The Summers Between Us

Chapter 21 Present Day

CHAPTER 21

PRESENT DAY

July

Time passes slowly. The pounding rain falls in time with the pulsing in my head. I need to get back to work. My phone, where did it go? My hands are numb, pressed somewhere cramped and rough, and my neck is sore and throbbing.

The back door slams, echoing up the stairs. I pry my eyes open to find myself slumped on the rug, my arms folded underneath my body, cutting off the blood flow. Movement, and the return of circulation, stings. I hear Ciji call my name. She thumps upstairs.

“I told Wes I’d get you for pie,” Ciji says as she gets to the top of the stairs. I pull myself into a seated position, resting my temple in my hand. Ciji trembles as she takes me in, folding her arms over her rain-soaked shirt. “Lia, what happened?” she asks, in a quiet, gentle way I’ve never heard from her before.

“I’m fine,” I reassure her. “Just have a bit of a headache. Nothing that a little nap won’t cure.”

“Are you sure?” She drops down next to me. “Did I do something?” she asks hesitantly.

“No, of course not. I just need a moment. Go and grab some dessert and I’ll be up before you know it.” My voice is full of false cheer that doesn’t seem to convince her.

“I can sit with you,” she says, dogged in her determination. “Or I can get you downstairs and we can watch movies until you feel better. That’s what I used to do with Mom.” Her brown eyes are wide and vulnerable, cracking my heart open. Underneath her bluster, she cares for me.

“I appreciate it, really. A movie marathon would be fun, but I have to work. Besides, you shouldn’t miss pie.” My refusal is heavy on my tongue.

“It doesn’t look like you should be working,” she says.

“I’m fine.”

Lightning breaks through the blinds and I squint, covering my eyes with my hand, and when that doesn’t help, I lay my head back down, unable to suppress a moan. In the brief second my eyes are open, Ciji’s face is drawn with fear.

“I’ll be right back,” she says.

“Sure,” I croak, in between pulsating waves of pain. “Go get some dessert.”

She flies down the stairs and I curl into myself, bile sloshing in my stomach. The thundering downpour rocks me off to a pained, hot sleep where fire bands my temples and burns in my belly. At some point, cool rain trickles down my forehead and cheeks onto my lips, rousing me. It feels good against my hot skin, but I’m inside. How is the rain getting in?

When I open my eyes, the hall is dimly lit. Ms. Forest and Ciji stand by my feet, and Wes is crouched next to me, a cloth wrung in his hands and his forehead creased with worry. They’re all damp, their hair dark and slick.

“You forgot your umbrella,” I try to say, wincing at the sound of my voice.

Wes brushes a strand of hair off my face, the coolness of his hand a relief. I barely keep myself from nuzzling in. “Ciji said you needed help.”

“Lia, sweetie. What’s going on?” Ms. Forest asks, her expression filled with so much maternal care that I have to blink to keep tears away.

“A migraine,” I manage, throat dry. “They come with the storms.”

Wes meets my gaze, a question on his lips, but I silently shake my head as I force myself into a seated position. Not now. Not when I can barely see, or move, and when the only thing keeping me from passing out is the need to hurl out the food he made for me.

“Can you grab some water, Ciji?” Wes asks instead, steady. Only the prominent creases around his mouth betray him.

“While you’re down there, could you get my laptop too?” I call after her. “I have some stuff I have to get done for tomorrow.”

Wes grinds his jaw. “Right now? Lia, you’re lying on the floor and you look like shit.”

“Too loud,” I protest, covering my ears.

“Honey, let her be,” Ms. Forest chides, reaching in her purse. “She needs some naproxen and quiet.”

Wes bites back his retort as Ciji returns with a glass of water, condensation gilding the cup. “Here, Lia,” she says, handing me the glass. “Is this the right temperature?”

“It’s perfect,” I slur, choking down a sip and then another. The water soothes the burn in my throat. Ms. Forest hands two pills to Ciji, who passes them to me. “Thank you. I’m okay. Please don’t stay here on my account.”

Ms. Forest smiles gently. “How about Ciji and I head back for a little while. Wes can call us if you need help.”

