The One You Can't Forget by Roni Loren
He blinked. “A date?”
“Yes, you know those things that unmarried people do when they are interested in the other person.” She gave him a patient look. “I know you don’t do much of that since the divorce, but it wouldn’t have to be anything serious.”
The request caught him completely off guard. Suzie was fun, a talented chef, and attractive in that quirky, do-her-own-thing way. If he hadn’t been married back when they’d worked together, they probably would’ve already hooked up. Now they could. But the thought fell flat for him. “I’m sorry. I’m down for grabbing dinner one night or something, but just as friends. I’m seeing someone.”
The words tumbled out before he knew they were happening. He’d meant to give his standard answer. I don’t date. But that wasn’t true anymore, was it? Dating wasn’t exactly the right word. He and Rebecca had only agreed to be friends with potential benefits, with no exclusive label or commitment. He didn’t even know for sure if Rebecca would want to take it to the level of sleeping together. But this thing with her felt…precious for some reason, something singular that should be protected. He didn’t feel any desire to pursue anyone else right now.
Suzie stared at him, eyes wide. “You’re seeing someone?”
“I… It’s new but…yeah.”
“Oh my God,” she said, teeth flashing in a genuine smile. “That’s great, Wes. You really are charging forward finally. Do I know her?”
“Don’t think so. She’s a lawyer.”
She wrinkled her nose. “A lawyer? That’s…different.”
He laughed. “I’m aware. But she’s pretty great.”
Her lips kicked up in a lopsided grin. “That’s awesome. You deserve to have some fun.” She playfully poked him in the chest and gave him a mock stern look. “Just don’t let it get too serious, all right?”
“Too serious?”
“Yes, believe me. I’m speaking from a been-there, done-that place. I’m so experienced at the rebound relationship that if I fell over, I’d probably bounce.” She made a face. “This is your first dip back into the dating pool. The first ones always feel intense and real and like whoever it may be is everything the last person wasn’t. The feelings can come fast, and then you’re in too deep by the time you realize you’re completely incompatible. That’s one reason why I asked you out. I would go in knowing that I’m just a passing phase. No hearts getting broken on either side.”
“Wow, that’s oh-so-very encouraging, Suze,” he said dryly.
She lifted her palms. “I’m just saying. I’m happy you’re finally moving forward, but a lawyer sounds very…not Brittany.”
His stomach muscles tightened, the words hitting closer than they should. “This isn’t about Brittany. And this isn’t serious.”
Suzie crossed her arms and cocked her head. “All right, I’m just trying to give you a heads-up. I don’t want to see you get in a bad situation again. Or worse, getting your heart broken.”
“No chance of that,” he said, gruffer than he intended.
She flashed him a quick smile. “Good. Now it’s time to get out there and wow these people with your French omelets. I’ll be in here running the kitchen if you need anything.”
Wes let out a breath and gave her a quick shoulder squeeze as he walked past her. “Thanks, Suze.”
He tried to shake off the irritation. Suzie was just trying to be a friend, not dump ice water on him. No need to get mad at good intentions. He didn’t take for granted that he had such caring friends who’d stuck by him when everything had gone to shit. Most of the people he’d known in his wild, partying days had bailed as soon as he’d ended up in rehab. He was no longer the buzz-worthy, up-and-coming chef who threw great parties.
He was just a divorced alcoholic who’d lost his restaurant. They had no use for him anymore.
But Suzie and Dev had been there the whole way through. They’d been the ones who’d tried to help when they could see him spiraling—not that Wes had let them help. They were the ones who’d visited him in rehab and brought him homemade food so he didn’t have to eat the facility’s crap menu. And they were the ones who believed he could have a restaurant again and not mess it up.
Even his family hadn’t bought into that idea.
Right now, he wasn’t sure he fully bought into the idea. Knowing he was about to take that leap again, launching a restaurant—even a small-scale one—had an element of blind terror to it.
Sometimes the scariest thing was finally having what you thought you wanted most. Dreams couldn’t be touched or marred. There was no failure in dreamland. Reality didn’t offer that kind of assurance.
Now there were high stakes. The food truck, the kids, and other people’s money were in his hands. The first time, he’d failed himself. That had been horrible enough. But this time he had to worry about so much more. Failing Rebecca. Failing the program. Failing the students.
Wes took a deep breath as the anxiety tried to creep in, and he let the hum of low chatter and the soft lighting in the ballroom soothe him. In rehab, they’d had the one-day-at-a-time mantra hammered into their heads. He would have to lean on it now. Focus on the next task and not gaze too far into the future. He needed to clean a bus. That was it. He could do that.
With Rebecca, he wasn’t going to think about it as a relationship or a rebound or anything complicated. They were new to each other. Friends. Acquainting themselves. There was an undeniable attraction that they both wanted to act on. It didn’t have to be a big deal.
She was just a woman he liked kissing. A woman he would be working on a project with.
A woman he’d missed when he didn’t get to talk to her last night.
