What if he didn’t choose me?
The knots in my stomach that had unraveled somewhat over the course of the afternoon raveled right back up. If it came down to it and Wes had to make a choice, there was no guarantee he’d pick me. Why should he? I was a fucking mess.
And what about the thing Lenore said about Wes being a caretaker, implying that he didn’t love me so much as he wanted to heal me? Was there any truth in that? Same as his brother, she’d said. But Drew had truly loved me, hadn’t he?
Maybe. But he’s not here anymore.
Because love wasn’t enough to save anyone.
Why did I keep forgetting that?
Nineteen
WES
After Hannah left to pick up Abby, I drove around for a while, cursing the rain, cursing my mother, cursing myself for not handling this situation better. But what could I have done differently?
Hannah was right. We couldn’t go back and change the past. She’d been my brother’s wife. There was no getting around it. But if we weren’t bothered by that, what the fuck did anyone else care?
And it was inevitable that people were going to find out, but it would have been nice to break the news to my parents on our own terms. To be there together presenting a united front. If my mother could see how much we loved each other, and that we weren’t doing this just for the forbidden kick of it, maybe she’d change her mind. I didn’t give a fuck about anyone else, but this would be hard if I couldn’t get her to come around. And Hannah was panicking.
I had to try again.
But I’d be more tactful this time. Less angry. I’d play the long game. I’d concede that this was unusual and agree that many people were going to find it distasteful, but I’d assure her that the only opinions that mattered to me were hers and my father’s. I’d assure her that my professional reputation would not suffer. I’d appeal to her romantic side, remind her that real love was rare—I’d never felt it for anyone else. And now that I’d found it, I couldn’t let it go. I’d tell her how inspired I was by her forty-year marriage, and how I wanted that for myself. I’d convince her that Abby and Hannah and I were meant to be a family, just like Abby wanted. I’d take care
of them, just like Drew would want me to.
Once I had her listening to me with a more open mind, I could offer more hope to Hannah that everything would be okay. We would be happy together.
I would keep my promise.
Determined to sway my mother gently this time, I headed for home.
I found her sitting on the couch with an old photo album in her lap.
“Hey,” I said. “Where’s Dad?”
“Taking a nap.”
I sat down next to her. “What are you looking at?”
She angled the album so I could see. It was open to a page of pictures showing Drew and I around age eight, dressed in our Halloween costumes. I was Batman and Drew was the Joker.
I laughed. “Oh my God, I remember that year.”
She flipped the page and there we were at the Thanksgiving table, wearing neckties that were probably clip-on, our haircuts painfully short. Then Christmas, with photos of us opening gifts, playing in the snow, sitting on the hearth dressed in matching red sweaters. She kept turning pages, without saying anything, without laughing or smiling. Easter. A trip to Florida. Last day of school. Riding jet skis on the lake. The final page was the two of us standing on the beach in our bathing suits, Drew’s arm around my shoulder, both of us tan and damp-haired and grinning.
I felt a deep tug of longing for him, grief hitting me all over again, hollowing me out. I swallowed hard.
My mother sniffed as she closed the album. “Your father is displeased with me.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. He thinks I’m being unfair.”
So he did take a side. I was surprised and yet not. My father has always had a big heart.
“But I just can’t stomach it, Wes. I’m sorry, but I can’t. Why does it have to be her?”