Abby Age Twenty-Three

Every day since I left, I’ve been fighting to stay away from Denver, but sometimes even the best intentions just aren’t enough.

Each step I take from the moment I walked off the plane feels heavier than the last, as if my feet weighed a ton. When the train’s arrival to the main terminal is announced, I swear I feel like it might as well say you’ve arrived at your final destination—hell.

As I come off the escalators toward the waiting area, my stomach tightens and nausea hits the back of my throat. My heart rate kicks up a notch. If I want to make it through the door, I’m going to need Wes and one of those tight, warm hugs only he knows how to give. Champagne gummy bears are a plus. I turn on my cellphone to text him. If he’s not here already, he can still run to the store to buy me some candy. I doubt he thought of the gummy bears. Though, a bottle of red wine or a pot brownie would also work to numb me during the drive.

Wes: Sorry, Abbs. I can’t make it.

I bite the inside of my cheek while sadness and anger mix in my blood. Where is Wes when I fucking need him? Angrily, my fingers move across the screen firing him a text.

Abby: You made me come back to fucking Denver and you—

But I stop myself and delete the words before I send it. It’s a weekday, and it’s only seven o’clock in the evening. Without a doubt, he’s at the office trying to take over a few more companies before dinner. That’s his life: work, more work, and during his spare time he adds in a few meetings. I thought this was a phase after Will died. But it’s been more than a year since his father’s death. It seems like this is his life.

I sigh as I walk toward the people waiting with signs, flowers, and big smiles. My heart shrinks a little more. He didn’t have to bring me flowers, but it would have been nice to see him. I just needed a hug. Will I even get to see him today? If I’m lucky maybe on the weekend.

As I walk toward the baggage area, I find a tall man wearing a dark suit. He holds a sign with my name. Abigail Lyons.

“Hi, that’s me,” I say, touching the sign.

“I’m Aaron Green. Mr. Ahern’s driver,” he explains, taking my carry-on luggage.

“Thank you for picking me up,” I say calmly, but beneath that calm lies a storm of fury and frustration.

We walk to the baggage claim area. While we wait for the bags, I send a text to Wes.

Abby: Thank you for the driver. I could’ve taken an Uber.

Wes: You know how I feel about Uber. Your car arrives Friday. Until then, Aaron is available for you.

Abby: Thank you, boss!

It’s not about the driver, it’s about him. I needed him here, waiting for me with open arms when I arrived from the longest, hardest flight I’ve ever endured in my life. Wes knows this isn’t easy for me. I sigh. There’s no point in having this conversation with him. He won’t understand, and I’ll just get all worked up. I put away my phone before fetching my bags. Once we have the bags, Aaron takes them, and I follow him toward the parking lot. He loads the black Escalade, opening the door and watching me too closely. Someone should’ve told him that I hate it when people stare at me. He must be wondering who the hell I am.

Weston’s flavor of the month, a long lost relative … I look nothing like an Ahern. I’m just the girl who crashed with them for about a year before I went away to college. Plain-old Abigail Lyons. There’s nothing special about me, but everyone’s speculated about my identity ever since I came to live with the Aherns.

As the car pulls away from the airport’s parking lot, my lungs begin to constrict. I close my eyes for several minutes, concentrating on my breathing. In and out, in and out. I miss Berkeley. There’s something about the California air that numbs my memories and keeps me sane. When I lived there, I felt lighter.

Free.

The Colorado heat doesn’t seem to agree with me. I should’ve come last May while it was still cool. As the minutes pass, I feel as if the ghosts of my past are chasing me. If I let them, they’ll trap me again and hold me hostage. Perhaps this time I won’t escape. If only I had listened to my instincts and searched for a job in San Francisco. Instead, I’m back in hell. The place where the memories become vivid and the monsters can easily find me.

I open my eyes as we drive west, toward the mountains. My grandmother used to say that the snowcapped peaks guarded us from bad spirits. I wish she were alive, so I could explain to her that not everyone is good, and evil lurks at every turn. The scenery is beautiful, peaceful. For the past five years the ocean breeze washed away my sorrows when the weight became too much.

Forget about them, Abigail. You’re not that kid anymore.

I watch the late summer sun setting. As the darkness traps the city, my chest heaves. The pain and fear squeeze my lungs tightly. I breathe and tug on my bracelet, counting the crystals as many times as possible. Why did I come back?