“I can stay with Lia too,” Ciji says. Her concern is palpable. I want to comfort her but I can hardly move.

“You could,” Ms. Forest offers kindly. “But Lia just needs some rest.”

I close my eyes. Rest does sound good. Maybe just fifteen minutes. A power nap.

“I promise I’ll call you if I need help,” Wes says.

“You should go too,” I tell him, once I hear Ms. Forest and Ciji heading down the stairs. “Your guests need you. Your friends. I’m just going to shut my eyes for a few minutes.”

“Don’t worry about the party.” I pry open my eyelids and Wes’s cheek twitches. “Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling sick?”

“It’s nothing,” I mumble. “Just a headache.”

He looks like he has more to say but instead he asks, “How about I help you get into bed?”

I’m loopy and in pain but hearing the word “bed” from Wes makes me flush. Brief flashes of the two of us entangled in the sheets together, eager clumsy fumbles, kiss-swollen smiles. I try to force the thought out of my mind. There’s no way he’d think of us like that now. Not with me dishevelled and clammy and disgusting, but when I look up, his cheeks are red too.

“Okay,” I say and take his hand, letting him pull me up. I try to ignore how nice it feels to have someone—to have him, specifically—to lean on. When I slump into Wes, his arm encircles my waist, fitting into the crook between my hips and waist like a lock and key. If it weren’t for the headache, I’d bottle this feeling.

He props me on the corner of the bed, pulling back my tightly tucked-in covers, then scoops me up and tucks me in. The sheets fold securely over me, but I am unmoored without him holding me down. At first I’m silent, watching him walk to the door to flick off the lights. His movements are slow, like wading through molasses.

“You’re going?” I ask.

Wes stops, folding his arms as he leans back against the wall. “Isn’t that what you want? For me to leave you alone?”

I stare at him quietly. The muted light from outside and the darkness of my room shadow his face, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly vulnerable.

The silence stretches as he waits for my answer. He doesn’t move from where he’s standing, nor does he come closer.

I feel his unguarded gaze, an extension of an olive branch to carry us over the crevasse between us. If I don’t grab it now, it may never return. For the last ten years, I’ve been without Wes, without my best friend, the only person who gets the hurricane of my brain. Everything is falling apart and I’m tired of denying myself, lying to myself. So this time, I tell the truth.

“I don’t want to be alone.” I swallow. “Please stay.”

The storm in his irises clears, and he looks at me with a fondness that isn’t in keeping with my disgusting state. He walks back to me, the bed dipping as he sits down.

“You never used to get such bad headaches,” he says, settling in over the covers.

The apprehension in my chest relaxes and I burrow into my pillow. “I started getting them after high school.”

The bed shifts as he gets up again. I expect him to press, to ask for more information. Instead, he paces forward to the bookshelves that line the other wall of the room. “So, where did you hide my grandma’s books?” he asks, scanning the shelves where only mother-appropriate titles are facing outwards.

“Behind the Twilight books, third shelf,” I say, reaching for my phone. As expected, my screen fills with emails and notifications. When I start to type, he turns back, whipping it from my hand. “No laptop, no phone, or I’ll make Ciji come back to sit with you.”

Groaning, I lie back down, while Wes goes back to scan the shelf. The books shift, followed by a grunt of satisfaction. “Will the lamp be too bright for you?”

I shake my head, wincing at the motion. The room is dim, aside from the warm cast of the light. Everything is meant to be soothing, the darkness, the rain, the smell of Wes and pine. But between the tenderness in my chest and the throb in my temple, I’m bewildered. “I don’t think I can fall asleep anyway,” I admit.

“Let me help you,” he says, shifting closer to me and pressing a cool hand to my forehead that soothes the fire. With the other hand, he props up a book and begins to read. “The Viscount of Paddington never wanted to take a wife…”

The early morning light streams through the half-open blinds, and I hear faint rustling downstairs followed by the door slamming. Ciji leaving for school. I nestle deeper into the covers, burrowing into the heat emanating next to me as my cheek brushes against hot skin. Last night floods over me. Wes reading to me, my overdue project. Him staying until sleep finally arrived, me tugging his hand to my face, whispering to him to stay so I wouldn’t have to be alone.

