, but all I feel is overwhelming relief.
The tension that was keeping me from collapsing releases, and my body sags. My legs buckle, but Wesley’s there to catch me. He scoops me up into his arms, and I cling to him, wrapping my arms around his neck despite the pain in my hands as I do so. Hot tears slide down my cheeks and I press my face into his chest.
“Let’s get you inside and cleaned up,” he says in a soothing murmur as he carries me into his house. “Are you hungry? I can put the lasagna in the oven now, so it’ll be ready sooner.”
I don’t understand what’s happening. How is he so chill after I just tried to break up with him? “A-a-are we not going to talk about my f-freakout?” I ask, directing my words into his chest since I’m too embarrassed to look him in the eyes.
He pauses, and I feel his body grow larger as he lets his human glamor fall away now that we’re inside. A heavy exhale flutters my hair, and his cinnamon-apple scent washes over me. “Oh, we will. I need to make sure you’re alright first.”
I force myself to remove my face from where I’ve pressed it into his worn t-shirt, needing to see his expression. His voice is placid, but his eyes are burning with hurt and frustration.
Shit, what have I done? I can’t just pretend that things are fine when they’re not. “We can talk n-now. I’m okay.”
“Like hell you are. You showed up here bleeding and distraught. Do you have any idea how that—what that…” Wesley huffs in exasperation, emotion bleeding through his calm veneer. He shakes his head. “Stop being ridiculous and let me take care of you!”
“Fine!” I snap back at him. His raised voice shifts something in my brain, and my despair gives way to a much more comfortable feeling—irritation.
The weirdo smiles at my bratty tone, eyes warm with affection.
God knows why, but the combination of his bossiness and smirking makes me feel safe. I release a heavy exhale. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’m sorry, Wes. I—I didn’t mean to hurt you… I’m a mess.”
He strokes my cheek, then pushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Good girl. Apology accepted.”
Anyone else saying that to me would feel patronizing, but when Wesley praises me, the sincerity in his voice makes me melt.
“Now, about the lasagna—should I put it in the oven before or after I give you a bath?”
My brow raises. “Later is fine. A bath is excessive. I need to clean out my scrapes and maybe put on some antibiotic cream, but I took a shower before I got here. Do I smell bad?”
“You smell incredible. That’s not the point, Ari. I need to do this.” His voice is clipped and rough, like the thought of not bathing me pains him. “Didn’t you just say you’d do whatever I want? I want to give you a damn bath, and you’re going to be good and let me.”
I blink up at him, eyes widening at his intensity. “O-okay. You wanna give me a bath, then give me a bath.”
He carries me up a set of stairs and into his bedroom, but I don’t have time to register much more than dark gray wallpaper and an enormous bed before he heads into the connected bathroom. Flicking on the lights with his elbow, he brings me inside a bathroom that’s almost as big as my bedroom, and sets me down on a marble countertop between two raised glass bowl sinks.
“Wait here,” he says, placing a kiss on my head before stepping over to a bathtub that looks more like a small swimming pool.
Wesley tugs his shirt over his head and unceremoniously tosses it to the side before bending down to turn on the tap. Now that I’m not crying into his chest, I can see that he’s wearing a pair of light gray sweatpants. Because of course he is. I watch his rounded, tight ass flex, and his tail twitches like he knows exactly what I’m doing.
When he turns around, I’m treated to the sight of the obscene outline of his cock against the thin material of his pants. Even when he’s not hard, he’s enormous.
I blush and look away. I shouldn’t ogle him right now. I lost the right to do that after I tried to break up with him five minutes ago. My fingers fiddle with the tie of my wrap dress, unsure if I should take it off.
“Allow me,” Wes says, shaking his head. He closes the distance between us and takes hold of the tie at my waist, undoing the bow with ease. He doesn’t look down at my body as he skims his hand up my arms and inward to push the fabric of my dress off my shoulders, his eyes intensely focused on my face, watching me.
Is he worried I’ll tell him to stop?
My stomach quivers as the fabric slides off and pools beneath my hips on the counter, but I can’t look away from him either. He makes quick work of my bra and panties, and steps back, only then allowing himself to look away from my face.
It takes everything in me not to shy away from his assessment. His nostrils flare as I shift in place, and molten heat pools between my thighs. When he moves closer, his powerful body caging me against the counter, my breath hitches. He reaches out and I wait breathlessly for his touch, but his hand goes to a drawer beside my leg instead, retrieving a tube of antibiotic ointment and an alcohol wipe.
“Give me your hands,” he murmurs.
It’s ridiculous how I shake as I obey. There’s nothing sexy about him tending to my minor injuries, and yet I feel hot and needy.
With extreme care, he cleans my scrapes, the sting of the alcohol making me hiss softly. He rumbles in displeasure, like my pain hurts him too. He spreads the ointment on my palms with a thick finger, and I sway toward him, needing him to keep touching me in any way I can get.
When he’s finished, he releases a deep exhale, then looks back up at me. The longing and hunger shining behind his eyes takes my breath away. It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve shown Wes the most pathetic, vulnerable parts of myself and instead of running away, he weathers the storm and looks at me like that in the aftermath.
One thing becomes crystal clear as he lifts me again and then gently lowers me into the warm bathwater. I’d have to be an absolute idiot to let a man like this go without even trying to make it work. I don’t want to let him go. He’s my favorite person—the best person. I have to find a way to carve out space in my life for him, because losing him would destroy me.