Because of him. Weston Ahern. The man who took me in along with his parents a few years ago, and not only offered me shelter, but a beautiful friendship as well. He’s kept me sane and safe since the moment we met almost six years ago. Wes is the one person I can trust. When I was about to graduate from college, he said it was up to me what I wanted to do. My options were limitless. The world was my playground.

“But I’d love to have you back home to Colorado,” he said.

I couldn’t disappoint him and jeopardize our friendship. After all these years, I wouldn’t be able to function without having him by my side. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to stay sane living in Denver. Although we know each other so well, he still doesn’t know anything about my past. It’s ridiculous that after so many years, I haven’t said a word. It’s too scary and complicated to share.

That’s exactly why I don’t ask about his origins. I’m fine to only know my Wes. He’s gentle, understanding, a little volatile, and uncommunicative with everyone—but me. We get each other. That’s what best friends are for. Who knew that despite our age difference we would become so indispensable in each other’s lives.

As the driver gets off I-25, I begin to pay attention to the road. Wes likes to take care of everything, which includes where I stay when we go on vacation. Moving back wasn’t any different. He promised to take care of all the details. When we turn west on Belleview, I wonder if we’re going to his parent’s old house. But Aaron makes an immediate left on Quebec Street instead.

We stop right in front of a high-rise next to a small shopping center. The tall building next to the small strip of shops looks familiar. I recall Landmark, the place where I came often with Wes to watch a movie or to grab a bite. I take my purse from the floor, setting my sunglasses back in their case. Then, after I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide to the other side of the car, Wes is the one who opens the passenger door and offers me his hand to help me out.

“Abby,” he greets me with that handsome smirk I adore.

“Wes,” I respond walking into his open arms. I breathe in his warm, earthy aroma. “I didn’t think I’d see you today?”

“Sorry for not meeting you at the airport. I had an emergency at the office,” he explains giving me a tight hug.

He lifts me off the ground and twirls me around.

“You’re actually here. I can’t believe it.”

“I promised to move back, didn’t I?”

I link my arms around his waist and stare at those midnight blue eyes. It’s like looking into the deep ocean at night. They are warm, inviting, and mystical. Once my feet settle on the ground I glance over and admire his chiseled jaw covered with a dusting of facial hair. My eyes roam down his body. The black shirt he wears pulls nicely around the hard lines of his broad chest and hugs his flat stomach.

Despite the fear numbing my body, I can’t help but feel the magnetic attraction. A strong pull that is like an invisible thread tugging my heart towards his.

“You were unsure,” he taps my nose lightly.

Wes turns to the driver who is unloading my bags from the trunk. “Thank you, Aaron. I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes, go back to your family, and thanks again for bringing her home safe.”

“Your things arrived earlier today,” he says, grabbing my bags. “I made sure that the movers set up the boxes according to your labels.”

“The perks of this new job never cease to amaze me,” I comment as we walk toward the big black, glass door. “You not only moved my things, but you made sure they’re in the right place. What else do you have in store for me?”

He hands me a black plastic card.

“Credit card?” I stare at the unmarked object in my hand. “You already gave me one of those.”

“Which you never used.” He furrows his brow. “But actually, that’s the keycard to enter all access points.”

He swipes a similar card in front of the black box next to the door, which then buzzes and clicks. Wes pulls it open.

“After you, my lady.” He winks at me.

My jaw drops at the opulent foyer. Marble floors, expensive paintings, and a cherry wood desk receive me. Wes explains to me that there are concierge services from six in the morning until seven at night. The elevator opens when he taps the up arrow. We step inside. He swipes the card in front of the small metal box under the keyboard and then presses PH2.

“How am I not surprised that you live in the penthouse?”

“You toured this place with me a couple of years ago.”

I frown for a second, and then I remember he FacedTimed me while shopping for a new place. “That was almost five years ago,” I point out. “I always thought it was downtown.”

“Everyone loved this place, you and Mom the most.”

At the mention of his mom, I regret not calling her since graduation day, a month ago.

“How’s Linda doing?”

“Dealing,” he answers.

I feel a pang in my chest when he says that. Wes’ father died a little more than a year ago, leaving the company in his hands. Linda couldn’t function for the first few months. Later, she decided to move to Arizona with her sister. Wes and Sterling fought her, but I supported her because I understood her reasoning.

“Why do you say it like that?”

“I feel like she’s lost touch with reality. She’s organizing a trip to Italy with her friends—she’s paying for everyone.” He shrugs.

“If that’s what makes her happy.”

“Hopefully, after that, she’ll decide to come back home.”

