Legacy (23 page)

“Well, what
is
going on with the two of you?” Claire asked, bitterly. “I saw the way he was looking at you during dinner, and you liked it, Corinne. It hasn’t even been six months since my brother died. Are you so eager to replace him?”

“God, no!” Corinne nearly wailed, pain sharp in her voice. “Look, I know that Wes might think he has feelings for me, but I haven’t encouraged them.”

Her voice broke then, and he heard her sobbing.

“Claire, how can you say these things,” she cried. “Losing Michael almost killed me.”

The sound of rapid footfalls on the stairs behind him brought Wes out of his agonizing trance.

“What on earth is going on?”

Mrs. Betsie, wide-eyed and carrying Thomas on her hip, searched Wes’s eyes before stalking toward the kitchen.

“Claire Roush Benson, what the hell are you doing?!?” Mrs. Betsie sounded furious, but Wes couldn’t listen to any more. He left the house through the front door and made his way to the truck.

He sat in the front seat, waiting for Corinne, knowing that after such an ugly scene, she’d be outside any second. Wes thanked God that their drive back to the house would only be mere minutes. A blackness like he’d never known fell over him and everything else. He needed to escape.

The front door opened, and Corinne emerged, running toward the truck. Her face was a mask of misery when she pulled the door open.

“Wes?...Oh my God, Wes, I’m so sorry!” Corinne sobbed, tears streaming down her face. “You must hate me!”

“No,” he said, frowning at the ridiculous statement. “Of course, not.”

I’m just a fucking idiot.

Corinne climbed into the truck and grabbed his arm. Her touch—something he craved but now knew he could never truly have—seared him, and he removed her hand from his arm and set it on her knee.

“Oh my God, I’ve wrecked everything!” she keened, eyes wide.

No, that was me.

“It’s okay, Corinne,” he managed. “It’s not your fault.”

Wes started the truck and pulled away from the Roush’s, so ashamed of leaving Michael’s parents’ house in such a state of disgrace.

“There are some things I need to explain,” Corinne said, speaking through stuttered breaths.

“No, you don’t,” Wes said, not looking at her but wanting to spare them both.

“Can we at least talk about this when we get home?” she hiccupped.

Wes shook his head.

“I need to go for a ride. We can talk later,” he said, vaguely. A plan was already taking shape in his mind. He needed to iron out a few things before he could say anything to her.

She sighed with what sounded like relief.

“Okay, as long as we can work things out,” she said, sounding hopeful.

At the house, Corinne went straight to her room, and Wes went to his. He sat on the edge of his bed, held his head in his hands, and let the pain rip through him in one monstrous blow. Elbows on his knees and gritting his teeth, he suffocated a howl that would have taken the walls down.

He knew she didn’t love him, but he’d let himself hope that attraction and trust would have given them enough of a start. That they could build on the chemistry and the already solid friendship the months together had brought them.

He
knew
she didn’t love him. But hearing her say that she
couldn’t
still tore him in two.

Wes made himself stand and change into his cycling clothes. He had to get out and clear his head, and he had some decisions to make. Ones that would still allow him to keep his promises to Corinne without intruding on her life anymore. And ones that might help him get over her.

July

Chapter 27

W
es had not been home in more than two weeks. At least not while Corinne was in the house.

She had come back from the gallery a couple of times to find that things of his had disappeared. The hamper in the bathroom had been emptied of his clothes, and his shaving kit was no longer on the counter. The mail would be sorted, and only items addressed to her remained.

Today, she had come home at 3:30, and his Capresso was no longer on the kitchen counter. She checked the pantry, and gone, too, were his Stinger Waffles, Clif Shot Bloks, and Nathan electrolyte tablets.

Her best guess was that he was staying with Chad.

She had texted him about twenty times, and for every four or five messages, she’d get a reply. Usually only a “yes” or “no” answer and only to questions that had nothing to do with the two of them or the awful afternoon at the Roush’s.

Corinne couldn’t blame him for leaving or for avoiding her. She hated herself.

Claire’s accusations had split her open, ripping out the stitches that a few fragile months had sewn into her heart. And, worse, in the moments she’d stood in the Roush’s kitchen and absorbed Claire’s anger and sense of betrayal, she had allowed her own doubts about Wes—and what she felt for him—to consume her.

