I barely got my words out before Wes was off the phone and his truck was out front. He’s standing in the middle of my driveway now, his hat in one hand, his other hand gripping his hair, trying to make sense of the mangled mess in my driveway.

I haven’t been able to get myself to go back outside, and I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to see my day-old car ruined, or because Wes is there…and I called him because I got scared.

When he starts to move toward my front door, I decide I can’t put this off any longer, so I rush toward it to unlock it for him and let him inside.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, my voice calm as I hold the door wide.

“Are you okay?” His hands cup my face quickly, and I tuck my chin and step back. It’s too easy to go back to that role—the girl he needs to save. I need his help. I acknowledge that. But I need to be able to save myself, to protect myself and find that feeling of safety somewhere in myself. I can’t put all of my faith in someone else when they could leave.

They all leave.

“I’m fine. They just trashed my car,” I say, shaking my head and moving our conversation to the kitchen. “I haven’t even gotten to drive it yet. I had to ride because we’re getting the hand gears set up next week.”

“Did you see someone? What direction did they go? Did you call the police?”

Wes spits out a dozen more questions after those, and I can barely get through the first one.

“I saw lights. They were in a car, and I thought…” I breathe out and let my lids close. “I thought it was you outside.”

Wes is quiet, and I’m glad.

“I haven’t called the police yet. You’re right. I probably should,” I say, walking back to my room to find my phone. I find it on the edge of my bed, where I dropped it while I stared out the window waiting for Wes. After I grab it, I turn to go back to the kitchen but Wes has followed me to my room. The space instantly feels smaller, and his eyes begin to roam the floor, the walls, my things.

“I’ve been cleaner since…well…” I lift my prosthetic and nod my head toward it. “I kept tripping over shit.”

Wes’s mouth pulls in on one side in a crooked smile, and his eyes flit to mine.

“What should I tell them?” I say, searching for the non-emergency number on my phone as I ask.

“Everything you can remember,” he says. I feel him move closer, and without looking, I can sense that he’s sat down…on my bed…where I sleep.

The operator answers after half a ring, and I’m flustered by it, so I sit down and hold the phone with both hands against my right ear, Wes to my left.

“Hi, uh…I need to report a crash, or maybe…maybe vandalism. I’m not sure what it is, but, shit,” I wince. I bring one hand to my face and pinch the bridge of my nose, and before I can regroup, Wes takes my phone from my other hand.

“Someone rammed into her car parked in her driveway. It was intentional,” Wes says, and I turn my head sideways, watching him as he speaks, drawing in that word—intentional.

“Yes, we’re home,” he says, pausing to listen to more details. “Yes, the car is still here. It’s not drivable…yes…yes…”

He cups the phone and glances to me, and I’m frozen, still repeating that word in my head.

Intentional.

“They need to get your information down, for the report. They’ll send someone out, but it’s going to be a bit,” he says.

My hands are shaking and Wes notices as I take the phone from him; I give the woman on the other end our address, my name, my father’s name, the insurance that I know we have. She asks me to get the numbers for our insurance company ready for the officer to include in the report, and then she tells me someone will be by within the hour.

“I’m staying,” he says the moment I hang up, not giving me a chance to tell him to go. He knew I would.

I shrug slightly and look to him from the corner of my eyes briefly. He’s a foot away from me, and it would be so easy to pull my legs up, lie to my side, and rest my head in his lap. It would feel so nice, but I can’t seem to make myself move. I’ve made barriers, and I won’t cross them.

Wes leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands linked, one rubbing the knuckles of the other, cracking them, then switching. I remain still, my hands cupping my phone in my lap and my eyes entranced with his repetitive fidgeting with his fingers.

I know what I want to ask. I’ve had the question held on my lips since a stranger demolished the gift from my dad. More than company, more than security—it’s the reason I called Wes. My lips feel numb now, though, parted as my breath slips over their skin. I say the words in my head, and hate that I can’t seem to get them to come out for real.

“I wanted to,” Wes says, finally breaking several minutes of silence between us.

I move my eyes from his hands to his face, but he’s still looking down at my floor. His jaw twitches and his lashes blink slowly, his focus lost in a trance as he chews at the inside of his cheek.

“I told you I wouldn’t come home, and you were right…the way that sounded...” His eyes blink again, this time opening on mine. The connection is sharp, like a pin in my chest. “That word doesn’t reflect the truth.”

“Then what word does?” My voice is calm, my heart is tired, and above all, I don’t want to cry.

Wes swallows, his body remains still, and his gaze stays right where it’s been.

“Wanted. I wanted to come back,” he says, closing his lips tight and nodding his head with a tiny movement.

“You wanted to come back,” I say, emphasizing the word.