My eyes fly open, and I startle when I see how close we are to each other. He rouses, rolling towards me, arm curving over my waist and pulling me in until I’m close enough to feel his sleepy breaths caress my cheek. I could almost just close my eyes and fall asleep again, but the dread of work builds until it pulls me away. I roll over, reaching for my phone.

“Where are you going?” Wes’s drowsy words are thick like maple syrup.

“I have to turn this project in,” I say.

He blinks the fog out from his eyes. “Call in sick, Lia. Just rest.”

“I promise I will after I’m done,” I tell him, propping myself upright. His brow creases in consternation with a sincerity that forces me to set my phone down.

Before I can reconsider, he grabs my back, tugging me towards him. My breath leaves with a gasp as we collide, my chest against his, my feet against the scrape of his shins. “You’re not going anywhere until you feel better.”

“I’m better, I swear,” I say, and he makes a show of inspecting me. Eventually his mouth breaks into a dimpled smile.

“You’re right, you do look better,” he says, husky as his gaze dips down. I flush, conscious of my lack of bra and his hold on my wrist. We’re both suffused in the heat between us, the thickness of the summer air holding us together. His nose brushes against mine, a question on his careful exhale.

I nudge closer in answer and, as he tenses in anticipation, I place my lips against his in perfect alignment. My heart cracks wide when he hauls me against his chest.

He parts his lips, my stomach spiralling at the familiar stroke of his tongue against mine. The bleariness from sleep disappears as his fingers caress the base of my back, sending a charge of electricity up my spine.

“I used to dream of waking up with you,” he tells me, eyes dark like a lake in a storm.

“Me too,” I confess, tugging him down closer to me, encouraging him to hold me harder. Everything in me is unwinding in the familiarity. How his touch sparks against my ribs when he draws his hands up from my hips, the way he tunnels his fingers into my hair, making my toes curl, and the tilting of my head for the best angle to kiss me hard and deep. I let out a soft hum of pleasure.

Salt stings my lips as he presses into me, and I can’t tell if I’m crying or dissolving into Wes. Forehead creased, he strokes his thumb over my cheek, catching a tear. “Is this okay?”

I nod, shivering with the reward of butterfly light kisses on my neck. “Why do you feel so good?”

“I know,” he says, lips trembling against me. “I never thought I’d touch you again. But it feels right. You feel right with me.”

The sun drifts over us through the window, spotlighting the keen need and familiar adoration on Wes’s face. I tug on his hair, pulling him away from me so I can look at him properly. The hungry gleam in his eye, his reddened lips, the harmony of his heavy breaths matching mine. Everything he’s feeling echoes back to me until it’s an amplified ringing in my heart, in my chest, blotting out any other noise my mind might want to make. “I want you,” I whisper. “I don’t want to stop.”

Wes lets out a sharp exhale. I thread my fingers around his neck, clutching him closer. He holds our bodies together with his palm firm on the dip in my low back. All I can feel is his weight, hot and hard. “You feel amazing,” he says, voice low in my ear.

I arch against him, against the thigh he’s pressed into me. Blood rushes to the surface of my skin. “I need you. All of you,” I murmur. He grips my backside, grinding me against him in a sweet friction. My brain fizzles fully, and I let out a sharp, needy sound. He’s a live wire and I’m an explosive about to go off.

The lack of control should scare me, but Wes’s hum in my ear soothes me. “Are we really doing this? Is this a dream?”

Maybe none of this is real and there are no consequences. My fingers tug his shirt off, and mine shortly follows. He holds me, his greedy eyes drinking in every detail. “You do have a tattoo,” Wes says, stroking the tiny pedal boat hidden in the curve of my waist. A memento of mourning I got after my first summer back in the city.

The reality is a splash of cold water and I squeeze my eyes tighter to ignore it. “I do,” I say, moving his hand away from it and to my bare breast. His eyes narrow at the deflection, but I pull him more firmly to me and he bows down, taking me between his lips. He bites and sucks sweetly and slowly, and we both forget the secrets that still lie between us. “More of this,” I say, my command trembling.

