Chapter 7 #2
Maybe if he had said something right after, I would’ve wanted to talk about it. But instead, he’s been even pissier than usual—especially since Heath banned him from riding for another week.
They argued about it at every meal for three days straight, until Heath finally snapped and reminded him he’s lucky it’s only two weeks, not the four to six the doctor recommended. I guess Wesley downplayed how bad the bruising was…and how much pain he’s actually been in.
Men are so stupid.
“I was coming to look for you,” Wesley says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Oh?”
“Emmett said you’d either be at the lodge or helping with the cabins.” He jerks his chin vaguely toward the lodge.
“Well, you found me. What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and neutral.
He exhales through his nose. “I’ve gotta head into town and pick something up.”
“Uh, okay.”
“My dad told me to bring you.”
My lips part. “Why me?”
“Fuck if I know. I’m just the messenger.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Um, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not optional, Sadie.”
My spine stiffens. The drive to town is an hour and a half each way. That’s a lot of time alone.
In a truck. With Wesley.
“No. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
He meets my gaze. “I wasn’t asking.”
I scoff. “So then what, you’re ordering me?”
“Call it whatever you want, Princess.” He turns toward the truck. “We’ll be back before you go out with Lydia. I’m not interested in dealing with her bullshit wrath.”
That earns a reluctant smile I hate myself for.
“Let’s go,” he calls over his shoulder. “The train is leaving the station.”
I hesitate—just long enough to remind myself this doesn’t mean anything.
“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “I’m coming.”
Wesley’s truck is a muted olive green color—an old pickup that looks like it’s been restored with quiet pride. A stark contrast to Emmett’s.
It’s only a two-door, with a wide bench seat that stretches across the cab, and aside from a modern touchscreen radio in place of the original, it’s clear Wesley likes to keep things as they were.
I wouldn’t have even noticed the radio if he hadn’t offered to let me connect my phone.
“You can play something,” he murmurs softly, tipping his head toward the dashboard.
My brain is still trying to play catch-up. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I’m alone with Wesley.
Why would Heath force him to bring me?
He doesn’t want me here.
I connect my phone and start one of my favorite playlists. “Everywhere, Everything” by Noah Kahan filters softly through the speakers. After a minute, Wesley reaches out and turns the volume up a little.
“I can change it…if you want to listen to something else.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “This is good. I like it.”
The flutters I’ve tried to ignore surge back with a vengeance, warmth blooming across my chest and up the sides of my neck.
What is wrong with me?
Why would something as small as him liking the music I picked ignite such a reaction from me?
I turn back toward the window, pressing my lips together until the feeling passes.
The road stretches in empty, endless miles. I knew this would be uncomfortable, but the whole avoiding-conversation thing makes it all feel ten times worse.
I keep checking the time, watching as the minutes until our arrival slowly get lower and lower.
After an extended beat of silence, he catches me off guard when he asks, “What’s your favorite food?”
I huff quietly. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend like you want to get to know me, asking icebreaker questions.”
“Well, the quiet was going to drive me insane, so indulge me.”
I glance at him, barely able to contain my apprehension. “I like pancakes,” I finally say, voice soft.
“Pancakes.”
When the lull returns, I’m the one who breaks it. “What about you?” I ask. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Cheeseburgers.”
His reply hangs in the air, unanswered. He nods once, eyes fixed on the road, grip firm on the wheel, knuckles paling—and I’m suddenly painfully aware of how small the space between us feels.
“So.” His deep voice breaks the silence again. “Are you a cat person or a dog person?”
“I don’t know.”
He raises a brow. “How do you not know?”
“I’ve never had a pet.” I shrug. “Warren was repulsed by the idea.”
“He sounds like a nice guy.”
“You have no idea,” I mutter under my breath.
The conversation comes and goes like that—memories of his childhood dog they had growing up. How he, Emmett, and Landon spent their summers exploring their property and getting dirty. My camping trips with my mom, just the two of us.
When I mention her, he doesn’t tense or change the subject. He gently asks, “What was she like?”
My throat tightens.
My mom was so many things. She was like the air after it rains. Warm, clean sheets fresh from the dryer. The hum of a favorite song.
She was everything good. And then she was gone.
How can you summarize someone who was so much?