Wes nods slowly.

“But…you wouldn’t.” I tilt my head as I speak, shifting to look at him more closely. Wes shakes his head.

I breathe out through my nose slowly and try to wrap my brain around where I am, how this life is mine. None of it seems fair. I’ve had so very few years of happiness. A child should be happy. For a girl like me, though, happy has always been defined differently.

“How does the story end, Wes?” I ask, finally able to get the words out that have been stuck for so long.

He blinks, and his jaw twitches.

“Do I die?” My eyebrows lift as I think about what I just asked. Hearing it out loud, processing it this way—it makes me start to laugh slightly to myself.

“I don’t know. It’s just some stupid book Shawn made years ago. I feel stupid for even thinking maybe it was real,” he says, and I can tell he’s lying. He still believes it.

“You mean your dad’s book,” I say, calling him that because I know Wes doesn’t want to hear it. It was mean.

“Yeah,” he says, a little more bite to his tone. “My dad’s.”

His eyes remain locked on mine. I blink a few times, looking at his mouth—resting in a flat line—and his hands, now cupping his knees.

“I die in the book, don’t I?” I press on.

Wes looks at me for a few more seconds before standing and moving to the window, the blinds still open from when I twisted them to wait for his truck to pull up.

“You don’t die, Joss. You live a long happy life, happily ever after—alone, and bitter, and unforgiving,” he says. I jerk back, flinching at his words. Wes has never been outright mean to me.

“Fuck you,” I say, standing and moving to leave my room. I make it to my doorway before I feel his hand grip my wrist.

“Don’t go. I’m sorry,” he says.

My muscles grow tense, but I don’t pull away. I stop, one hand flat against the side of the doorframe and the other balled into a fist just below Wes’s grip.

“I’m not unforgiving,” I say, my words raspy and my voice only at half strength.

Wes doesn’t respond, so I turn to face him, and his fingers slide around my wrist, never letting go, but loosening their hold.

His eyes flit from mine to my mouth, and I feel betrayed by the way my lips respond, parting with a silent gasp, welcoming him to look.

“Take it back,” I say, bringing his gaze back to my eyes. His focus shifts from one eye to the other, and his expression grows defeated and sad.

“I wanted to come home,” he says, the words coming out in a slow whisper.

My chest rises with a full breath and I hold it for a few seconds before letting it go, my shoulders falling.

“Then why didn’t you?” I ask.

More silence. More long looks. More blinks as his eyes drill deeper into mine, growing sadder with every breath.

“It isn’t you,” he says, and my brow draws in fast in response. “The end of the story. It isn’t you, Joss.”

It’s him. He dies. Wes dies, and he’s afraid. My rigid muscles relax a little and my heart beat picks up as I wait.

“It’s your dad,” he says, and everything in my world stops.

Wes brings his free hand to his mouth, covering it so all I have to go by is what I can read in his eyes. I search for the truth, and all I see is all I’ve ever seen when I hear these stories—insanity.

My mouth bends up, quivering at first and eventually shaking with quiet laughter.

“My dad,” I repeat, my head leaning to the side.

Wes’s fingers slide away from my arm and I take a step back as his other hand falls from his face.

“I know how it sounds, and you’re right; it’s probably just crazy shit Shawn drew out of spite. He always hated your dad. I know, and I get it. I…I put this together just when you did, Joss. What you know? That’s what I know, and I see how the pieces fit together. I see the picture, I get how jealousy fits into this. But there have been so many things that…” Wes pauses.

“My leg,” I nod.

“Your leg,” he says, his eyes closing.

Of the dozens of scenes Shawn created, some elements ring close to the truth. I lean against the doorframe and tuck my hands in my back pockets. When Wes opens his eyes again, he stands and moves to my open door, resting his back on the hinges, and we’re so close that the toes of our shoes touch.

“I saw someone here,” he says, and I look up quickly, my mind matching up his words with what I saw a few days ago, strangers in my yard. “Before I came back for good, before you found me, I would drive by at one or two in the morning. Sometimes…I was just getting my fix. Seeing my home, your street—sometimes you.”

“You saw me?”

He nods, and I lift my chin, my heart stinging.

“I wanted to come back,” he repeats his words from before. “But every time I was back in your world, something from that story came true. Never exactly like it, but the damage was enough.”

“You came back once, Wes. Something bad happened once, and not because you came back. It happened and you were here. That’s it,” I say as his eyes fall somewhere below mine. “Have you ever stopped to think that it was just a coincidence? Or maybe Shawn is forcing you into these situations because he wants his fantasy to play out so he can watch? He could never save my mom. He was always too weak. So instead, he’s playing fantasy with us.”

His eyes lift to mine.

