35. Daisy
35
Daisy
I wake early on Sunday morning. The room is silent, apart from the distant roar of the waves and Weston’s soft snores beside me. I’m not used to waking up to so much quiet; usually I’m woken by the sound of Denise crashing about in the kitchen at 5 a.m. as she gets ready for her early morning spin class. It’s especially annoying on my days off.
I roll onto my side and let my gaze travel over the sleeping man beside me, knowing I will never tire of waking up next to Weston, seeing his eyelashes flutter as he chases the last remnants of a dream, listening to his rhythmic breath, feeling his warmth in the sheets.
I don’t want to go home today. This has easily been the most blissful weekend of my entire life, and I don’t know what awaits us in the city. I know Wes can’t keep lying to Jess, and I don’t want him to. How can he truly heal things between them if he’s keeping our relationship a secret? How can he be close with his son like he wants to, if there’s a huge lie standing between them?
I don’t have the answers. All I have is this man beside me, and the silent wish that I won’t have to let him go.
We spend the day in bed, only climbing into the car to come home in the late afternoon when we can’t put it off any longer. Then we ride most of the way back to the city in silence. Well, not complete silence. Steely Dan keeps us company, along with a little Fleetwood Mac and Creedence Clearwater Revival. More of the music the Walkers loved, the music I haven’t let myself listen to in so long, but with Wes, it feels safe to listen, to let myself hurt a little as I remember the time I spent with the people who loved me, the people I lost. It’s the same with my photography. Somehow Wes anchors me, makes me feel like the pain won’t hurt too much. Maybe it’s because he’s felt it too. Or maybe it’s because I just feel so good when I’m around him, that letting in a little sadness every now and then is okay. Good, even.
We pull onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and Weston slides a glance my way. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod, chewing on the inside of my lip. I might be unsure about what will happen for me and Wes back in New York, but I can’t deny the anticipation I feel about shooting Violet and Kyle’s wedding in a few weeks. My plan is to spend some time studying wedding photography, to get a few books from the library and find some good websites and pour over the images—the lighting, composition, the details they capture. I’m not a professional, but both Violet and Wes have told me I have a natural talent, a good eye. Willow used to tell me that all the time. Hopefully, with a little research, I’ll be able to capture the magic of Violet and Kyle’s special day. In the past I would never have considered taking on a project like this. I wouldn’t have believed I could do it, but again, it comes back to Wes, to the self-belief he’s instilled in me, the strength I find inside myself when he’s by my side.
I think of my old life, the one where I’d work all day at Joe’s so I could catch a glimpse of Weston, where I wouldn’t date because I was scared of guys judging me for being so inexperienced, where I couldn’t even admit to myself that I wanted to do photography again. The life where I’d go home to Netflix every night and numb myself to my feelings. That life was easier, less risky. My heart wasn’t on the line like it is now, and there was no threat of Weston losing his son for good because of me.
But it sure as hell didn’t feel like this.
It didn’t feel like living at all.
“You’re quiet,” Wes murmurs beside me.
I send him a secret little smile. “Just thinking about you.”
Tiny creases form beside his eyes. His hand finds mine over the gearshift and holds it tight. “I’m always thinking about you, Daisy. I can’t seem to stop.”
A quiet laugh slips from me. A year ago I would have given anything to hear him say that, but as we speed toward his house—to the life where he has to hide me away from the world, from his son—it’s harder to enjoy those words.
I stroke my hand over Weston’s upturned palm, letting it rest on the inside of his wrist. His pulse thuds reassuringly under my fingertips, and I close my eyes, feeling the life force move through his body. It feels so precious, and a jagged shard of fear slices through me as I hold my hand there. My pulse spikes, but I force myself to breathe deeply and try to figure out what, exactly, it is I’m afraid of.
It’s the fear of losing him, I realize.
And just like that, everything becomes clear. I haven’t been stuck because of my job, or my apartment, or my lack of experience with men. I’ve been stuck because I closed myself off from the world, from life. It’s been eight years since I really cared about anyone, and that person—those people—were taken from me. I never realized, but I’ve been too afraid to care about anything or anyone since.
Until Weston. He cracked my heart open and made me fall in love with life again. He saw something in me that I’d forgotten was there, and he brought it into the light.
I open my eyes, letting my gaze rest on him as he drives, focused on the road. I’ve never met a man who made me feel like this—like who I am, what I want, how I feel matters. But that’s Wes in a nutshell, isn’t it? He cares so much. He took Jess in when he needed somewhere to stay, he put that camera into my hand when I was too scared to pick it up myself, and then he built me a freaking darkroom in his house, so I’d have no excuse not to develop my photos. When he loves someone, there are no limits to what he’ll do for them. That’s just who he is.
A good, kind, generous man.
I swallow, glancing away. Does Wes love me? I can’t be sure, but I know without a shred of doubt that I love him. And if I truly loved him, I wouldn’t let him lose his son.
If we can’t find a way to work this out, if us being together jeopardizes his relationship with Jess…
I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him give that up for me.
We pull onto Fruit Street and Wes finds a place to park, easing his Audi into the spot.
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?” I ask, scanning the street for any signs of Jess, my middle churning with unease.
Weston nods, turning to look at me as he shuts off the engine. “Jess closes the bar on a Sunday, so he won’t be home until after two in the morning. At least come in and have dinner.” Wes leans back on the headrest, gazing at me with a soft sigh. “I’m not ready for you to go home yet.”
I smile faintly. I’m not ready to go home yet either, and not only because my roommate is a nightmare. I don’t want to be away from Wes. I want to move into his beautiful house and wake up to him every morning, to greet him when he comes home from work. I want to build a life with this man, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have that.
“I don’t have a plan,” Wes says, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about Jess. But… we’ll figure something out. We have to. This weekend was…”
“I know.” I lean across the center console to press my mouth to his. “For me too.”
His eyes are deep blue in the darkening evening light, but he looks tired. Weary. Like he’s carrying too much. Carrying something he shouldn’t have to.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says again, and I’m not sure if he’s saying that to reassure me, or himself.
We climb from the car, Weston fetching our bags from the trunk before we ascend the steps to his house. I know he says Jess isn’t home, but I can’t ignore the quiver in my gut as we enter the foyer. Every second Wes and I spend together is another step closer to things imploding with him and Jess, and I can’t stand the guilt that gouges my heart. He’s risking too much.
“What do you feel like for dinner?” Wes asks as we kick off our shoes.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. Food is the last thing on my mind.
I follow him into the kitchen absently, colliding with the back of him as he comes to an abrupt stop. The bags fall from his hands, landing in the middle of the kitchen floor with an ominous thud. The air in the room tightens and shrinks.
I step around Wes to see what’s halted his steps, and my gaze lands on a stack of photos scattered across the kitchen island.
My photos.
There are the ones I took of Brooklyn Heights. The ones of the West Village. Some of Violet and Kyle from the shoot we did.
But that’s not all.
There’s the ones of Wes in bed, half-naked, asleep.
The ones he took of me, on my knees, in the basement.
I stare at the photos in shock, my stomach plummeting.
What are they doing on the kitchen island? How did they get here?
When I glance at Wes, his expression shifts from confusion to panic, and my insides follow. There’s a sound from the living room, and we turn to find Jess glaring at us.
My lungs seize.
“Oh, good,” he snarls, glancing from me to his father. “You’re both here.” He steps into the kitchen, his frame rigid, his expression stony. “It seems we have a few things to discuss.”