“It must be nice that you’re already over Michael,”
Claire had said once they were alone. The words had shocked as hard as a bomb blast, and they had landed in the field of her guilt. Corinne wasn’t
over
Michael. There was no such thing. But she
was
healing. Her options had been to heal or die, and Wes had shown her that she still had a life to live. Still, the implication that she wasn’t forever scarred, that she wouldn’t always love Michael, was one that hurt deeply.

And then when Claire had accused her of being in love with Wes, she had denied it. Denied him. How could she love Wes when she still loved Michael? How could she ever love anyone again after losing Michael? There was no other option but to deny it.

And yet…

But that was crazy! Corinne had long since admitted to herself that she was attracted to Wes, that he was attracted to her, but she couldn’t let herself love him. As much as she wanted him—and she
did
want him—Corinne could never allow it to happen.

But Claire had seen the attraction, seen it in Corinne’s eyes and actions. Corinne had felt so exposed, so condemned when Claire had asked crudely if she and Wes were “fuck buddies.” Because Corinne knew that she had come dangerously close to being just that. She had asked Wes into her bed that night and God knows what else. And in her shame at that self-knowledge, she had denied and denied again.

And Wes had heard everything. At least, according to Mrs. Betsie, he’d heard enough. Enough to be deeply hurt.

It made Corinne shudder every time she pictured his face as he’d waited for her outside the Roush’s. The light in his eyes had almost completely shut down, his pupils mere pinpricks. His dark complexion had become a sickly olive, and the set of his jaw signaled pain.

She ached to think about how much she’d hurt him. Corinne had never been so sorry in her life.

Even though she knew she deserved to be alone, two weeks without him had been almost unbearable. She missed him keenly. And she realized that it wasn’t just loneliness that ate at her. She didn’t just miss having someone to have dinner with, or walk Buck with, or sit in front of the TV with at the end of the day.

She missed
Wes.

She missed the way he hummed in pleasure at every meal; the way he riled Buck into a frenzy before their walks; the way he’d tuck a blanket over her legs when they curled up on the couch with a movie.

As much as Corinne wondered how he was doing and
what
he was doing, she couldn’t bring herself to corner him at the gym. She’d switched to the 6 a.m. yoga classes so she could get to the gallery early, and every time she went to the health club, she hoped that she would run into him. But he clearly didn’t want to see her, so she wasn’t going to make it awkward by hounding him.

Buck broke through her haze of self-pity with a whine of impatience, ready to be let out and entertained now that she was back from work.

“Alright,” she sighed, following him through the sunroom to the back yard. Buck’s red Kong frisbee—one she’d seen him gnawing on that morning in the kitchen, now was outside on the top step, a sure sign that Wes had played with the dog on his visit.

Corinne felt a pang of envy.

“So, he’ll spend time with
you,
I see,” she said, sourly.

As if in answer Buck bounced on his hind legs and waited for her to pick up the toy. She sat down on the steps and threw the disk across the yard. Wes had probably sat in the exact same spot doing the exact same thing only hours before.

Selfishly, she imagined parking her car down the street out of sight and waiting for him to stop in one day. If she sprung herself on him, would he run away? Would he stay and talk? They’d never had the discussion he’d promised when they left the Roush’s that afternoon. He’d gotten on his bike and left for hours, so long that she’d texted and called out of worry. Well after dark, when she was nearly beside herself, he’d sent her one terse message:
At Chad’s. Don’t wait up.
And she hadn’t seen him since.

If he walked in right now, Corinne didn’t think she could stop herself from tackling him to keep him from leaving again. The thought itself made her pulse spike. She needed a chance to apologize and explain why she’d been such a coward, but what she needed even more than that was just to see him. Just to touch him.

Unable to picture going another day without hearing from him, she pulled her phone from her pocket and sent him yet another text.

Tuesday, July 1:
3:47 p.m.

The gallery opening is Saturday. I hope you will still be my +1.

Corinne knew it was kind of low to remind him of an obligation he’d made before she had clearly hurt and disappointed him, but if he turned her down, at least she’d know how badly she’d screwed up. If he came, then maybe she’d be able to fix things.

She tucked her phone back in her pocket, thinking that if he responded at all, he’d take his sweet time doing it. She guessed that this was part of her punishment, and, again, she couldn’t blame him.

But before she could even pull her hand away from her pocket, his response came.

Tuesday, July 1:
3:48 p.m.

I don’t think so, C. I can’t be around you right now.

Pain, swift and stunning, sliced through her like a dagger. She heard the breath leave her lungs and was grateful no one witnessed how her body sagged. Corinne stared at the screen and tried to calm herself before responding.

