Page 18 of From West, With Regret

“Okay.” Selene squeezes my shoulder before moving around the bed.

I twist at the waist and, over my shoulder, say, “One of Heath’s lawyers just called.”

“Really?” She’s pulling on her pants, but she stops mid-thigh. “What did they say?”

“He’s cut me off from everything.” I stare off in to the distance, but I can still see the metal clock. I shove the memory back down.

“What do you mean, he’s cut you off?”

A part of me hardens when looking back at my sister, the realization that returning to Boston was never a reality I wanted in the first place. Maybe Selene is right. Maybe my place is here, with her. With the only family I know.

“It’s a lot to explain right now.” I trace my finger along West’s faded number.

“What a fucking dick.” She scoffs in disbelief. “I know it’s terrible talking ill of the dead, but shit…” She shakes her head. “Thank God you’ve created a following on social media to keep a steady stream of your artwork sales.”

“Yeah, true.” My sister is right. I nod, gnawing on the inside of my cheek. I’ve been selling copies of my artwork online since before I met Heath. I’ve only ever wanted to be my own wind beneath my wings. “But does the offer for me to stay here instead of returning to Boston still stand?”

Selene wraps her arms around me.

“Are you fucking kidding me, London?” She buries her face into my neck. “Of course it does.”

I chuckle. The uncertainty of my future may be weighing on me, but I already know it’s infinitely better than returning to Boston with nowhere and no one to turn to.

Selene keeps her arms wrapped around me as I eye the growing crack in her ceiling. “I don’t know how long we’ll last living in this apartment together, but I’ll figure out something,” I tell her.

“Stay as long as you need,”she reassures me.

I return her a hug, knowing that, even if I wanted to stay forever, forever isn’t a possibility. Even Selene will agree to that.

SIX

WEST

I haven’t stopped thinking about London. I’ve carried her napkin drawing with me every day since she left, careful not to let it tear, folding it to where the clock tower is protected on the inside.

It’s ridiculous, but the drawing is all I have to remind me that seeing and talking to London that day was real and not just another haunted dream of mine.

Regret settles in my bones. It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen her. Touched her.

I down the last of my beer, overlooking the crowd in front of me, thinking about how I wrote my number on London’s arm.

Why didn’t I gethernumber?

Why didn’t I say more?

Maybe she’s worried about working with me because I’m Heath’s brother. I should have explained my situation to her. I’m such a fucking idiot.

A small part of me has considered seeking her out in Boston. Despite not having talked to Heath these past few years, I still remember where he lived. Though the last thing I want to do is freak London out and push her away. From what my mother hastold me, and the lack of communication I had with my brother, I’ve come to the conclusion that London and the rest of the Hall family aren’t exactly close.

I’ve been trying to tell myself that waiting her out is the best way to handle this, to trust that she’ll find me again on her terms, but it’s difficult to hold onto that positivity when I’ve done nothing but let London slip through my fingers for the past fifteen years. And here I am, fucking doing it again. Three fucking weeks have passed, and every day that comes after it is another punch to the gut.

I’ve hung around The Veiled Door more than usual, all in the hopes of seeing her again. So much so, Lewis has started to think of me more as a friend than his boss’s boss’s boss— a situation I’m expecting will eventually come back around to bite me in the ass.

“So, what do you think?” The brewer I’ve been seeking out for the past three months stands in front of me with a mixed expression of fear and anticipation. His lips are pressed tightly together, and his nostrils are flared. He’s about as young as Lewis, and has the same expression of hope, as though he still believes the world is a good place.

I swallow the last bit of amber liquid in my glass and nod as I drop it back on the tray the server standing beside me is holding. “Slightly more bitter than I was expecting.”

“Oh.” His shoulders fall, and his face relaxes, but his mouth still twitches with a smile. “That’s our strongest IPA. We add a slightly larger number of hops to the batch. If you try our lighter IPA, you’ll notice a bit more sweetness from the orange peel. It also smooths it out.” He reaches for the full tasting glass next to my empty one on the tray.

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