Chapter 16 Willow
WILLOW
Idon’t know why Weston is so hellbent on the idea that his balance isn’t utter shit when he tumbles off his board and into the water for the third time this morning.
“Goddammit,” he mutters when his head pops above the surface a moment later, shaking the water out of his hair.
Even through his wetsuit, his muscles bulge as he tosses his paddle onto the board and braces his arms on the center, hoisting himself up. He sits on his knees, wobbling as he slowly rises into a standing position.
“Your legs are spread too far. They should be aligned with your shoulders.” I nod toward his feet, which continue to navigate toward a surfing stance. “Paddle with your arms and keep your hips and legs sturdy. You don’t need to move your entire body. Engage your core.”
“Willow, you’ve seen my abs. I have a great core.”
I have seen his abs, and he’s not wrong, but . . . “Your balance still sucks. You can’t be cocky when you’re dripping wet and I’m entirely dry.”
He pokes the corner of my board with his oar. “I’ll make you wet.”
“Weston.” My breath hitches with a gasp as I gape at him.
“What?” His brows furrow before the realization hits him and his gray-blue eyes bulge. “Oh, fuck.” He rapidly shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.”
Unfortunately, I know.
I burst with laughter, and he follows it a moment later. He throws his head back, momentarily losing his stance before throwing his arms out, balancing himself again. The movement only makes me laugh harder, enough so that I have to squat down on my board to avoid tumbling off.
I glance up at him, shading my eyes with my hand, watching as his go wide with surprise. Weston looks around, ensuring our place in the harbor is free of any passing boats before he slowly lowers himself on his board, straddling it and letting his feet dangle off each edge.
We migrated to a shallow enclave at the farthest corner of the harbor where the water is ultra calm, but I grab the clip strapped to the front of my board and attach it to the clip on Weston’s so we can relax without worrying about floating away from each other.
“So, did yoga help? With your trouble sleeping?” I ask once we’ve caught our breath.
“Yeah, a little.” He smiles softly to himself, running his fingers through the clear water. “It comes in spells. The insomnia and anxiety, I mostly wait it out. Medicate and cope best I can until it passes.”
“Are you ever going to trade that truth with me?” I ask. “The time you spent in jail?”
Weston lifts his head, and those storm clouds are back in his eyes, guarding all his thoughts. I understand him better now than I did a few weeks ago. I think I get why he keeps it boxed in, why he’s afraid to show his mind to another person, but I wish he’d show it to me.
Partially because I think he needs that. Someone to trust. Someone to rely on. A friend.
The other part of me thinks it’s because I need the same thing.
I have Allie, of course, but Weston seems to see me differently.
See through me. As if he reads the thoughts I haven’t yet learned how to voice, and it’s a relief to spend time around someone who can hear me even when I don’t have the energy to speak.
Yet, I don’t want to open up until he does. I can’t have the bearing of my soul be a one-sided event.
Weston hasn’t answered, still staring at me—studying me—and I wonder if he’s processing the same thoughts I am. Like we’re two wounded animals who can no longer tell enemy from ally.
“Sorry if that was too forward.” I smirk playfully, hoping to ease the tension. “You’re being aloof again, so I defaulted to bluntness.”
That seems to snap him out of whatever trance he was stuck inside, his nostrils flare as he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. His gaze drops again, eyes on the surface of the water as he says, “The truth is exactly that. My charges, what I’m sure you’ve already read. You already know.”
“I don’t know a single detail of what you did, Weston,” I say softly, hardly audible over the sound of seabirds flying overhead.
His eyes snap to mine, wide and searching—shell-shocked. “What?”
“It was clear you weren’t comfortable sharing those details, and it felt like an invasion of your privacy to research them. I figured if you ever became comfortable enough with me to tell me, I’d wait until I could hear it from your own mouth.” I shrug, offering a consoling smile.
He shudders at the sentiment, like the concept of security over his past is foreign to him. I lean over my board, grabbing the edge of his and pulling it closer. I wrap my fingers around his, where they rest on his knee.
I squeeze them four times.
“What does that mean?” he asks, voice rough and gravelly.
“You’re. Safe. With. Me,” I whisper, repeating the gesture. “Whatever you want to share, and whatever you don’t. It’s all safe with me because . . . Because you make me feel safe too.”
“I do?” The question releases from his mouth fractured and raw, the expression on his face utterly gutted.
I wonder if anyone has ever told him that before.
“Yeah, Wes.” I smile. “You do.”
He swallows hard, gaze distant and hazed as he stares toward the horizon.
“I was first charged as an adult with attempted murder, because the altercation happened two weeks before my eighteenth birthday,” he says, emotionless.
“I was held without bail, and it took nearly six months for me to reach trial. My lawyers worked their asses off, and eventually, a mistrial was called. I was recharged as a minor. It took several more months for a new trial date to be set, during which time I remained in jail. When I was tried again, the charge was lowered to attempted manslaughter, though I was eventually only convicted of misdemeanor assault. I was released on a six-month probation, which ended about a week before I moved to Pacific Shores.”
“Who did you assault?” I ask, hollow, terrified of the answer.
