His mom’s light, conversational tone, like we were old friends, threw me, even though the doctor had warned she might lack a filter. My eyes shot to Wes’s reddened face. He didn’t smile back.
“What? A lot of boys do.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she looked me over. “You’re pretty,” she said, taking in my face. “I used to be pretty.” Sadness filled her voice. Her brow creased, and she touched her hair, pulling on the strands. “I must look bad.”
“Mom, don’t worry about it,” Wes said, trying to catch her hand.
“No, no. Look at me. It’s bad, isn’t it?” She grew agitated, pulling away from Wes’s attempts and trying to finger comb her tangled hair.
“It’s just a little messy,” I said, trying to calm her. I laid a hand on her forearm, guiding her arm down. “Would you like us to comb it for you?” The offer softened her features, and she slowed her clawing.
“Libby liked to comb my hair when she was small.” She took on a faraway expression. “Would you?”
I glanced at Wes, who focused on the wall. I peeked into the bathroom, where there was a small toiletry kit provided by the hospital, and found a comb. I perched by the side of the bed and ran my fingers over her head. She closed her eyes, and I met Wes’s gaze.
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t mind.” I worked the comb through her hair gently.
His mom’s voice was calmer now. “Do you know Libby?”
“No, Mom.”
She returned to looking at me, ignoring Wes.
“Oh,” she said, her face twisting, then shifting again, realization blooming across her features and her tone flattening. “She left.”
“Yeah. A long fucking time ago,” he muttered, fists balled at his sides again.
“I know that,” she said, voice sharpening and hands twitching again. “I remember.” She picked at the blanket around her waist, pulling at unseen threads. “She ran away, and you were gone. You weren’t there to stop her.”
Wes’s entire body tensed. My eyes shot to his again, but his face was a mask—it was pain and shame and hurt all frozen in place. His voice was barely audible when he choked out a response. “I know.”
My God.
“She was such a good girl,” his mom said, glancing away from her son. Her tone was different; it was sweeter, wistful. “The best thing I ever did. She was going to be a famous singer. Who knows what she’s doing now.”
His frozen expression hadn’t changed, lips pressed together, eyes focused on the wall.
“Chris is still here, though.” Her voice was dreamy. “He’s a good boy.”
Wes ran a hand through his hair again, his muscles taut.
“He’s a good man,” I said, continuing to brush her hair. I got the sense he needed to hear that, like no one had bothered to tell him, but he stepped away from the bed and walked to the window, and I doubted he was listening.
“Yes,” she said, eyelids drooping. I stroked her hair as I combed, hoping that might calm her. She smiled again, looking at Wes. “I’m glad you’re here, Chris.” Her eyes closed, and her features softened into sleep, her frail body sinking into the pillows.
Wes stood at the window, his back to me. “Thank you,” he said without looking at me, his voice thick, affected. “For doing that. For talking to her.”
“Sure,” I said, keeping my voice low to not disturb her when it looked like she was asleep. I took the few steps toward Wes, feeling awkward and unsteady.
“She calls you Chris?” At first, I’d thought she was just confused, but he hadn’t seemed to react to her using that name. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
He nodded. “Wesley is my middle name. No one calls me Chris but her and Libby.”
I had a hundred questions but slid my hand to his back, my palm moving over the cotton of his T-shirt, his tensed muscles bunched under the fabric. “Wes, are you okay?”
His gaze was locked on the sky, his tone flat. “Yep.”
I didn’t know what he wanted, if touching him was the right thing. He said nothing, didn’t hang his head or appear to be crying, but his body was held so tightly in place, it might break at any moment. Screw it. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him back against me, tentatively at first and then more firmly, my cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. I didn’t have any words, so I listened to his breathing and the thudding of his heart.
“She’s right,” he said, not looking away from the window. “I wanted to get away from my life and her, and I wasn’t there when Lib needed me. I was always the person she could count on, and I wasn’t there. What does that say about me?”
Tightening my hold, I wished I had the leverage to pull him into a real hug. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was touching him. “You were trying to live your life.”
He laced his long fingers together behind his neck, dipping his chin to his chest, the muscles across his shoulders straining as stress radiated off him. “When I came home, it was too late. She and Mom were fighting worse than they ever had. She wasn’t eating or taking care of herself. Something snapped and she ran away. The first time I heard from her, she was in Florida, then she bounced around Texas. The last time she gave me a location, it was Phoenix, but that was over a year ago.” His voice, quiet in the dim room, edged toward cracking, and I pressed my face into his back.
“It’s not your fault she left.”
His words kept coming, like water pouring from a faucet. I didn’t know if I should try to shut off the valve or catch the deluge.
“I tried to get Libby to stay with me, to get away from that house and the drugs and the guys Mom brought home, so I could help, and she shut me out. The last thing she ever said was leave me alone. And I did. I left her alone to deal with it, and I went back to school because I wanted to—because I wanted to put myself first for once. I figured I’d let her cool off and try again—that maybe one time I wouldn’t step in, but let the two of them work it out, but then she was gone.”
My tears left wet spots on the back of his shirt. With the low, hopeless tone in his voice, I had no idea what to say, so I just kept holding on to him.
The ambient hospital sounds outside the closed door provided a muffled backdrop to our conversation, reminding me things existed outside of the room. “What can I do, Wes?”
He pressed my hands harder against him, the beat of his heart consistent under my palm. I wondered in that moment if that was his way of telling me he’d let me be the one to hold him.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here.” His voice was rough. “And I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m your coach, and that’s all I should be. I don’t . . .” He paused, but I heard his slow intake of breath. “This morning shouldn’t have happened. It was a mistake.”
Shaking my head against his back, I racked my brain for what to say to change his mind. I tried to gather up the shards of memory that fell around the word “mistake.” I didn’t have the chance, as the doctor returned to the room. “Mr. Lawson?”
He gripped my hands for another moment, then let them go, pulling away before turning to the doctor, leaving me facing the open window, the gray sky beyond it.
40
I CANCELED THE morning run with Britta for the third time that week. I’d put off preparing for a big meeting and stayed at work late the night before, but needing to catch up on work wasn’t the only reason behind the decision. I didn’t know how to face her—not after that kiss, and not after that embarrassing breakdown at the hospital.
I couldn’t forget the combination of Britta’s lips, her supple body pressed to mine, and that little sound of surprise she made when we connected on the bed. All of it had been playing on a loop that left me uneasy and feeling guilty, because I’d never wanted to be that guy who took advantage. I’d spent my whole life trying not to be that guy, and being with her made me feel so good, I hadn’t cared that hooking up with her coach might derail her plans. I’d been ready to risk that because of what I wanted. Being around my mom and her talking about Libby just hammered that home.
I’d texted Libby to let her know Mom was in the hospital, and I couldn’t believe it when the dots bounced indicating a response, and I’d held my breath.