Erasing Faith(36)
“I have a confession,” I muttered, setting down my utensils.
“Let me guess.” Wes grinned at me. “You don’t eat steak?”
I blew out a huff of air. “How’d you know?”
He snorted. “You look like you’d rather swallow your knife than you would a piece of your dinner.”
“Can you blame me? It’s gross. There’s no way I’m putting that meat in my mouth,” I said, grimacing. When Wes chuckled softly under his breath, I thought about the unintended double meaning behind my words and felt a blush flame up to my hairline. “Don’t even go there,” I ordered.
“It was too easy, anyway.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Just red meat, or all meat?” he asked.
“I eat chicken and fish.”
Wes stood, picked up his dinner, and, before I could protest, swapped his plate for mine.
“Wes, no,” I started. “This is your dinn—”
“Red.” His voice was firm as he sat back down. “No more arguing tonight.”
I swallowed the rest of my words. The chicken before me looked delicious — vastly preferable to the poor baby cow Wes was now consuming with vigor. I cut into it and tried not to moan when the first bite hit my tongue. In all the steak drama, I hadn’t realized just how ravenous I was. After a long shift on my bike, I had a tendency to eat like a truck driver.
We ate in silence for several minutes. I was headed toward a full-on food coma when a subdued laugh from the other side of the table made me look up.
Wes wasn’t eating — he was staring at me with a small grin on his lips.
In as ladylike a manner as I could manage, I swallowed the huge mouthful I was currently chewing. “What?”
“You like to eat.” The approval in his voice was unmissable.
I shrugged. “Food is awesome.”
“Yeah, well, most girls who don’t eat red meat are also vegan-vegetarian-gluten-free-you-name-it.”
“True enough,” I agreed. “You tell people in California that you eat gluten, they look at you like you said you enjoy barbecuing puppies on the weekends or slicing kittens into your sashimi rolls. Sheer horror.”
Wes laughed and I cracked a smile at the sound.
“You really are weird, you know,” he told me unnecessarily, his voice soft and his eyes warm.
“I know,” I said, stuffing another hunk of chicken into my mouth. “But you like me anyway.”
He grinned and picked up his fork.
Chapter Eighteen: WESTON
SOMETHING BETTER
I wheeled her bike down the promenade, listening as she described her family in colorful detail. Her parents sounded like a trip and her siblings seemed a little selfish when it came to their youngest sister, but I could tell that Faith missed them all. Loved them deeply.
At one point in my life, hearing the love evident in her voice might’ve made me jealous. Since I was ten years old, my family had consisted of me. Just me. I had no funny stories to share about embarrassing relatives, no memories of family vacations to reminisce over. And I never would.
It didn’t make me sad anymore. It just made me emptier.
Being reminded of the fact that I was — and always would be — alone made it easier to scrape out whatever remnants of Weston Abbott remained in the husk of a man I walked around as. Totally empty, it took almost no effort to replace him with someone new. Someone like Wesley Adams — an easygoing man full of charm and good humor. The kind of guy a girl like Faith might easily fall in love with.
I found myself envious of a man who didn’t exist.
Pathetic.
But I couldn’t bring myself to be jealous of Faith, even as I listened to tales of her family. Envying her was like holding the sun accountable for the light it shone on everyone around it — a pointless endeavor. I couldn’t resent her for brightening my life, couldn’t hate her for banishing shadows I’d carried since I was a child.
“What about you?” she asked suddenly. “I’m sorry, I’ve been spewing my whole life story, and I haven’t even let you get a word in.”
I shrugged. “Not much to tell. I don’t have any siblings.” I cleared my throat and stared straight ahead. “My parents are dead.”
It wasn’t necessarily a lie — I had no idea whether they were still alive. Considering the way they’d lived their lives fifteen years ago, it wouldn’t be shocking if they’d wound up overdosed and glassy-eyed in a gutter somewhere.
I could’ve tracked them down, of course — my line of work ensured I could find practically anyone, if I wanted to.
I didn’t want to.
“I’m sorry,” Faith whispered, slipping her arm through mine with a comforting squeeze.
“Don’t be.” I ignored the way the simple touch of her hand nearly brought me to my knees. “It was a long time ago.”
We fell silent, the only sound that of the bike wheels slowly spinning against the ancient stone sidewalk. When we passed the statue of The Little Princess, I couldn’t help remembering the day I’d watched Faith sitting along the riverbank, sketching for hours. It had been one of the first times I’d seen her. She’d captivated me even then, when I’d doubted her inner allure could ever match such an exterior.