Page 46 of Love Marks
“Why are you being so nice? You hate me.” His voice is tinged with pain and…regret?
My stomach bottoms out again.
“I don’t hate you,” I say, rushing into his room and depositing his giant body onto the bed.
He rolls onto his back, looking at me. “You should. You should hate me,” he whispers, his eyes meeting mine.
“Wesley,” I scold him a little, shaking my head.
“I should have—” He breaks off and looks away. His Adams apple bobs unbelievably slow and I should not be so turned on at the sight of messy Wesley. “I should have believed you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Tim Mason told me the truth…shit. Piece of shit.”
He’s rambling and not making any sense. “Shh, just wait here for a sec. I’ll get you some water,” I whisper.
I rush into the kitchen and pour a hefty glass of water, hoping he’s not currently vomiting in his bed. I wonder if he’s the vomiting type of drunk. When I get back to his bedroom, his eyes are closed and he’s resting against the pillows, his body angled awkwardly on the bed. He looks so peaceful.
I shake it off and sit next to him on the bed, holding out the glass.
“Here. Drink this, please.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me again like he can’t believe I’m real. Like he’s drinking me in with his eyes. It makes my whole body buzz, like I can feel my skin tingling under his gaze.
He takes a small sip of the water.
“All of it,” I say, pushing the glass forward. He chugs the entire glass and slams it onto the bedside table with a little too much force, his glazed eyes coming back to meet mine.
“Why are you drinking like this?” I ask.
“Because of you,” he says, his voice unwavering.
“Me?” My voice, meanwhile, could not be shakier. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. You’re perfect.” The words roll off his tongue. “So perfect, it hurts.”
I take in a shocked breath, the gasp loud in the quiet room. Suddenly, I feel the warmth of his hand in mine. I look down and his fingers are wrapped around mine.
“If I said I was sorry, would you believe me?”
When I meet his eyes again, they are wet with fresh tears. Pleading pools of pain, fresh and clear. I blink a few times, struck by the emotion gathering in my throat.
“Because I am. Sorry. I’m sorry.” He exhales the words, his head falling forward slightly. He blinks and curls his legs in, leaning to the side. He’s falling asleep, I realize. “So sorry,” he mutters, his eyes closing. He keeps muttering the word until his breath turns into soft snores.
I blink again, my throat dry. I sit there for a few minutes watching Wesley’s chest heave up and down with soft breaths, a strange feeling bubbling and unfurling in my chest.
I pour another glass of water in the kitchen and get some Advil from the medicine cabinet, leaving both on the bedside table for him. Then I untie his shoes one by one and pull his socks off. I decide to leave the pants and swing his body under the covers, tucking him in.
I go back into the living room and stare at the laundry cart and dry-cleaning bags, knowing I should leave now. But for some reason, my mind is filled with concern.
What if he throws up on his back and chokes?
What if he has alcohol poisoning or a concussion?
Glancing at the couch, I groan, cursing my good intentions. I grab my phone and call my mom, leaving a message.
“Hey, it’s me. I won’t be home tonight. Don’t worry, I’m just crashing at a friend’s place. I’ll see you tomorrow.”