Page 42 of If You Never Come Back
“How do you think they were?”
“Shay, I said I was sorry.”
Fire bursts through me. I spin around, glaring at him. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You think you can just come back, toss a few apologies in my face, and that makes it all better?”
His frown takes on a confused shine. “What? No. That’s not—”
“How the hell did you think I felt after I told you I loved you and you walked out on me?”
My voice booms against the exposed brick.
The office door squeaks open just enough for Remy to peek his head out. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine!” I yell.
Crossing my arms, I aim my death glare back at Wes. He stares, eyes wide.
“I loved you so much, Wes. And you just left, like I never meant anything to you.”
I speak through sobs. His hand slides across the bar, but I step out of his reach.
“You think coming back with a half-assed apology makes it all good?”
His mouth falls open, but no words come out.
Iwipe my face on my sleeves and scoff. “Seriously, Wes. Screw you.”
When I glimpse his face, it’s red. With anger, with hurt, with frustration, I don’t really know and I don’t really care. All I know is that agreeing to meet with him was a mistake. Yes, he said sorry. But that’s just a word, a drop in the bottomless bucket of tears I cried for him when he left.
I spin around, swipe my coat from behind the counter, and dart out the door.
“Shay, wait!” he calls from behind.
I stomp down the sidewalk, ignoring the sleet pelleting my face. Why the hell didn’t I bring my hat? I squeeze my hands into fists, realizing then that I don’t have my mittens either. It’s the end of February for god’s sake.
“Cuz! Where are you going?”
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I ignore Remy’s calls and walk straight ahead in the exact opposite direction of my apartment, with no particular destination in mind.
“Shay!” Wes booms from behind.
Fresh tears freeze the second they touch my cheeks thanks to the biting arctic wind. I try to pick up my pace, but the sleet has turned the concrete below into an ice rink. I wobble for a second, then steady myself, stepping forward with renewed caution. Just then I feel a firm hand on my arm, turning me around.
“Would you just stop for one second and listen to me?”
Wes’s pained eyes stare back at me. His dark brown hair glistens as the icy rain falls on his uncovered head.
“I’m done listening to you.” I jerk out of his grip.
He shakes his head. “You think I wasn’t heartbroken too when I left? I was a mess. I could see that I hurt you and that killed me. I didn’t call or text because I didn’t know what to say.”
His eyes glimmer. My throat squeezes. He’s trying not to cry. But one thing sticks out, one word is missing in all that he says: love. And that’s the problem.
Wes may have been heartbroken too, but that doesn’t take away the one key difference between us: I loved him—I still love him. But he never loved me.
My breath catches when I try to keep a sob from ripping free. “Reeling from a breakup is awful. But do you know what’s worse? Telling someone you love them and watching them walk out on you.”
Frozen raindrops hit my skin like needles as I wait for him to respond. But there’s nothing. Just his silence and his presence, both reminders of what I wanted most in the world but couldn’t have. Because he didn’t want it.