His stomach sank a little further, and he tripped over a power cord on the way to the omelet station, almost falling.
One thought went through his head as he steadied himself.
If he had fallen, would he have bounced?
chapter
FIFTEEN
On good days, Rebecca felt like a survivor. On days like this, she felt like an imposter. The gentle tinkling of silverware against plates and ice cubes against glass grated against her eardrums and made the muscles in her neck tighten. She shouldn’t be here. She should be at Bitching Brunch with her friends, telling them how she’d somehow managed to get involved in a food-truck project and how she was spending time with the man she’d once gone up against in court.
Instead, her dad had convinced her to do this speech under the auspices of it being an important way to give back to the community, but she knew it was more about being good for the campaign. This was his dog-and-pony show, and she was the pony. Giddyup, girlfriend.
The speaker before her had wrapped up an inspiring talk about her fight against cancer, making everyone break out the tissues to dab their eyes and then rise to their feet in a standing ovation at the end. Rebecca was up next, and her fight-or-flight reflex was so ramped up over what she was going to have to talk about that she worried she’d sprout wings and fly out of the room.
Everyone took their seats again, and her gaze drifted over the audience, finding her father sitting a few tables back from the stage. Every salt-and-pepper hair in place. Suit perfectly ironed. Attention of the guests at the table solidly on him. Even though Rebecca was doing this for him, he hadn’t looked her way once since she’d walked to the front of the room. Not that she’d expected him to. Because why would he be checking on her? What would he have to worry about?
Rebecca was as reliable and predictable as the sunrise peeking through the high windows on the side of the ballroom. She’d vowed from a hospital bed many years ago that she would never cause him worry again. She’d stuck to it.
But right now, she felt more like her fifteen-year-old self right before her first running-for-class-secretary speech than the accomplished attorney she’d become.
Her heartbeat
Here she felt too exposed, too…observed. It wasn’t the public speaking part. She did that for her job all the time. But this wasn’t a courtroom or a divorce mediation. This was a charity brunch full of society’s ruling class, and there were reporters here. And gawking people. And she was one of the spectacles. Again.
All because of that documentary on the shooting. She’d thought this part was done. People had short memories and there were always new tragedies, so Long Acre High’s prom night had gotten filed away in people’s minds after a few years. Not forgotten but no longer a fascination. She didn’t think the documentary would be anything but a blip in the news cycle. But the thing hadn’t even premiered yet, and there was buzz building, clips leaked. She was that girl again. One of the lucky few. One of the ones who got away.
But she didn’t see how that was an accomplishment. She’d been shot in the leg instead of somewhere more deadly. That had been pure dumb luck and Finn throwing himself in front of her to throw off the shooter’s aim. And now, because she hadn’t turned into a complete disaster, she was an “inspiration.”
Such a farce. She had no business inspiring anyone. If these people knew the whole story, they’d run her out of here with pitchforks.
She was an imposter.
Still, here she stood. Because this would help her dad. Because the movers and shakers of Austin were in this room and this was good PR for him. Because she couldn’t tell the truth about why she shouldn’t be giving speeches like this or why she should be the last person people looked to for inspiration.
So here she was, about to vomit on her shoes.
The emcee was reading her bio. Something about valedictorian and top of her class in law school and successful divorce attorney—all the stuff that she’d spent her life busting her ass to accomplish but that somehow rang hollow in this moment.
Who the hell cares?
She clutched her notes in her hand, the cards crinkling under her grip.
“Please welcome Ms. Rebecca Lindt.”
The claps and camera clicks were amplified in her head, the claustrophobic feeling growing. Her feet froze in place. Anticipatory glances slid her way because she hadn’t moved yet. Her father finally looked at her. His brow wrinkled, and he tilted his head toward the stage as if she needed to be reminded what direction to walk.
She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. She could do this. She could get through her speech, answer a few questions, and be done. If she made some sort of scene, it’d be more newsworthy, would bring her more of what she didn’t want.
Pretend it’s a courtroom.
Yes, she could do that. Court was safe. Court was her domain. Where she was in control. Where fear and memories didn’t touch her.
She opened her eyes and made her way to the stage, fighting hard to disguise her limp. Everyone in this room knew she’d been injured all those years ago, but she didn’t want that pity directed her way. She didn’t deserve it. Her heart was still beating. She got to wake up every day and see the sun. So many of her classmates hadn’t gotten that chance. No sympathy should be wasted on her.
The lights on the stage were bright, blinding her view of the audience except for the first row of tables, and she braced her hands on the podium. There was a sheet of paper taped to it, listing the presenter schedule. The top of the page had the slogan for the event.
Be the Voice That Makes a Difference
The words landed like stones in her gut. Make a difference. What if the difference wasn’t a good one? What if you made a difference that ruined everything?
