Erasing Faith(39)

“So hot,” Margot had breathed.

I’d gulped, unable to form words.

That sensation of being totally in over my head had only increased as the evening waned on. I’d felt my mind short circuit as we rode Wes’ motorcycle through the city, my arms wrapped tight around his torso. My thoughts had scattered entirely when we’d pulled up at a tiny outdoor café on the banks of the Danube, with a view so spectacular it seemed the stuff of romantic legends. My brain had melted into a puddle of worthless goo when Wes had pulled out my seat like a true gentleman, ordered a bottle of crisp white wine, and turned those dark chocolate eyes on me, where they’d remained riveted ever since.

Let’s just say, by the time the salad course arrived, I was more than thankful for Margot’s once-ridiculed flash cards, as I wasn’t entirely confident I could string original thoughts together.

In a voice choked with barely-contained laughter, Wes read off the first card. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where it be?” He flipped to the next card. “If you could be any animal for a day, which one would you choose?” He tried to read a third, but he was laughing too hard.

Jutting out my bottom lip in a pout, I muttered under my breath. “I never said they were good conversation starters.”

“Did you make these up?” he asked disbelievingly, scanning through the stack with wide, amused eyes.

“Margotprintedthemofftheinternetforme,” I mumbled quickly, averting my eyes.

He snorted so hard wine came out his nose.

“Nice,” I commented, handing him a cloth napkin. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, you know that?”

“Shh, I’m starting for real now. Question number one.” He cleared his throat and adopted a faux-serious tone. “If you were trapped on a desert island with no hope of rescue, what single item would you bring?”

“Easy.” I blew a puff of air through my lips. “Ice cream.”

Wes’ incredulous chortle was unmistakable. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“That’s the stupidest answer I’ve ever heard.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, offended. “Name a better one.”

“Fine. How about flares, fire, water, food, medical supplies…” His eyes narrowed. “Need I go on?”

I shrugged and smiled.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked. “You know I’m right.”

“Because the card says there’s no hope of rescue,” I pointed out.

“Okay, valid, but you could hypothetically survive on the island forever.”

“Yes, but honestly, what kind of life would that be? Living alone, totally isolated?” I shook my head. “I saw that movie Cast Away. The man had a borderline-obsessive relationship with a volleyball.”

“Oh, as if you didn’t tear up when Wilson floated away,” Wes muttered.

I burst into laughter, but eventually gathered my thoughts enough to finish my argument. “All alone, with no one to talk to, to share your life with? No one to love? That’s not a life. It’s an existence, maybe, but not a life. So I’ll happily take my ice cream and go to my end with the knowledge that, if all things fail, Rocky Road is always there when times get tough.”

When I looked up from my explanation, a smile lingering on my lips in anticipation of his reaction, I was stunned to see that Wes wasn’t enjoying my joke. His face was solemn, his expression more guarded than I’d ever seen it.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” I asked, reaching across the table for his hand. My touch seemed to rouse him, and his eyes snapped up to meet mine.

“Sorry. Just spaced out for a second. We’re all good.” He swallowed roughly. “Rocky Road, huh? I’d have pegged you for more of a Cookie Dough girl.”

“I have a firm anti-discrimination policy when it comes to delicious ice cream flavors.”

“Ah, I see.” His grin was back, but his eyes were still distant.

“You do that a lot, you know.”

His eyebrows lifted in question.

“Sometimes, I say something and you go somewhere — you disappear inside your head.” My voice was soft. I had to tread carefully, here — I didn’t want him to throw up that wall again, like he had the night we’d walked the Chain Bridge. “It’s not a bad thing, Wes. I just wish you’d take me with you when you go.”

He stared at me for a long, suspended moment without saying a word.

I wished I could read him better, but he was a master at keeping his feelings in check. I couldn’t blame him — I remembered every word of the story he’d told me. The way his face had looked, when he’d talked about sleeping on the floor of a dirty warehouse as a little boy. The carefully bland tenor of his voice when he’d told me he didn’t have any family.

My heart ached for the child he’d been, for the man he was today. I now understood why he was so closely guarded when it came to revealing details about himself or his life. Pressuring him to open up would only succeed in driving him away. If I pushed too hard, too fast, he wouldn’t let me in — he’d just shut me out again.

But I couldn’t seem to help myself.

No matter how many times I tried to back off, there was an inexplicable part of me that was intent on getting inside Wes Adams’ head, to see what secrets he’d buried there. Perhaps it was because while in many ways we were opposites — he was totally self-contained; I was a clumsy, quirky, open book — there was part of me that recognized his loneliness as the mirror of my own. Deep down, in spite my noisy childhood, I understood what it was like to live a life of solitude. To be alone, even in the company of others.