Page 1 of If Love Had A Manual

One

Wes

There’s an unopened beer on the counter in my kitchen, taunting me with the promise of numbness I know it can’t deliver. Not when the ache in my chest feels like a permanent fixture. It feels like it’s been carved into my bones ever since my life split into two distinct eras: Before and After.

Before, I was a man who built things, a guy who fixed what was broken. I worked my ass off because I believed in the life I was constructing. The shop was humming with business, the house was finally becoming a home, and my routine was as solid as the walls I hammered together. I had a future in mind. Itfelt so close I could taste it.

After? I’m still not sure who I am now. I’m just here, standing in a too-quiet kitchen. The silence settles into the corners like dust, reminding me of all the sounds that used to fill this place. Sounds I’d do anything to have back.

I pick up the beer, turning the bottle between my fingers. Condensation drips onto the countertop, forming little puddles.

I close my eyes and realize the hush is so absolute, it’s almost claustrophobic. There’s no babbling from Rosie’s sweet little voice in the background. No late-night phone calls from Amber just to check in. No sound of Lyndsey’s slippers scuffing across the floor as she’d mumble that I should just go to bed, that this can’t be healthy, sitting alone in the dark like some ghost waiting to vanish.

Nothing but silence.

My lungs tighten, and I exhale a harsh breath, setting the bottle back down. I try to shake the memories, but my head won’t let me.

In an instant, I’m no longer in the kitchen. My thoughts drag me back to that moment. The night everything changed forever.

∞∞∞

Rosie was about six months old then, a tiny little wonder I never seemed to get tired of holding. I’d just finished swaying her to sleep, my arms aching but my chest so full of love it felt like it might burst. I’d set her down in her travel cot with practiced motions, so proud of how gentle I’d become with her. She was my niece, sure, but she felt like a piece of my heart.

Lyndsey was leaning against the doorframe, a mischievous glint in her eye. We were both a little giddy, running on adrenaline from juggling bottles and diapers and lullabies.

There was laughter in her voice as she said, “She’s out cold, huh?”

I nodded and pressed a finger to my lips. “We need to be quiet,” I whispered, fighting a smirk as I took her hand, tugging her toward the living room. “Rosie’s a light sleeper.”

“You’re telling me.” Lyndsey laughed under her breath. “I’ve been shushed by you a dozen times already.”

“Promise I’ll make it up to you.” I arched a brow, leaning in like I might steal a kiss. “If we can just manage not to wake her up again—”

She silenced me by leaning in, her lips brushing against mine, and for the first time all night, I thought maybe we could steal a few minutes of peace. I threaded my fingers through her hair and felt my heart kick up in my chest. The day had been hectic, but this felt like a reward. Like a sweet, secret moment we deserved after playing stand-in parents.

Her hushed laugh filled the space between us, the tension in the air shifting from chaos to something else, something warmer and infinitely more dangerous. I could feel the heat of her body, and the way her breath hitched when my hand slid beneath the hem of her shirt. We were two seconds away from forgetting everything except each other when a sharp knock shattered the quiet.

Lyndsey froze, eyes wide as she pulled back. “I thought you said you had Rosie overnight?”

“I do,” I said, frowning. “They’re not supposed topick her up until morning.”

I glanced at the clock, wondering if Amber and Mike had decided to come back early, maybe forgetting something for Rosie. With one last apologetic squeeze of Lyndsey’s hand, I strode to the front door.

My stomach lurched the second I opened it.

Two uniformed police officers stood on my porch. I hadn’t lived a squeaky-clean life or anything, but there was something in the way they stood. The way they carried the weight of a tragedy on their shoulders made every part of me go cold.

“Wesley Turner?” the taller officer asked.

I managed a nod, vaguely aware that Lyndsey was hovering in the hallway behind me, looking as tense and worried as I felt.

“Sir,” the other officer began, his tone gentler than I’d ever heard a cop speak. “We’re sorry to disturb you so late. There’s been an accident involving your sister and her husband.”

My mouth went dry. I remember staring at them, the words not quite clicking. A numbness spread from the center of my chest outward.

The officer kept talking, though it sounded like his voice was coming from underwater. “They were involved in a collision on the highway. The car… we did everything we could to—” He stopped, swallowing hard, and I suddenly realized my heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear him over the roar of blood in my ears. “I’m sorry, sir. Neither of them survived.”

All at once, the world seemed to fall away beneath me. I heard Lyndsey gasp at my back—a strangled and broken sound that confirmed this was real, that I wasn’t imagining these words.

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