Page 92 of I Saw Her First

Ihardly sleep, despite trying. I have an early shift at Joe’s, but there’s no way I can deal with going to work after what happened tonight. After tossing and turning for hours, I send Dave a text telling him I have a stomach bug and that I won’t be in. It’s a lame excuse, but he’s such a good guy that he instantly replies, telling me to rest up and get better. I should feel bad about that, but I already have too much to feel bad about.

Jess has left, and it should have been me.

Beside me, Wes rolls over, trying to get comfortable, and I hold my breath. A few minutes later his soft snores assure me he’s asleep, and I breathe out slowly.

I can’t stand it. I can’t stand that I’m here in his bed while Jess is gone. I knew this was too much of a risk, and now I have the proof. He’s lost his son because of me.

Seeing those photos on the kitchen island… I’ve never felt so sick to my stomach. How did Jess get his hands on them? I must have left the darkroom unlocked when I last went in there. I’ll never forgive myself for my carelessness.

I glance at Wes, sleeping beside me. His face is the epitome of peace: eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks, the whiskers of his beard smushed into the pillowcase, lips parted slightly as his breaths come slow and even. But it hides the turmoil he feels underneath. I know it. He might have done his best to hide it from me after Jess left last night, but I know him better. He’s hurting.

I’ll never forgive myself for causing that. And I don’t think I can live with the guilt of coming between him and his son.

At some point I must drift off because I’m woken by Weston gently touching my shoulder.

“You’re going to be late for work,” he murmurs sleepily.

“Called in sick,” I mumble in response. I burrow back into the pillow, mostly unconscious, but vaguely aware of how thoughtful it is of him to worry about me, even after everything.

That’s the last thing I remember before drifting off again. The next time I wake, sunlight presses at the blinds, and Wes sits in the chair by the window nursing a cup of coffee, one hand scrubbing absently over his beard in thought.

I reach for my phone, shocked to see it’s nearly ten. “Shit, sorry,” I say, bolting up in bed. “Don’t you have to be at work?”

“I called in sick too.”

“Oh.” I rub my eyes, the events of last night coming back as my brain reboots. They bring a sour taste to my mouth, and I contemplate crawling back under the covers and never coming out again.

“How did you sleep?” he asks, setting his coffee down.

“Not great.” I stifle a yawn. “You?”

“Fine.” His face is lined and tired, his complexion drained of its natural color, eyes missing their usual spark. My heart is a tight ball of misery at the sight.

“I’m sorry,” I begin again, but he shakes his head.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” I swallow, guilt clawing at my throat. “It’s not okay, Wes.”

“Daisy.” He wipes both hands down his face, and that’s when I realize he’s wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday. He must have just pulled it on this morning, which is unlike him. It’s wrinkled and not buttoned properly, the chaos of his appearance belying how unsettled he feels inside.

I can’t stand it. This isn’t my Weston. This is a man who’s broken.

A manI’vebroken.

“We can’t keep worrying about this. What’s done is done.” He rises from the chair with a weary sigh, lowering himself onto the bed beside me, but when he reaches to tuck my hair behind my ear, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes, my heart cracks.

“I don’t think I can do this, Wes.”

He hesitates, letting his hand fall. “What?”

“I can’t be responsible for you losing Jess.”

His eyebrows sink into a frown. “You’re not—”

“I am.” My voice breaks as tears press at my eyes. “He left because of me. And I can’t—”

“He left because ofme,” Wes corrects. Up close I can see the dark circles under his eyes, suggesting he didn’t sleep nearly as well as he said.

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