Wes’s brows lowered, and he glanced in her father’s direction but got to his feet.
“Rebecca, what is going on?” her father said, stopping a few steps from her, his voice clipped and demanding. “You don’t have the flu. You were just fine when we got here.”
Rebecca’s fingers curled tightly around her glass of juice, and she forced herself to sit taller in the chair. She didn’t need her dad suspecting that she’d freaked out onstage. Lindts didn’t run away like that. They powered through. They soldiered on. “I didn’t get a chance to eat anything this morning, and I think I must’ve…locked my knees. I got light-headed and felt like I was going to faint.”
Her father frowned deeply, making the wrinkles in his forehead stand out in relief. “Well”—he motioned at Wes—“this man can get you some food, and you can go up and finish after the current speaker.”
She glanced at Wes and then back at her father. Her instinct was to say, Yes. Of course. That was what her dad was expecting. Rebecca could always be counted on. But the thought of getting back up there and inviting those flashbacks to return had acid rising in the back of her throat. “I can’t do the speech today, Dad. I’m sorry. I feel sick to my stomach, and I just… I’ll do whatever you need to help with your campaign, but I don’t want to do talks about Long Acre. I don’t want to keep rehashing it. People already know the story. The documentary will be out soon, and they can get every ugly detail if they want. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“You can’t…” His cheeks turned ruddy. “But that’s the reason people book you for these events. They don’t want to hear about being a lawyer. They want to hear about what you’ve overcome. They’re inspired by that.”
“Then maybe they need to find inspiration somewhere else,” she snapped.
He stiffened.
She rarely talked back to her father, but she wasn’t in the mood to apologize. He was the one person who should know exactly why this topic was so hard for her. When she’d fallen into a dangerous depression after Long Acre, she’d eventually admitted the truth to him, had told him why she was drowning in guilt, why she couldn’t imagine going on with her life. He’d dismissed the very idea back then, telling her she was blaming herself for something that wasn’t her fault. He’d taken her to a doctor, had gotten her on an antidepressant, and had encouraged her to keep her mind busy and to throw herself into her studies. The doctor had agreed. Forward motion.
The constant go-go-go of college and law school had kept her head above water with the depression until she’d been able to climb to shore and stop taking the meds. But her father had to know that the guilt had never left her. She’d just locked it away in a dark closet in her mind. But ever since the documentary, the demons had been slipping out. She felt as if she had her back against the door, arms splayed out, doing everything she could to keep them inside, but they were winning. She’d never had flashbacks before this. Depression, yes. Anger, sure. But she’d never had the memories assault her with such visceral force. This was different. She could not keep inviting those demons in by doing these kinds of speeches.
“Rebecca…” her dad said, his eyes holding warning. “I think you’re overreacting. If you just take a few minutes to get your head back together and—”
“Sir, excuse me,” Wes said, stepping a little closer to Rebecca, “but I think Rebecca needs to get some food and some distance from the crowd. I can take her back to the kitchen and make sure that happens.”
Her dad’s gaze swept over Wes, taking in his tattooed arms, disheveled hair, and cook’s uniform. His lip curled. “I would say that’s above and beyond your job description, young man. Just please bring her a plate to our table.”
Rebecca pushed herself up from the chair, and Wes automatically put an arm out to her. She felt steadier than she had a minute ago, but that internal shakiness was still there. She braced a hand on Wesley’s forearm. “Dad, this is Wes Garrett. He’s…a friend. We’re working together on a charity project. And I’d rather go eat something in the kitchen. I’m not in the place to socialize right now or get back on that stage. I’m going to be more of a liability to you this morning than an asset.”
Her father looked back and forth between the two of them.
“I’ll take good care of her, sir,” Wes said, his tone easy but an undercurrent of authority there. “I know the head chef. She’ll get Rebecca whatever meal she wants. I’m sure everyone back at your table will understand that she’s not feeling well and had to go home.”
Her father didn’t look convinced, and his skin had taken on the mottled tone of anger, but he wasn’t going to make a scene. He gave a brief nod. “Rebecca, we’ll talk more about this on the way home.”
“I’m going to catch a ride with Wes,” she said quickly.
Her father’s jaw flexed. “Then we’ll talk tomorrow at work.”
Fun. “Sure.”
Her dad gave her one last evaluating look and then strode back to his table.
Wes peeked over at her, eyebrows lifted. “Well, he’s a barrel of laughs. He does realize you’re not sixteen, right?”
She smirked. “I’m not sure. And that was his restrained side. I’m going to get an earful tomorrow about responsibility and honoring commitments and how I let him down.”
“Ugh. That almost makes me think my good-for-nothing, always-in-jail father was a blessing. There was no lecturing.”
Rebecca sighed as she held on to Wes’s arm and let him steer her toward the kitchen. “My dad seems worse than he is. He’ll never be warm and fuzzy and he’ll always be an insufferable hard-ass, but he’s been there for me when I needed him. No one gave him lessons on how to be a single dad to a daughter when my mom bailed, you know?”
“Right.” Wes bumped the swinging door open with his foot.
“I try to remember that during times like these when I want to give him the finger and tell him to back the hell off.”
They avoided a waiter with a full tray of juice pitchers. “I get it. Family is complicated.” Wes led her to an unused corner of the kitchen and found her a chair. “So what happened onstage? Is this really about not eating? You looked…gone. Like you were somewhere else.”
Goose bumps chased up her arms, and she gave his hand a squeeze before taking a seat. “You don’t want to know where I went.”
“Bec—”