27. Wesley
WESLEY
I almost miss her at first. The hall is dim, one of the sconces flickering low, and she’s tucked against the wall under the big framed photo of the family.
Her knees are pulled up, her arms wrapped tight around them, face buried so deep she looks like she’s trying to fold herself into the wallpaper.
I stop. “Maeve?”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide and red-rimmed, cheeks blotched. She swipes fast at her face with the heel of her hand. “I’m fine.”
She’s too young to know the word fine is the worst camouflage there is.
I lean against the wall across from her, trying not to loom. “Don’t look fine.”
She shrugs, trying for nonchalant, but her chin wobbles and she presses her lips together to hide it. “I’m just—tired.”
“Uh-huh.” I cross my arms, tilting my head. “You know, sometimes when I’m tired, I cry too.”
Her head snaps toward me like I just said the dumbest thing in the world. “You?”
“Sure.” I make my voice casual, like it’s no big deal. “I cry when I’m overwhelmed, when I don’t have an answer, when the world feels too loud. Last week I cried watching a video of a soldier surprising his dog.”
Her mouth opens. Then shuts. Then opens again. “You’re serious?”
“Completely serious.” I put a hand on my chest. “I’m an equal-opportunity crier. Commercials, sad songs, the end of a book that hits me hard where I pretend the dust in the room is the problem—yeah, I’m a mess.”
Her brows furrow. “But…you’re, like…you.”
I arch a brow. “That’s very descriptive.”
“You’re, like…” She waves her hand at me, as if I should understand what she means. “Big. You don’t cry.”
I smirk. “Well, I hate to ruin my image, but big guys cry too.”
She makes a face, trying not to laugh, but a tiny snort escapes anyway.
I point at her. “Aha. That’s a laugh. Don’t deny it.”
“I didn’t laugh.”
“Sounded suspiciously like laughing.”
She rolls her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders loosens a little. She leans her head back against the wall, sniffing. “You’re weird.”
“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”
Maeve shifts, hugging her knees tighter, but I can see the storm inside her calming just a fraction. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “So you just…admit that? That you cry?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because guys aren’t supposed to.”
“Who says?”
“Everyone,” she mutters.
“Well, everyone’s wrong.” I shrug, stretching my legs out. “Crying’s just the body’s way of taking the trash out. Get too full, it overflows and mucks up your insides. Better out than in.”
She snickers, covering her mouth. “That’s so gross.”
“Gross, but true.” I grin. “Trust me, bottling stuff up never makes it better. I’ve tried. Didn’t work. Ended up crying harder at a car insurance commercial later.”
She finally lets out a real laugh, the sound bright and surprised. “No way.”
“Way.” I hold up a hand like I’m swearing an oath. “The guy saved fifteen percent and his wife hugged him. I lost it.”
Maeve shakes her head, giggling despite herself. “That’s pathetic.”
“Completely. Pathetic, weird, crybaby. That’s me.”
That makes her laugh again, short and bright. She covers it quickly with a cough, but I see it. Good. I file it away like proof that maybe this conversation isn’t just patching holes—it’s giving her a place to breathe.
“You know,” I say, tapping the wall behind me, “most people don’t admit that kind of thing. They want to look tough all the time. Like feelings make them weak.”
“Don’t they?” she challenges, brows raised.
“Nope. Feelings make you human. Weakness is pretending you don’t have them.”
She chews on that for a minute, her mouth twisting like she wants to argue but can’t find the words. Then she sighs and mutters, “That sounds like something my therapist would say.”
“Well, your therapist sounds like a wise person,” I reply. “Except I’m cheaper. And taller.”
She snorts. “Barely.”
I grin at her, then soften my tone. “Okay. So if I’ve confessed to being a secret crier, maybe you can tell me what’s really going on with you. Trade secret for secret.”
Maeve frowns. “That’s not fair.”
“Life rarely is. But I’m offering a good deal.” I lean closer, dropping my voice like I’m letting her in on something big. “Your turn.”
She shifts, pulling her knees tighter to her chest. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“It’s never nothing when you’re crying in a hallway.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Maeve peeks at me through her hair. “Like what?”
“Oh, let’s see. Wesley the Wet Blanket. Wesley the Buzzkill. My personal favorite—Wesley, Please Shut Up Before I Throw You in a Lake.”
That earns another laugh. “Who said that one?”
“Huck. Last month. I was giving him safety instructions while he grilled burgers.”
She grins, shaking her head. “I can totally see that.”
“See? Everyone’s a critic.” I spread my hands dramatically. “But despite all that, I’m still here. Still asking. Because I care.”
Her smile falters, her face turning serious again. She looks down at her hands, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. The silence stretches, heavy but not hostile. Finally, she whispers, “It’s about Eli.”
My chest tightens, but I keep my expression calm. “What about him?”
Her voice cracks. “I think…I think my dad pushed him.”
The words land like stones dropped in water, ripples spreading through me, dark and deep. I clench my jaw, fighting to keep the fury off my face. If I show too much, she’ll clam up. “What makes you think that?”
