Every Kiss(51)

See? I have it all worked out, so now I can go back to life as I know it. Back to normal. Back to the way things were before he swooped in and, in a matter of days, managed to change everything I thought I knew about myself. He—and all of his stupid personalities—can just swoop right back out.

Okay, so I’m bitter.

I finally get the motivation to roll out of bed and put on the t-shirt and boxers that he folded neatly and laid at the foot of the bed. As I walk through the eerily quiet house, I take notice of the perfectly annoying order that everything has been left in. I normally like everything to be organized, but I can’t help but feeling like it’s all a ruse. He’s a control freak on the outside to cover up the screwed up mess on the inside.

Deciding I need some caffeine before I go off the deep end, I’m searching through the pantry for some coffee when I hear the crunch of gravel under tires. I have to give him a little credit. I thought for sure he’d be gone for hours before daring to show his face to see if I gave up and went home.

When he doesn’t come through the door after a couple of minutes, though, I decide to see what he’s up to and go to the door, ready to jump the giant coward. But I don’t see him or his jeep. I only see the back of a tall, thin woman as she walks toward her silver sedan.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Did you need something?”

She spins on her heel, clutching at her chest. “Oh dear heavens. You scared me to death. I didn’t think anyone was home.”

I know who she is the moment I lay eyes on her. The dark hair. The sharp facial structure. The curve of her mouth. She’s Wes’ mother.

“Wes isn’t here, no. Probably won’t be all day.”

Her eyes fall to the ground. “You know about me, don’t you?”

“Not really, but I know enough.”

“I heard he’s selling his house because I came here.” She motions to the envelope she tucked into the wreath at the door. “I was hoping I could convince him that he doesn’t have to do that. I won’t come here again. I just thought . . .” She trails off, fighting emotion.

“I’ll make sure he sees it. He has this incredible ability of making rash decisions without giving anything a chance of working out, so don’t think it’s just you.”

Her dark eyes blink away some tears as they scrutinize me. “Am I correct in assuming that you’re his girlfriend?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Oh, since you’re here alone, I just guessed. Sorry.”

“No apology necessary. Wes and I are just friends.”

She starts to back away. “Please just make sure he sees the note. I didn’t mean to freak him out by showing up here, and I don’t blame him at all for how he feels about me. I deserve it all. I was just hoping that, after all these years, I could reach out to him and make him understand why I did it. I just wanted to see his face one time, to see the man he has become. But I know I haven’t earned that right. I’m not his mom.”

I can see the pain in her eyes as she turns to her car and starts to get inside. It’s the same pain I see on his face when he talks about her—or rather, refuses to talk about her. “Wait a minute. Do you want to see a picture of him?”

Her hand flies to her mouth and covers a smile. “You’d do that for me?”

“Just a second.” I go back inside to find my cell phone, bringing up the text that Makenna sent me last night. It contains a picture of Wes and me that she took as soon as we arrived at the banquet last night. Meeting her halfway down the sidewalk, I hold the picture out to her. “This was taken just last night.”

Her hand covers her mouth again, but this time it’s to muffle the soft sobs escaping her throat. “That’s him? It’s really him? He’s so handsome. Oh, he has his dad’s eyes. And my cheekbones. He’s so . . . so perfect.”

Seeing her reaction to merely looking at a picture of him, I’m almost as emotional. I don’t know the story. I don’t know why she hasn’t been in his life all these years. Maybe he doesn’t really either. But her emotion is real. Pure and gut-wrenching. Twenty-six years of sorrow and regret is written on her face. And I can also see the unconditional love of a son that she doesn’t even know.

I may be wrong for doing this, but Wes has already pissed me off today, so I really don’t care. What would it hurt to make her day? “Do you have a cell phone or email address I can send the picture to?”

She gasps. “Oh, honey. You don’t have to do that. I know he wouldn’t want me to have it.”