The Fastest Way to Fall(64)

His face was unreadable, dazed, but he interrupted my floundering. “Client.”

That hit me like a bucket of ice water.

“Sure, she is.” Her face cracked into a sleepy, mischievous smile. “You’ve got big tits. He likes that.”

“Jesus, Mom,” he muttered, rubbing the spot between his brows.

His mom’s light, conversational tone, like we were old friends, threw me, even though the doctor had warned she might lack a filter. My eyes shot to Wes’s reddened face. He didn’t smile back.

“What? A lot of boys do.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she looked me over. “You’re pretty,” she said, taking in my face. “I used to be pretty.” Sadness filled her voice. Her brow creased, and she touched her hair, pulling on the strands. “I must look bad.”

“Mom, don’t worry about it,” Wes said, trying to catch her hand.

“No, no. Look at me. It’s bad, isn’t it?” She grew agitated, pulling away from Wes’s attempts and trying to finger comb her tangled hair.

“It’s just a little messy,” I said, trying to calm her. I laid a hand on her forearm, guiding her arm down. “Would you like us to comb it for you?” The offer softened her features, and she slowed her clawing.

“Libby liked to comb my hair when she was small.” She took on a faraway expression. “Would you?”

I glanced at Wes, who focused on the wall. I peeked into the bathroom, where there was a small toiletry kit provided by the hospital, and found a comb. I perched by the side of the bed and ran my fingers over her head. She closed her eyes, and I met Wes’s gaze.

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind.” I worked the comb through her hair gently.

His mom’s voice was calmer now. “Do you know Libby?”

“No, Mom.”

She returned to looking at me, ignoring Wes.

“Oh,” she said, her face twisting, then shifting again, realization blooming across her features and her tone flattening. “She left.”

“Yeah. A long fucking time ago,” he muttered, fists balled at his sides again.

“I know that,” she said, voice sharpening and hands twitching again. “I remember.” She picked at the blanket around her waist, pulling at unseen threads. “She ran away, and you were gone. You weren’t there to stop her.”

Wes’s entire body tensed. My eyes shot to his again, but his face was a mask—it was pain and shame and hurt all frozen in place. His voice was barely audible when he choked out a response. “I know.”

My God.

“She was such a good girl,” his mom said, glancing away from her son. Her tone was different; it was sweeter, wistful. “The best thing I ever did. She was going to be a famous singer. Who knows what she’s doing now.”

His frozen expression hadn’t changed, lips pressed together, eyes focused on the wall.

“Chris is still here, though.” Her voice was dreamy. “He’s a good boy.”

Wes ran a hand through his hair again, his muscles taut.

“He’s a good man,” I said, continuing to brush her hair. I got the sense he needed to hear that, like no one had bothered to tell him, but he stepped away from the bed and walked to the window, and I doubted he was listening.

“Yes,” she said, eyelids drooping. I stroked her hair as I combed, hoping that might calm her. She smiled again, looking at Wes. “I’m glad you’re here, Chris.” Her eyes closed, and her features softened into sleep, her frail body sinking into the pillows.

Wes stood at the window, his back to me. “Thank you,” he said without looking at me, his voice thick, affected. “For doing that. For talking to her.”

“Sure,” I said, keeping my voice low to not disturb her when it looked like she was asleep. I took the few steps toward Wes, feeling awkward and unsteady.

“She calls you Chris?” At first, I’d thought she was just confused, but he hadn’t seemed to react to her using that name. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

He nodded. “Wesley is my middle name. No one calls me Chris but her and Libby.”

I had a hundred questions but slid my hand to his back, my palm moving over the cotton of his T-shirt, his tensed muscles bunched under the fabric. “Wes, are you okay?”

His gaze was locked on the sky, his tone flat. “Yep.”

I didn’t know what he wanted, if touching him was the right thing. He said nothing, didn’t hang his head or appear to be crying, but his body was held so tightly in place, it might break at any moment. Screw it. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him back against me, tentatively at first and then more firmly, my cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. I didn’t have any words, so I listened to his breathing and the thudding of his heart.

“She’s right,” he said, not looking away from the window. “I wanted to get away from my life and her, and I wasn’t there when Lib needed me. I was always the person she could count on, and I wasn’t there. What does that say about me?”

Tightening my hold, I wished I had the leverage to pull him into a real hug. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was touching him. “You were trying to live your life.”

He laced his long fingers together behind his neck, dipping his chin to his chest, the muscles across his shoulders straining as stress radiated off him. “When I came home, it was too late. She and Mom were fighting worse than they ever had. She wasn’t eating or taking care of herself. Something snapped and she ran away. The first time I heard from her, she was in Florida, then she bounced around Texas. The last time she gave me a location, it was Phoenix, but that was over a year ago.” His voice, quiet in the dim room, edged toward cracking, and I pressed my face into his back.