Page 73 of Never Been Worse

I nod, and Wes grabs my hand, twining his fingers with mine. We move quickly through the garage, heads down and unspeaking as we walk the few blocks back to the restaurant. We move through the back door again, then walk through the front door where paparazzi take our photos again, and I get it then: our alibi.

“Hey, Wes?” I say when we’re back in his car, making our way to the house.

“Yeah, baby,” he says, reaching over and grabbing my hand absentmindedly like it’s normal, something casual and ordinary even though it makes my pulse pound.

“Thank you. For today. Well, for the past month. For…everything. You didn’t have to do that. Any of it.”

He stops at a red light and looks over at me, eyes sincere and warm. “When are you going to realize you deserve the moon, Harper?”

“I don’t know about the moon, but I’m starting to believe I might deserve more than I’ve let myself have,” I admit without realizing I’m doing it.

“I hope thatmoreincludes a future with me,” he whispers, squeezing my hand as the light turns green and he starts driving again.

“I’m starting to think it might,” I whisper.

TWENTY-EIGHT

HARPER

It’s been five days since telling everyone about the designs and two days since our little sabotage of Jeremy's car.

For a while after we got home, I worried someone would come knocking at the door to arrest one or both of us, and this whole mess would start over again. Fortunately, Wes reassured me his security contact at the garage confirmed that Jeremy thinks the culprit was some annoying local kids messing with things, and so far, we’re in the clear.

Each night, I’ve fallen asleep with Wes, usually after he fucks me senseless, and woken up in his arms, something so foreign and yet so comfortable. The little voice in my head keeps whispering things are too easy, that this too, like almost all good things in my life, will end and blow up in my face. But for the first time in a long time, I’m forcing her to be quiet.

This morning, though, I woke without my husband. I squinted at the clock and saw it was nearly ten, then spotted the lime green Post-it, the same hue that was on the stack of cookie dough a month ago, beside it.

Little wife,

Let you sleep in. I couldn’t bear to wake you.

-Wes

After reading that, I let out a tiny squeal, kicking my feet with the all-consuming joy oflikingsomeone—fallingfor someone—before I rolled out of bed to do my morning routine. Once I was done, I went downstairs to make my coffee with the creamer Laurel begrudgingly buys now, then wandered the house to find my husband.

I think I find him when I hear the low bumping from where Wes told me his makeshift studio is, though I’ve never been there. I open the basement door, the beat getting louder, and I assume Wes has loud music on to play along with. Opening the door, I start to step down, and I’m quickly blown away by the setup. The walls are covered in egg carton-looking padding, creating what I assume is a sound barrier, and there are a dozen instruments along the walls.

Wes plays guitar for Atlas Oaks, but from the look of the room, he can play everything. That’s confirmed when I look to the corner of the room where a shirtless Wes is wearing big, noise-cancelling headphones, sweating as he slams on the drums in front of him. It’s magic to watch, his body moving smoothly and somewhat chaotically in what could be an absolute racket, but instead, sounds perfect. It’s the beat of some song I somewhat recognize, despite not hearing any other part. As he ends the song, I start clapping. He must hear me, or maybe he catches a glimpse of me in his peripheral vision, because he smiles, slipping off the headphones.

“Wow,” I say, leaning in the doorway as Wes wipes his forehead with a towel. He’s wearing no shirt and just a pair of loose shorts, toned muscles on display, and I’m reminded just howhotmy husband is. “That’s so much more intense than I realized,” I say, and his lips tip up in a smile as he reaches down, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a long drink. I definitelydon’twatch the way his throat moves with each swallow. “I didn’t know you could play drums.”

“I can play it all, for better or worse,” he says, then tips his head, telling me to come closer.

I do as he asks, stopping a few feet from where he sits. “What do you like best?”

He shrugs. “I like them all. Drums are great when you have some pent-up…” His eyes slowly move over my body before he smiles. “Feelings.”

“Oh,” I say, my eyes going heated, my body doing the same. “I, uh. I can see how that would help to release those…feelings.” I clear my throat, looking around the room to distract myself. “You can play that?” I ask, my eye moving to the trombone in the corner, and he nods.

“My first instrument. Started in fifth grade. Chose it because I thought I could make fart noises with it.”

I let out a little laugh and move closer to him, my fingers shifting toward a wide golden symbol, a light chiming coming from them as I run my nails over the metal.

”You play anything?” he asks, and I laugh, shaking my head while forcing myself to not look at his bare chest.

“God, no. I’m about as untalented musically as one can be.”

“I doubt that. Anyone can learn anything.”

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