I believe to the depths of my bones that whoever he harmed wasn’t blameless, even if violence is never the answer.
Not only because I believe I now know Weston well enough to see he’s not an evil person, but because I don’t think there is any way my father would’ve invited him into our lives without the certainty he wasn’t a threat to my mother or me.
Despite that knowledge, I had no idea his charges were as severe as they are, and I’m dripping with trepidation.
“My father.” He bites his lip, gaze so distant I wonder if he’s even here with me.
I squeeze his hand again. “He . . . She died because of him, and he didn’t even care.
After years of hurting her, hurting us both, killing her slowly—he went on with his life without an ounce of guilt.
During the investigation into my mother’s death, I was put into foster care by the state, but my dad never attempted to regain custody of me.
I thought he was out of my life for good after the dust settled and I didn’t hear from him.
I never expected to run into him, but sure enough, one afternoon while walking home from school I saw him stumbling out of a bar.
” He runs a trembling hand through his hair.
“It wasn’t premeditated, it wasn’t planned, but .
. . He noticed me, and flashed me this look, a smirk that said, we both know she didn’t fall. I lost it.”
His eyes drift to mine, and they’re filled with so much shame it rattles me.
“She didn’t fall?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “That was the official cause of death. That she fell down the stairs of our apartment building. I know he pushed her—he knows it too—but the . . .” He pauses, swallowing hard, as if the pain is choking him.
“The autopsy couldn’t prove foul play, and they never even opened an investigation.
Despite numerous domestic dispute reports filed by neighbors, coworkers, even teachers of mine over the years—it wasn’t even enough for the authorities to ask questions. ”
“If someone hurt my mom, I think I’d snap too, Wes. I’d want to hurt them.”
He nods, but says, “I . . . I went too far, though. I became the monster that he is.”
“Or . . .” I sit up on my hands and knees, extending my upper body over his board before slowly dragging each knee over, until I’m in front of him, straddling his board in the same position he is, mine now floating empty beside us.
“You had a moment of weakness, and you acted on instinct because it was the only thing you’d ever known.
Have you ever laid your hands on someone else? Even had the urge to?”
“No,” he rushes out. “Never.”
“Exactly. I’m not going to judge you for the worst day of your life, Wes. I’m going to judge the twenty years that have made up who you are. I’m going to judge the experience I’ve had with you myself, and I’m not afraid of you. Not even a little. Not even if you want me to be.”
His lips tilt slightly. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“Good.” I smile reassuringly. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
He squeezes my hand this time. “Now I want a truth, Willow. Are you still missing him?”
Parker.
“Not as much as before. I’m mostly missing who I was with him. Who I was before . . .” I’ve told Weston what Parker did, I haven’t told him what I did as a consequence of it. “I ran away.”
“You did the right thing. Running.” He sighs solemnly.
“There is no fixing men like that. The ones that decide you’re a possession for them to control and alter at their will.
If he couldn’t fundamentally understand consent and safety, if a man can’t control his rage, it’s not likely they’ll ever learn how.
The best thing a person can do is get away. I’m glad you did.”
“Me too.” I nod. “I’m glad we both did.”
Weston doesn’t respond. Instead, he untangles our fingers, sliding his hand from his knee to my own, gripping it gently.
We sit in silence, focused on the sound of the other’s breathing, the gentle lapping of water against the docks, the distant noise of bustling businesses around the perimeter of the harbor, and the cries of seagulls circling overhead.
Eventually, I move back to my board, and we both stand, paddling back to the dock in peaceful quiet. It’s comfortable and familiar. That language of understanding that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. Still, I can’t shake the feeling we’re both only telling half-truths.
As we drive back to my parents’ house with the windows of my car rolled down, I glance at Weston. He appears surprisingly relaxed. Beautiful, even. Head back against the seat, eyes closed, elbow propped on the window as the sun shines down on his sun-kissed skin.
I like him like this. Those storm clouds lifted and cleared, only light left in their place.
“Are you coming to the Fourth of July party next weekend?” I ask.
His eyes flutter open. “Your mom told me about it, but then your father quickly followed
up with a reminder that I’m not exempt from training the next morning, so probably not.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not like you’re going to sleep anyway. The party will be right outside your window. Plus, it’s Allie’s birthday, so Carter and Penelope will be there, and Allie’s parents too.”
He only shrugs. “I don’t really party. I don’t thrive in social situations like that. I didn’t
have much experience with them when I was younger. In fact, this might be my first ever birthday party invite.” Weston laughs, but I frown.
“You know, I suffer a bit from social anxiety, too. Even around my own family. It’s
particularly difficult when my best friend is such a social butterfly,” I murmur. Allie is the life of every party, the star of every room she enters. I wouldn’t change her for the world, but I don’t always operate well when I’m pulled into her orbit of attention. “You and I could stick together?”
He cracks open one eye, glancing at me. I bat the biggest puppy-dog eyes I can muster, dramatically pouting my lips.
He groans, hiding a laugh as he runs a hand down his face. “Fine, Wills. You twisted my leg.”
I clap my hands together, grinning in triumph. “It’s twist my arm, by the way.”