Page 23 of From West, With Regret

“You’re not a Hall?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

He looks down, then to his right, then up to the party. Anywhere but at me. But when his eyes finally swing back my way, I’m suddenly aware of everything. The way my dress tries to billow out under me, the fabric dancing around my thighs. The way the curves of my breasts rise above the surface of the water. The way West has inched his way closer to me.

Being this close to my ex-brother-in-law feels like it should be wrong, but the taut string tugging at my stomach tells me it isn’t.

“My last name is Knight,” he confesses.

My eyebrows pull together. “Wait. So, you aren’t Heath’s brother?”

He runs his hand down his face and leans to his left, andwithin seconds, we’re slowly spinning in a circle, never looking away from each other.

“On paper, I am. I was adopted at fifteen.” He explains, the reflection of the pool a kaleidoscope of blue dancing across his body. “I never took their last name.”

I can’t pinpoint the sensation, but it feels as though a thousand needles are prickling under the surface of my skin. A vibration. A humming feeling I can’t shake.

“West Knight.” His name falls from my mouth on a whisper.

“My full name is actually Weston, but I go by West.” He gives me a small smile, again looking at me as if he’s imploring me to give him some deep response. But I don’t have one. He studies me in silence.

“Oh.” I nod, playing with my tongue piercing. I twist it in my mouth, clicking it against the back of my teeth while conflicted feelings brew inside me.

Even now, after learning West isn’t related to Heath by blood, I still can’t ignore the fact he’s part of the family, and I was married to his brother, despite Heath never seeming to care to be involved with his family. At least not enough to add me to the mix.

I also can’t deny the fluttering heat building in my stomach at West’s proximity. The water is warm, but I know what I’m feeling isn’t just from Holt’s heated pool. The sensation I got from West the first time we met wasn’t a fluke. My body reacts to him in a way that makes me feel delightfully dizzy. I want to reach out and press the tip of my finger to his. Our hands dance beneath the surface, and every few seconds, I feel the force of the water behind his hand touch mine.

I ache to touch him but know I shouldn’t.

“So…” West sighs, his mouth curling to a satisfied smirk. “Now that I’ve told you a truth, it’s your turn.”

“My turn, huh?”

“Yes, your turn,” West whispers, leaning closer but staying a foot away from me. We’ve stop spinning in a circle, planting our feet to the tiles beneath us. My toes grate against the rough surface.

“Every memory I had before my fourteenth birthday is gone.”

West’s expression is unmoving, but I can tell he’s hanging on to every word—a stark contrast to his brother who always looked at me as if there were a million other people he’d rather have been with in any moment instead of his own wife. And though West doesn’t ask me to elaborate. I feel compelled to, anyway.

“I don’t have a memory of how it happened. I only know what the doctor’s told me.” I spin around, turning my back on West, my body humming as I sweep my soaking wet hair to the side, revealing the base of my neck to him, and glance over my shoulder as he inches closer. I point to the scar I know is hidden beneath my hair, near the back of my head. “My adoptive parents bought me a bike as a welcome home gift, and I immediately took it out for a ride, but I didn’t see the car coming when I rounded the street corner. The person who hit me left the scene, and I laid there for almost an hour before a neighbor found me.” I swallow the emotion thick in my throat. “But like I said, I don’t remember any of it. That’s the story the doctors told me.”

Aware of every breath coming out of West’s mouth, I spin back around to face him.

Sad.

Regretful.

His face is still, but his chest rises and falls with his weighted breaths.

“Sometimes,” I say, bobbing up and down on my toes again, “sometimes I get these memories. At least what I think are memories. But when they pop into my head, I lock them inside abox and hope they’ll come to me later. Sometimes I see them like puzzle pieces, waiting to be put together.”

West closes his mouth and blinks for a few beats before asking, “Do you have any of them pieced together yet?”

“At times I think I have them put together,” I confess. “But I never know what to believe. I never know if they’re true memories or if they’re just made up in my head. Memories IthinkI remember.”

“The truth is always in front of us.” His voice is soft, barely a whisper. “Sometimes you just have to dig a little deeper to find it.” His hand moves closer to mine under the water.

“Maybe.” But I’m not as easily convinced. It’s been years, and the fear of my memory never coming back is a reality I hate facing.

“Did your parents not tell you about your life before they adopted you?” West asks. “I’m guessing they knew a little about your past.”

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