“Come here,” he says, taking my hand again without asking, his fingers tight around mine, his hold more confident, more like how we used to be, and I soak in the familiar for a few seconds before fighting back. He doesn’t let me let go, though, instead leading me back to the kitchen, to the stove, flicking it on high and waiting while the burner’s flames grow blue and heat the coils they surround.

“There are some things, Joss, that I just cannot ignore. Why can I do this?” he says, holding his right hand over the flames, while his other hand holds onto mine even harder.

“Wes!”

He pulls his hand away and holds his palm flat in front of me.

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s not even pink, Joss.”

Without hesitation, he places his palm flat on the grates of the burner, and out of instinct I reach for his arm, trying to pull him away.

“Leave it,” he growls, holding me away with one hand while he tries to destroy his other.

“I can’t even feel it, Joss. No pain. It’s like I’m just pressing it flat on the counter. My hand,” he says, finally pulling it away and holding it with his fingers wide, palm to my face. “Something is wrong with me, Joss.”

I’ve seen things. We’ve talked about his abilities, if that’s what they are. I’ve watched him save me from things that should have killed both of us. But he’s never openly shown me what he can do.

My fingers slowly reach up to his now-quaking palm, and I glance to his eyes, asking permission. He lifts his chin as his eyes fall and his mouth turns down. My touch is gentle, starting at his thumb and his pinky, eventually cradling his hand in both of mine and bringing his palm closer. I draw a soft line along the center with my finger and his fingers twitch from the tickle.

“It’s cool,” I say.

He swallows loud enough that I hear it without looking up at him.

“I know,” he says.

I run my fingertip along the lines in his hand, then down each finger, stopping at the inside of each knuckle and waiting—for what, I’m not sure.

“Joss, Shawn always put me in a place where I could be close to you. After the bridge, I came to him because I remembered his stories. He would read them to me, and I used to think he was just trying to be funny when he would name characters after me and what I later realized was you, but then I remembered the bridge. I remembered the water.”

I curl his fingers around mine and I stare at them in my hand, covering them as they continue to shake.

“He said I’m supposed to be your hero, but what if…” Wes’s other hand comes up to cover mine, and I glance up slowly to meet his eyes. “What if I’m the bad guy?”

None of this makes sense. There are things that I can’t deny, though, and what I just saw—that happened. Wes is special. And deep inside, I know that he and I were meant to walk the same path. Our roads were always meant to intersect. Those reasons, though—they’ve changed.

I move our hands lower as I step closer to him, and the vibration in his hands begins to spread throughout his nervous body. I let go of one hand and move it up the length of his arm, stopping at his bicep, where I bring it to the center between us, laying my fingers flat against the center of his chest. His breath is ragged, and his pulse is wild. His eyes are begging me to fix everything that’s broken, but just as he said—I know what he knows. I don’t have any answers, but my instincts are strong.

My other hand falls away from his hold and I bring it up the length of his body, his stomach and chest warm under my touch, and his trembling almost as strong as the rhythm of his heart. I don’t stop until my other hand is cupping his face, his cheek rough from needing to shave, his breath hot against my arm and hand. His front teeth are closed together tightly, but his lips are parted enough that I can hear him breathe out in tiny, painful bursts. My thumb draws a line along his cheek, and I fall into the blue of his eyes a little more.

“I don’t have the answers either, Wes, but there are two things I am certain of,” I say, bringing my right hand up to match my left, holding his head in my palms. He does the same to me, his timid fingers finding me with a desperate touch as his eyes close. I push up on my left toes, holding the weight of my body as I stretch to match his height. Wes bends his head down, until our foreheads touch.

“I don’t need a hero anymore,” I say, and I feel his face shudder at the rejection, even though it isn’t one. I’m not rejecting him, I’m rejecting the idea that I’m not strong enough to fight in this along his side. “Shhhh,” I say, stepping an inch closer, close enough that my lips graze against his. His mouth opens to catch my top lip, to suck in softly and taste me like I’m a drop of water in the desert, but only for a single breath.

“I don’t need a hero, Wes,” I say again, pressing our foreheads tight again, my thumbs both drawing soft lines along his jaw. “I just need you.”

His eyes open on my words, and I lean back enough to look into them.

“I need you,” I repeat. We stare silently at one another, and I feel how hesitant he is, his fears worn on his face, but his weakness for us just as obvious. “I need you,” I say one more time. “And you are not my villain.”

My teeth grab onto my bottom lip as I shake my head. I raise a shoulder and smile through my nerves, through everything that hurts—through admitting I need Wes, and I see everything inside of me reflected in him.

“I can’t let you feel hurt,” he says, closing the few inches between us, his hands moving to the base of my neck and sweeping into my hair.