“You’re still hoping?” I squeeze his arm lightly.

“Faith and hope are all we have,” he mumbles, repeating a saying that Linda uses often.

The death of his father hit him harder than he wanted to admit to everyone around him. He adored him. Well, he was really close to both of his parents. Wes visited them at least twice a week and saw William daily at work. The day that Will died of a heart attack, Wes caught a flight to come see me, leaving everything else behind. He couldn’t deal with the loss.

“I need one day,” he said when I opened the door of my apartment. “Tomorrow I’ll go back and be strong enough for Mom and Sterling.”

Sterling only came for the funeral and went away to Italy for a while. It was up to Wes to take care of everything.

“It doesn’t matter where she lives. She loves you,” I remind him.

“You’re right, and I should be happy because you’re back.”

When we arrive on his floor, I stare at the two doors across from each other.

“I’m surprised.” I touch my sternum. “You don’t own the entire floor, Mr. Ahern?”

His wealth knows no end, at least that’s how the business magazines like to word it. There are always limits to one’s assets, but I guess journalists these days just like to spit words carelessly. Every time I see one of those articles, I send it to him with my commentary. Sometimes it seems like the entire world is watching him closely. With a few clicks, anyone can find out who he’s dating, his latest deals, what he’s acquired or sold since his father died. Every step he takes is critical because he’s William Ahern’s son.

“Actually, I own both units, Miss Sarcasm,” he responds, marching toward the door on the left.

Wes hands me a key. “This one is your apartment.”

“What do you mean?” I take a step back and open my mouth.

He did it again. I can’t believe he’s just setting me up in a penthouse. There’s this nice, beautiful studio apartment down on DTC Boulevard that I can afford, I want to tell him but shut my mouth. He always wins those arguments.

“If you read your contract, the job came with housing,” he points out. “This is your place.”

Like me, Wes didn’t have much when he arrived at the Ahern’s house. The difference between us is that he learned to live with luxury, whereas I can’t handle it—not even after all this time. Like him, I learned to work hard and to give as much as I receive. He loves to give. He gives me everything he can to make me feel safe, comfortable … some days I feel like I’m mooching.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he tells me.

“Do you?” I cross my arms, arching an eyebrow.

“That this is too much, that you could afford your own place. You’ll then remind me Dad paid for college and your room and board already.”

“Expensive room and board,” I remind him. “I could’ve lived in the dorms.”

“Really?” He stares at me.

I drop my gaze, exhaling harshly.

My sleeping habits are different from others’. I need to have my window closed tightly. I prefer it if the windows in my bedroom are sealed. I set several nightlights in my room, and I play music all night long. If I had stayed in the dorms, I would’ve been reported and probably kicked out after a few incidents. Or my eyes would’ve remained open until I graduated.

“I had the electrician install a chandelier in your room,” he adds.

“I shouldn’t need it,” I protest like a little child who thinks she’s tall enough to ride Space Mountain but who’s nearly two inches shy of the height requirement.

“Therapy,” he throws one of his favorite words around.

I open my mouth, close it, and shake my head. He exhales harshly, taking a set of keys out of his pocket and opening the door.

“You have a copy of the key to my place?” I ask with annoyance.

“I’m your landlord,” he reminds me. “And I have more than one copy since you misplace your keys often.”

“Ugh.” I walk around the apartment, ignoring his remark.

The walls are bare. Some of my boxes are in the middle of what I believe is the living room. The open kitchen faces the entrance. To my left, the view is dark, but I imagine that’s the west side of town. I bet that during the day the view of the mountains becomes part of the house décor.

“We bought you a temporary bed. We can buy the rest tomorrow,” he rolls over the bags toward the staircase.

“Thank you. You shouldn’t have.”

I follow behind him. The upstairs floor is smaller than the first story. There’s a bedroom with a large enough closet and bathroom. The place is big, but not as big as I’d imagined a penthouse.

This scene reminds me of the day I first met him, yet we’re two totally different people. He’s so much older. Wes isn’t the twenty-three-year-old kid who just graduated from Stanford and was trying to make a mark at his father’s office. Now, he’s almost thirty and in charge of the whole company.

Life doesn’t stop; it never stops.

Linda says that all the time. If you wait until you’re ready for life, you will miss it. No one is ready for what’s to come. That’s why you must learn how to live and be strong enough to face anything that’s thrown your way.

The truth is that I’ve never been very strong. All these years I hid from my past, pushed it away, and tried to survive. Now, I’m back, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to live it truthfully.