Page 82 of If Love Had A Manual

Her mouth curls upward into a smile so big it crinkles the corners of her eyes. “You too, Wes.”

What I want to do right now is open her. Not her body. Her. I want to bury deep and see everything she holds inside. That should be my first red flag, because it’s not about attraction or sex. It’s not about burying myself inside her until I forget how to feel.

It’s about her.

That quiet ache I get when she laughs and I realize I don’t know what she finds funny outside of Rosie’s animal noises.

We’ve spent months talking, but it’s always the same shit. Routines. Doctor appointments. What color was the diaper disaster today? And that was fine at first. That’s all I needed.

But now?

Now I’m looking at her and wondering what else there is. What does she think about when she can’t sleep? Whether she prefers red wine or white? Does she even like wine? What is her favorite color? If her eyes always had flecks of gold in them, or if it developed over time?

It’s all stuff that doesn’t matter. Not to the job, anyway. But suddenly it matters to me. I want to know. I want all of it. Every little detail. And I have no idea when that started.

Swallowing, I shake my head and look down at the grass. “I’ll be your bestie. That’s what the cool kids say, right?”

“Bestie?” she repeats, pretending to gag. “Really?”

“Although I don’t usually try to look down all my best friends’ tops.”

She gasps, scandalized. “Wesley Turner, you do not.”

I raise a brow and nod while gesturing to my chest. “Especially in that pink tank top you wore last week.”

She smacks my arm, laughing. “You absolute pervert.”

We fall into a quiet rhythm, the way we always do. No pressure. No force. Just…there. Breathing. Existing.

After a minute, she leans her head on my shoulder, exhaling slowly like it’s the first time she’s stopped moving all day.

“You’ll be okay, Wes,” she says softly. “It’ll all work out.”

I don’t say anything.

But I let her stay right there.

And I let myself believe her.

Thirty

Lena

Iamneverdrinking again.

I don’t fully know what happened last night. All I know is that Sienna was still pouring those deceptively sweet, evil pink cocktails after Wes and I came back inside, and now my soul is trying to escape through my temples. The last thing I remember clearly is a passionate debate about whether or not Milo could be trained to skateboard.

The rest is a blur of laughing and Sienna yelling, “We ride at dawn,” before I was deposited into the back of a cab.

I woke up to a voice notefrom her this morning that just said: “Are you also terminal? I think my kidneys are gone. I’m sorry I did this to us. Please still be friends with me.”

And now here I am, sunglasses on indoors, hoodie up despite the rising temperature, creeping up Wes’s driveway like I’m about to commit daylight robbery, all because I need to collect my car.

It’s too damn hot for spring. I’m sweating, I’m bloated, and my tongue feels like it’s wearing a sweater.

There’s music playing from out back when I let myself in. I follow the sound until I spot Wes. His shirt is slightly damp with sweat, cap on, kneeling on the porch, working on what looks like... beams? Nails? Wood stuff?

Rosie’s nowhere in sight. It’s probably nap time.

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