Her eyes shine again, but she doesn’t look away.
“He was being mean about Eli not picking up fast enough. And then Eli fell, but it didn’t look like he just fell.
It looked like—like Dad shoved him. And then later, when I asked about it, Dad got this scary look and told me not to bring it up again. ”
I exhale slowly, steadying myself. My gut tells me she’s right. Eli’s cast, his nervous glances, the rehearsed story—it all fits. But I can’t let my rage scare her off. “I’m really sorry that happened.”
She nods, hugging her knees tighter. “That’s not all, though.”
“There’s more?”
Maeve hesitates, then blurts it out. “He was weird with me too. When I told him I started my period, he…he acted like I’d done something wrong. Like I was gross. He wouldn’t even look at me.”
My fists curl tight against my knees. I force them to relax before she sees. “You did nothing wrong,” I say firmly. “Nothing. Do you hear me, Maeve? That’s your body doing exactly what it’s supposed to. It’s not dirty. It’s not bad. And it sure as hell isn’t your fault.”
Her eyes widen. “You don’t think it’s…gross?”
“Not even close.” I shake my head, my chest heavy. “It’s just part of life. A part that means you’re healthy. Your dad was wrong to act like that.”
She stares at me, searching my face for any crack, any sign I’m lying. When she doesn’t find one, her shoulders sag in relief.
“Maeve, listen to me. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re smart, and strong, and stubborn in the best way. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.”
Her mouth trembles, and for a moment I think she’ll cry again. But instead she nods quickly and wipes her eyes. “Thanks.”
I squeeze her knee once, then sit back. “Anytime, kid.”
Inside, though, I’m shaking with fury.
David didn’t just hurt Eli. He’s trying to break Maeve too.
She’s trying to look braver than she feels, but I see through it. I’ve seen soldiers wear that same mask, the one that says don’t ask, don’t press, because if you do, I’ll break.
Maeve’s just a kid. She shouldn’t need that mask.
I want to storm out right now, track David down, and make him answer for every single bruise, every twisted word, every time he looked at his daughter like she was dirty instead of human. Every time he put his hands on Eli. And Bailey.
My blood is pounding hot and heavy in my ears, the urge to destroy burning bright.
But I can’t let her see that. Not now. She needs comfort, not rage.
So I force myself to breathe, to unclench my jaw, to soften my voice.
“You’re not alone, Maeve. You’ve got me, and Huck, and Sean, and your mom. We’ve got you, okay?”
She nods, biting her lip. “I just…I don’t want Eli to feel like it’s his fault.”
“He won’t, because we will make sure of it. We’re his team, right?”
Her eyes flick to mine, and something steadies there. She nods again, firmer this time.
“Good.” I smile, leaning back a little to ease the tension. “And teams have to think ahead. Eli’s stuck in that cast for a while. Can’t swim, can’t roughhouse the way he usually does. That’s gonna eat at him.”
Maeve wrinkles her nose. “Yeah. He hates sitting still unless he’s reading. And I think he’s read everything we have.”
“Which is why,” I say, dragging it out, “we need a plan. Something fun. Something that makes him feel like he’s still winning, even with a busted arm.”
Her brows lift, cautious but curious. “Like what?”
“Like…” I lower my voice like I’m revealing classified intel. “Four-wheeling.”
Her eyes go wide. “No way.”
“Yes way.” I grin. “Out back, on the grass. Nothing crazy, nothing dangerous. Just enough bumps to make him laugh and forget he can’t swim. We’ll rig it so he can steer one-handed. You can ride shotgun.”
Her mouth curves into a grin, the tears from earlier forgotten in an instant. “That’s awesome.”
“Thought you might say that.” I wink. “We’ll get Huck to set up a course. He’ll complain about it, but secretly he’ll love bossing us around with cones and stop signs.”
She giggles, the sound pure and unguarded. “And Mom will freak out.”
“Of course she will. But then she’ll see how happy Eli is and she won’t be able to stay mad. Moms are like that.”
Maeve leans her head back, smiling for real now. “He’s gonna be so excited.”
“That’s the point.” I tap her knee. “You make sure he doesn’t figure it out yet. We’ll surprise him.”
“Deal.” She sticks out her pinky.
I stare at it, mock-serious. “Is this an official binding contract?”
“Yes.”
I hook my pinky with hers, giving it a firm shake. “Then it’s settled.”
Her grin widens, but when she lets go, her eyes soften again, thoughtful. “Thanks, Wes.”
“For what?”
“For…listening. And for not…making me feel dumb.”
I swallow hard, the anger flaring again under my ribs at the thought of her father doing exactly that. “You’re not dumb, Maeve. Not even close. You’re brave. And smart. And funny as hell. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
She nods, a little shy now, like she’s not used to hearing those words said to her. As she gets up, I sit back against the wall, letting her go. She deserves to feel better, even for a little while. But my mind is already racing elsewhere.
David.
I want him to feel me on his tail. To know what it’s like when someone stronger than you decides you’re nothing but a target. Turnabout is fair play.