“I love it when you tell me what you need,” Wes groans, pupils dilated. “Where else do you need me?” His breath is ragged as he makes his way down in a trail of heat, his hands shaping my hips while he kisses my belly and the insides of my thighs until he settles at the warm centre of me. This is different, even though it’s been years. We were always rushed, on a timer, and even though he’d always tried, I’d pulled him up to end it before our alarm went off.

“You don’t have to,” I say, reluctant.

Wes immediately stills. “I want to, if you want me to,” he says thickly, the scrape of his stubble against my sensitive skin makes me shiver.

The last man to try had admitted defeat when it took too long. I realized that I must be defective. Too in my head to ever come in that way. But the hungry way Wes is looking at me makes me want to try again.

“I want your mouth on me,” I admit, glancing up at the speckled ceiling, the one that I used to stare at while daydreaming of Wes. “But it may take awhile. Or not happen at all.”

“I’m happy either way,” he says firmly, leaving a soft bite mark on my right inner thigh. “This is also for me. As long as you want me.”

“I want you,” I breathe, trying to not let my mind wander back to places it’s not supposed to go. His fingers dig into the softness of my flesh, holding me firm, tasting me light and hard until I am fully focused on the warmth of his exploration, the greedy way he’s breathing against me, one of his hands falling to himself because this really is for him too. The sight of him, face between my legs, winds me up tight. Before I’m ready for it to be over, sharp tearing cries pour out of me, and he only stops when I’m wrung out and languid. It’s luxurious, this feeling of him watching me now, his skin flush and his mouth twisted in a self-satisfied smile.

“Shut up,” I say, throwing a pillow at him. “You don’t have to gloat.”

“You should gloat,” he groans, his face drawn with need as he climbs up over my body. “You wreck me, Lia. You always have. It’s like how I remember, more than. I never could get enough of you. If my mouth was on you, I wouldn’t notice if we barrelled off the edge of a cliff.”

I stiffen, the throwback to the past a heavy reminder wiping away the relaxation in my muscles. But Wes’s hot weight lies on top of me, begging me to relax, to let him in where I want him so badly.

Except now my mind is racing. Letting our chemistry drug my common sense had been the end of the world as we knew it when we were teenagers. Now I may know we’d be safe—I have an IUD, and Wes would tell me if there was anything to worry about—but I’m shutting down. The way I always do before sex. The fear of letting him in is an ice wedge digging into my spine. I could just do what I always do, turn over onto my stomach, disappear and wait for a few gratifying spasms. An anonymous means to a half-satisfactory climax. But I don’t want that with Wes. We were always more than a means to an end. I will my body to relax into him, but I can’t. The only way for us is an inferno and I can’t risk my barriers being burnt.

“I don’t have any protection,” I lie, instead gripping where he’s hard, stroking in the pattern I know he likes until his eyes roll back into the back of his head.

It’s not even a question for him. My boundaries are clear as he reaches for a tissue on the nightstand. “This is enough,” he rasps. “More than enough.”

And then he’s coming too, hot and silky, his lips pressing into my hair like he’s reminding himself it’s my hand on him. Only when it’s over does he realize I’m turning away.

“Hey, where did you go?” Wes cups my cheek, trying to get me to look at him.

“I—” I don’t know what to tell him, what to say. All I can think about are his fingers tracing my tattoo, the loving way he caressed me and how broken we are now.

“Lia, I can’t help you if you don’t let me in,” he pleads. “Why can’t you let me back in?”

I search for a kernel of honesty. “It’s hard for me to get close to people.”

“Do you know how many relationships I’ve ended because I couldn’t stop comparing everyone to you? You’ve been with me for the last decade, Lia. I’ve loved you all these years. Please tell me you feel the same.” His voice is earnest, hopeful like I used to be when I thought of him.

I sit up, reaching for my crumpled T-shirt and pull it over my head. “You’re the one who ended things. You blocked me out for days.”