Tuesday, July 1:
3:50 p.m.

You make me sound like a disease. Is that what I am?

She needn’t ask the question. The answer was obvious. She was toxic. A danger to others, better avoided or quarantined. She had to accept his sense of self-preservation.

Tuesday, July 1:
3:51 p.m.

God, Corinne, no. I just can’t.

She’d already texted him saying that she was sorry countless times, but she couldn’t stop herself from doing it again.

Tuesday, July 1:
3:52 p.m.

Wes, you can’t know how sorry I am. We need to talk.

She waited, clutching her phone and praying that he’d give in. And even as much as she writhed with guilt again about what she’d done, it was a blessing just to hear from him.

Tuesday, July 1:
3:55 p.m.

I can’t do this right now.

She texted right back.

Tuesday, July 1:
3:55 p.m.

Then when?

Corinne stared at her phone for five long minutes before accepting that he wasn’t going to respond. It wasn’t until Buck sniffed her face and licked her tears in whimpering distress that she realized she was crying.

The night before the gallery opening, Corinne and Ann stayed at The Green Door until well after midnight, putting finishing touches on each exhibit and going over the floors and windows until they gleamed.

The space looked amazing.

Ann had asked her to design and build a movable partition that glided on hidden casters, and this panel served to bisect the gallery as well as provide the necessary wall space for two of the smaller exhibits. With one artist on the east wall of the gallery and another on the west, the long south end was the natural focal point for their best and biggest display by a local photographer whose black and whites were crisp, stunning, and larger than life.

At the north end of the gallery, near the entrance, Ann had repurposed an antique, painted pine counter that had once stood in a general store. This now served as their purchase counter, and the length would be enough to set out wine and hors d’oeuvres on one end and a display case of Ann’s jewelry on the other.

Behind the counter and near the front windows was the five-foot expanse of wall Ann had insisted that Corinne claim for some of her paintings. She had chosen a few finished pieces that had sat untouched and nearly forgotten in her studio from the fall, but she’d also included the abstract piece she’d finished two weeks before and one other.

The last, the warmest and most captivating, was one that had seemed to paint itself. Corinne had debated about sharing the portrait with the public, but after she’d finished it two days before, it seemed to stare at her from the easel in her studio and demand to be shown. He wouldn’t be there to see it anyway, so why not give in?

“It’s striking,” Ann had said upon first seeing it. “Those eyes command the whole room. Who is he?”

“That’s my friend Wes,” Corinne had told her, unable to look at her boss while she spoke, but glad that the potent effect of the portrait wasn’t limited to herself.

“He’s gorgeous, honey. He burns with life!”

“Yes...he does.”

She had used her poolside sketch as a reference, but memories had put the heat into his eyes and the ache across the brow. Corinne would never have admitted it to anyone, but the portrait was really a crystallization of the look he wore right before Wes had kissed her that night on his parents’ lawn.

It was a moment she had relived in her mind a thousand times.

Looking at the portrait, hung to its advantage beneath the spotlighting, its power seemed to magnify, and the longing that Corinne had born for three weeks ached within her.

She had left Wes alone after their last text exchange, wanting to give him the space he seemed to need, but it wasn’t easy. Corinne thought about him constantly.

Even as she and Ann shut off the lights and locked up at a quarter to 1:00 in the morning, Wes was in her blood. It didn’t help that The Green Door was on Jefferson Street, and she could almost hear the music thumping from City Bar one block over.

She and Ann had parked next to each other in the side lot, and they always walked out together when they put in time after dark.

“Get some rest, Corinne. I don’t want to see you here tomorrow until at least after 3:00,” her boss insisted.

“Yes, ma’am,” she teased. If Ann mistook her silence and weariness for fatigue after the long night, Corinne wasn’t going to disabuse her.

“You’ve done a terrific job, Corinne,” Ann said, warmly. “I never could have pulled this off without you. You should be very proud.”

Corinne gave her boss a genuine smile.

“I am proud, and you should be, too,” she said. “It is going to rock so hard! I’m so grateful just to be a part of it.”

The women said goodnight, and Corinne made the short drive home to her empty house.

In her dreams that night, Michael walked through the gallery and smiled at everything she’d done. He made the circuit from exhibit to exhibit and finally ended at the antique counter, staring at her paintings. He nodded at the two he’d seen before and then studied the abstract piece knowingly.

“This one’s as much about him as it is about me,” he said about the haunting starbursts that morphed into flowers across the ever-lightening canvas.