“Hello.” The word came out as little more than a choked whisper, and she breathed through the growing panic, trying to find someone to focus on in the front row. Talk to one person. That had been a trick she’d learned in speech class in high school. But her gaze caught on a young male face near the stage. One that looked all too familiar as he slouched in his seat. One whose dark eyes seemed to see into her, to dare her. Just like the night she’d been mugged, a rush of dread flooded her. Everything blurred together. Past. Present. Leaving her in some nightmarish space in between.
The boy sneered. Go ahead, Becca, tell them just how great you are. Lie to these nice people and look like a hero.
Rebecca’s skin went clammy beneath her business suit, and she gripped the podium harder, her knuckles bulging and bloodless. Not him. He wasn’t here. He was dead.
Coward. Coward. Coward, the boy mouthed, the taunt loud in her ears.
Not! Real! She silently screamed the words in her head and blinked rapidly, her vision going liquid. Finally, the tormenting face morphed into one she didn’t recognize. One with a different haircut and heavier brows. One with bored eyes instead of accusing ones. Just a teenager attending an event with his parents.
Her ribs loosened a little, allowing her to catch a breath.
“Sorry.” She grabbed a glass of water to sip and then picked up her notecards again. Her hands shook. “My notes were a little out of order. Who knew lawyers could ever be at a loss for words?”
A few polite laughs filtered through the audience, and she tried to focus on what was on the cards in front of her.
“Thank you for the kind welcome.” She took another breath in an attempt to force the ugly images from her head and chase the tremble out of her voice.
She could do this.
“In May 2005, I walked into my prom expecting to have a fun night with my date. I had no idea it was the night that would change my entire life…and take so many others.”
That was all it took. Any attempt at regaining her composure slipped through her fingers. Pictures pushed at her brain like an angry crowd trying to get in the door, invading and stealing her words. Yearbook images of her classmates, the ones they always used on TV after the shooting, flashed at a rapid pace. Frozen smiling faces of people who would never grow old. Then the sounds joined in. Gunshots. Screaming. Looping scenes of people bleeding on the floor, people who were too still. Trevor’s face above her, the chilling sneer, the death sentence in his eyes. Joseph and his gun.
She swayed on her feet, her fingers glued to the podium and her skin rapidly cycling from hot to cold. She closed her eyes, lost for a moment, dizzy, the sounds of the past blending with the present. “I’m sorry, I…”
But right before her knees gave out, a warm hand cupped her elbow with a firm grip, steadying her. Quiet words murmured against her ear. “Easy, lawyer girl. I’ve got you.”
Her brain spun at the familiar voice, trying to put pieces together and not finding any that fit. Was she dreaming? She leaned into the voice as if it were a lifeline that would pull her out of the abyss of memories or nightmares or whatever the hell this was. “Wes?”
“Yes. It’s me. Let’s get you off this stage and to a chair.” He put his arm around her and she opened her eyes, catching a view of Wes in all black, a stiff chef’s hat on his head. He leaned close to the microphone while keeping hold of her. “I’m sorry, folks. Ms. Lindt is recovering from the flu and isn’t feeling well this morning. Please enjoy your breakfast. The next speaker will be out shortly.”
The crowd rumbled with restless noises—low voices, scraping chairs, clinking silverware—but Rebecca was still fighting the fog in her head and the fact that Wes was somehow here and leading her offstage.
He guided her down a few steps at the side of the stage, and she managed to look over at him, finding his pretty hazel eyes heavy with concern. “What are you doing here?”
<
She frowned, the words not making any sense. “Did I pass out? Am I dreaming?”
He smirked. “So I show up in your dreams? Good to know. But this can’t be a dream. Look, I’m fully clothed.”
His teasing pushed through the haze in her brain like a strong beam of light, clearing her head a little. “I think I forgot to eat.”
“On it. I will feed you whatever you want. Just don’t faint on me, okay?”
“Okay.” She leaned in to him, letting him take some of her weight as the tremors that had been going through her body softened. He brought her into a hallway that seemed to lead to the kitchen, based on the passing waitstaff, and barked for someone to grab him a chair, a cold towel, and some orange juice.
A waiter hurried to bring a chair over, and Wes eased her down into it. Her thoughts were coming back online, but her stomach rolled and her heart felt like it’d permanently wedged itself in her throat. When another of the waitstaff brought what Wes had requested, he handed Rebecca a glass of juice and draped the cool rag around her neck. He crouched down in front of her, tugging off his chef’s hat and putting his hand on her good knee. “Drink, Bec. Your blood sugar might be low. You’re white as a sheet.”
She took a sip of the juice, the tart liquid cool on her dry throat, and tried to wash away the remnants of the anxiety attack. “I’m always white as a sheet. It’s called being a redhead.”
He smiled and reached out to tuck a damp lock of her hair behind her ear. “And she jokes. Does that mean you’re not going to pass out on me?”
“I think—”
“What in God’s name?” a booming voice said, echoing off the walls in the narrow space.
Rebecca winced, and Wesley’s hand dropped away from her face.
“Excuse me, get away from my daughter,” her father said as he strode down the hallway.
Wes’s brows lowered, and he glanced in her father’s direction but got to his feet.