“But that’s not how I meant it,” Wes says, shifting up and out of the covers. “You had to have known that. I tried so hard to reach you after.”

Logically, in a portion of my brain that isn’t frozen, I know he believes what he’s saying. But I’ve been nursing a deep wound that has never healed. “You broke my heart, Wes. How am I supposed to trust you again?”

“You broke mine too,” he throws back, pulling on his own clothes. “You left and you never came back. You never gave me a chance to explain.”

“I. Called. You.” My arms are crossed, my voice stark with betrayal as I back away from the bed. “And you had Andrea turn me away. Of all people. You knew how I felt about her, and I never said anything because I trusted you.”

“What are you talking about?” Wes rubs the back of his knuckles against his sandpaper cheeks. “You never called me. And then when I called you, you didn’t pick up. Mel wouldn’t answer either. I called and called and called. Finally I stopped. I hoped if I gave you some space you’d come back to me. But you didn’t.”

That isn’t right, that isn’t how the story goes. “I called you. I swear I did.” We’re both there, racing through that day, putting together our inconsistent stories, when my phone rings. I leap for it, but Wes is closer to the bedside table and his eyes fall to the screen. “Who’s Hassan?” he asks, handing the phone to me.

I take it. The phone is a heavy brick in my grasp. Avoiding Wes’s gaze, I say, “He’s a co-worker. We’ve gone out a couple times.”

Wes grimaces. “I bet he’s the perfect guy your parents have always wanted for you, isn’t he?”

“He could be,” I say, letting the call go to voicemail.

Wes pushes as if he doesn’t hear me. “Lia, after everything, can we please just be honest with each other? Every summer, I wondered if you’d be back, even if just for a day. I begged my mom to let me know if she ever saw you. I never stopped caring. But it seems like you did. Maybe you never cared.”

This lie he’s created in his head about me and the reason I didn’t come back makes my neck hot. “Really? That’s the story you’re telling yourself?” I say. “What about you? You’re still friends with Andrea. You knew she hated me. She toyed with Mel every summer and you never cared.”

Wes’s mouth hardens. “Andrea was my best friend here. Unlike you, I don’t ditch my friends.”

“I was your best friend,” I retort, the recoil from his bullet pushing me against the wall. “Yet you gave her all the benefit of the doubt and not me.”

I’d done my best to bury my needs, to put his first, and the one time I called for him, the one time I really needed him, he didn’t come through for me.

“You’re right,” he acknowledges, his voice dropping low. “You were my best friend. You were my best everything. You leaving broke me.” He looks up, eyes a crystal fire burning with something I don’t understand.

In the back of my mind, metal screeches as it bends, my head cracks and the world ends. Wes paces towards me, but my mouth has a mind of its own. “Ask Andrea about that day. Ask her if I called and what she said.”

“Fuck Andrea,” Wes says, heated. “Why didn’t you try again? Was I only worth one phone call to you?”

He was worth everything to me. But then he showed me that I was worth nothing to him. Except the way he’s looking at me now, hurt and hope blazing in his eyes, tells me that I was wrong about that. My heart leaps, uncontrolled, wanting to shout the answer, wanting to take over as if all the discipline I taught myself this decade washed away with the storm.

But my phone buzzes, reminding me that I need to stay focused on the now. That I can’t engage in this vicious game of throwing grenades of old hurt at each other with the hope that the explosion will uncover the truth.

“I can’t talk about this now,” I say, holding on to the one thing that makes sense to me. “I have to get to work.”

I’m desperate for a moment to recover, for some much-needed space to figure out what has happened to us in all our years apart. The pressure to have an answer now is making it impossible to think.

“Work?” Wes’s mouth hangs agape. “You mean you’re going to avoid everything again. Hiding isn’t going to make it go away, Lia.”

“No,” I try to explain in earnest. “I want to talk to you, to tell you, I promise.”

“You told me we were going to be together forever,” he said. “You broke that promise.”

Before I can say anything else, he storms out of the room and I’m standing there with my phone, my unread messages and a heart that all the Scotch tape in the world can’t fix.