“When my dad was at his worst, Wes. When my life was complete and utter shit, do you remember what you said to me?” My hands fall to the middle of his shirt, grabbing the soft gray cotton and holding it in a way I’ve ached to do for months.

“You said you couldn’t let me do it alone,” I say. “You couldn’t watch me carry that burden without helping. Let me help now.”

“But I need to protect you,” he says, and I shake my head and smirk before he’s done speaking.

“No, Wes,” I say. “I need to protect you.”

His eyes close and I follow as his mouth takes over mine, his lips tasting me as his tall frame shadows me from anything else in the world. I hold onto his shirt with my clenched fists, and slowly I begin to feel everything I’ve kept at a distance. I feel his worry for me, his apprehension and apologies, but I also feel the way his heart has steadied in his chest. Whatever he thinks he does for me, it’s the other way around. I give him peace.

“I’m your home,” I say, not realizing at first that the words I uttered against his mouth were out loud.

His mouth draws along mine in slow sweeps, resting with my upper lip caught between both of his again.

“I think maybe you are,” he says in a whisper.

“I was angry,” I say.

“I know,” he says, and his breath tickles my upper lip. I smile against him.

“I was angry because I love you, and I never got to say it.”

“I know,” he says again, his lips nibbling mine softly before he runs his nose along my cheek, the roughness of his chin scratching along my neck and sparking a rush of goosebumps along my arms.

“You know I was angry?” I say through a light laugh.

“I know you love me,” he says, and I bunch my face, parting enough to look him in the eyes again. “Subtlety is not your thing,” he says, pulling me close once more and kissing my forehead.

Reality chimes in without warning, the knock on my front door abrasive and loud. The screen rattles under a heavy hand, and both Wes and I shake from the calm we managed to find amid this storm.

I follow Wes to my front door, and he opens it to let in two officers. We shake their hands, but I know the moment my eyes connect with the silver-haired cop that my story is about to take another twist. I was nine, and the man in front of me was probably forty then. He took notes, and he was the last to leave. The moment I say my name, he’s going to remember why this place—why this house—looks so familiar.

Another car crashed into things here once. We were both here for it when it happened. My dad was probably drunk when it happened, and I…I should have died.

“Let’s see, so can you tell me what happened here? To the best of your knowledge, Miss…Miss…Winters.”

I expect the man’s eyes to widen, for recognition to hit and cut between us like lightning, but it doesn’t. His name is Officer Polk. I memorized it as I stared at it printed on his shirt when I sat cradled in Wes’s arms in my driveway as a child. He flips open a small book and clicks a pen, ready to take another routine report. He doesn’t recognize me. The decade erased my tragedy from his memory bank. My heart thumps wildly, but with each blink of my eyes, the beat slows, and I start to retell my version of what happened tonight. I’m almost calm, relieved that I’m the only one who seems to connect the past, when the second officer holds his ear against the radio strapped to his shoulder, ducking outside away from us. I continue to tell my story, but I’m unaware of the words coming out of my mouth. My attention is focused on the officer, on how long he’s outside before stepping back through my door, interrupting my statement to share something private with his partner. He mumbles something, and they both glance at me, then to Wes.

Digital paper trails will always lead back to my past, and all it took was a few keystrokes to pull up my name and address to resurrect my near-death experience here. Officer Polk remembers me now.

“Are you family?” His eyes are set on Wes. He knows who he is, too. They’ve interviewed him about what happened here before, and Wes always claims he doesn’t remember a thing.

“A friend. She was scared,” Wes answers.

“Can I see your driver’s license or I.D., please?”

Wes smiles and nods with tight lips, pulling out his wallet as Officer Polk steps closer to him. He takes the license in his hand, and I hold my breath as I watch his eyes scan the details.

“Wesley Christopher Stokes,” he reads, glancing sideways to his partner then back to Wes. “Mind if I hang on to this for a minute?”

Wes shrugs. “Sure.”

The officers look at one another again and have a silent conversation.

My eyes meet Wes’s in that brief moment, and with the slight shake of his head, I know exactly what he’s going to do. He’s going to lie, just like he always said he would when my dad’s case came up again for review. He’ll tell them his name is Wesley. He’ll say he knows he was in an accident when he was little, but that he doesn’t remember anything about it. He’ll say he doesn’t remember me, and I’ll have to act surprised, as if I didn’t know it was him all along.

We’ll add to the mountain of lies and hope we don’t die from their weight. The problems lay beyond us, though. They begin when this conversation has to include my dad—who purchased the car in the driveway—and Wes’s parents, who are going to want to know what’s going on. Everyone is going to realize the miraculous chain of events that somehow put the two of us back together again, and then life is going to change one way or another.