“She was the best person I’ve ever known,” I say, my voice quieter now. “She always knew the right thing to say.” I pause, swallowing hard. “I miss her and I resent her. All at once.”
Wesley nods, letting my words linger between us.
“Sometimes I’m angry at my mom, too,” he says after a moment. He doesn’t look at me. His gaze stays fixed on the road, jaw tight. “I feel like she gave up. There was still hope she could’ve gotten better.”
Neither of us says anything. “Look After You” by The Fray fills the silence.
“It’s normal,” I finally say. “I’ve had three psychiatrists tell me it’s an ugly but necessary part of grief.”
Wesley glances over. His voice is quiet. “Three?”
I exhale, pulling my mouth to the side. “Three,” I confirm. “Not because I’m crazy or anything—though I’m sure that’s what it sounds like. Not that there’s anything wrong with seeing three different doctors—”
“Why?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
“Not if you don’t want to tell me.”
“No, it’s okay.” I inhale deeply, then let it out.
“After my mom died, things with Warren got…worse. We fought constantly. I was angry, and he didn’t understand me.
He didn’t even try. On my fifteenth birthday, my friends dragged me to a party.
I didn’t even want to go—I wanted to stay home, but they insisted. ”
My voice wavers, and I clear my throat.
“Photos were leaked. You could see everything—liquor bottles, coke lines. My face in the background, illuminated by the flash. The media had a field day. It was everywhere for weeks.”
Wesley shifts beside me, tightening his grip on the wheel.
“My father had me drug tested. I came back clean—I didn’t need anything to feel numb.
I already was. But that didn’t matter to him.
The next morning, I had an appointment with a psychiatrist.” I shake my head.
“I saw her twice a week for a month. I didn’t lie.
I told her everything. She said I wasn’t sick—I was simply a girl grieving her mom. That should’ve been the end of it.”
I pause, swallowing hard.
“But Warren wasn’t satisfied. Two days later, I was on a new couch, in a new office.
Psychiatrist number two. She said the same thing.
Told him to be patient. To show up for me.
” I close my eyes for a beat. “And then one day I came downstairs for breakfast and there was a man in our kitchen. Middle-aged, round glasses, and a yellow notepad.”
My voice cracks, but I bite down until it steadies.
“He was lucky number three. And of course, he agreed with the first two.” I glance at Wesley, then quickly look away.
“Warren accused me of manipulating them. Said I must be lying. Even implied I was…being inappropriate with the male psychiatrist. He blatantly refused to believe I was only sad. To him, my sadness had to mean extreme mental distress.”
A dry, humorless laugh escapes me, followed by another tear I wipe away before it falls.
Wesley looks at me—like, really looks at me.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is low and rough. “Guess that answers my question about why you call him Warren and not dad.”
I smile sadly. “I don’t think he’s ever felt like a dad to me.”
The truck pulls off onto the shoulder, slowly rolling to a stop. I look over at him, expecting irritation—deflection—but instead I find something tight and unfamiliar in his expression. “Ceilings” by Lizzy McAlpine starts playing and the timing punches me in the chest.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
I said too much. I was too honest and I made it all even more weird.
Then his eyes find mine, roaming over my face as if all the answers might be written there.
“You deserve so much better,” he murmurs, voice soft.
My throat tightens and I shift in my seat, hyperaware of how close we are. How small the cab feels. How easy it would be to mistake this for something it’s not.
He drops his hand to the seat, inches away from me—then pulls back, rubbing his palm along his thigh instead.
I swallow. “It’s fine.”
His mouth tightens. “It’s not.”
I can feel it—the moment tilting, threatening to become something. My heart beats faster, hope flaring stupid and bright in my chest.
Then the sharp ring of his phone slices through the moment.
Wesley exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face before checking the screen and letting out a bitter laugh.
“Fucking unbelievable,” he mutters, not looking at me before he answers the call. “Yeah?”
I turn toward the window, pressing my forehead lightly against the glass, forcing my breathing to slow.
It doesn’t mean anything.
When he ends the call, he doesn’t meet my eyes right away. Just tosses the phone onto the seat between us, fingers drumming against his thigh.
After a second, he looks at me again. “We should probably talk about it.”
My hand tightens around the hem of my shirt. “We really don’t have to.”