Anna

I pull into John’s driveway and park behind an unfamiliar truck. An ugly pickup truck. Rust turns the color of the truck into a muted orangey-brown, but some areas look like they might’ve been blue once upon a time. A temporary license plate is taped to the rear window, and I assume this must be Wesley’s truck.

I’m so busy staring, I don’t notice anyone else is outside until I hear him.

“Now, I know it’s an ugly truck, but you need to stop staring or else you’ll give her a complex.”

I jump in surprise and spin to face the direction of the voice, the deep, rumbly voice I heard on the phone just minutes ago.

Wesley is in front of me, leaning against the garage door with his hands in his pockets. I go momentarily stupid as I take him in. When I last saw him, he was eighteen years old, just a young man. He had come a long way from the skinny fourteen-year-old boy I met, lean and muscled from working out in our basement with John. But, now, he’s all grown-up. His hair is cropped short, hugging his scalp. His square jaw looks chiseled from stone and is covered in stubble. His wide shoulders, sculpted arms, and narrow waist tell me he wasn’t lying about all of those workouts. My eyes roam all over his body, reacquainting myself with this new, adult version of Wesley.

He looks good, I decide.

He’s bigger and hotter than ever before and harder somehow. Not exactly dangerous, but everything about him screams strong and capable. Don’t fuck with me, his strong physique says. He looks ever the bad boy, just like Desirae said. But he’s still Wesley.

He studies me, too, and I flush as his eyes scan up and down my frame. His expression is achingly tender, the corners of his lips tilting up. I’d recognize him anywhere.

Meeting his eyes, I can’t stop the huge grin taking over my face, and I surprise myself by running and launching myself at him in a huge bear hug.

He catches me, wrapping his arms around me with a chuckle. It’s a manly sound that starts in his chest and ends with a puff of breath against my hair. He holds me against him and inhales, breathing me in. Being in his arms makes me feel…amazing. Safe. Protected. Like he can hold me together, even when I can’t. I could stay here against his big body forever, but I decide I need to look at him some more, so I pull back.

“Hey you,” I say stupidly.

“Hey, Anna.” He looks down at me with a small smile, blue-gray eyes bright. “You look incredible.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” My cheeks heat, and without thinking, I fiddle with my necklace, a nervous habit I have.

His eyes follow my fingers and they widen, eyebrows shooting up. “Is that…”

I lay the pendant down on my neck, allowing him to see. “Yes. I haven’t taken it off once since you left.” I need him to know that for some reason.

“I’m glad.” He swallows thickly, clenching his jaw.

We stand there, looking at each other, so much unsaid between us it’s hard to know where to begin. I want to know everything. How is he really? Even though he told me so much in his letters, I want him to tell me everything all over again.

Lighten this up. We need to start on a light topic.

“Is this your truck?” I nod my head toward the atrocity.

He nods, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

I stare at it again and notice that the passenger door is yellow with a black frog spray-painted on. “She’s…unique.”

He chuckles, and my heart flips at the sound. “That’s one way to describe her. She has a good engine, and I can fix up the rest. You’ll see. I’ll make her shine again.”

“I bet you will.” If anyone can fix it up, it’s him.

“Want to come in? Have you eaten yet?”

“Not yet. I was just about to figure out dinner when you called.”

“Want to get something to eat? Catch up a bit?”

“Absolutely.”

We decide to get a pizza delivered, so we can relax here. I’m familiar with John’s place and where he keeps his things, so I set the table with paper plates and napkins while Wes gets two cans of pop out of the fridge.

We sit to wait for the pizza and end up staring at each other in silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence.

“I can’t believe you’re here, sitting across from me right now.”

“I know,” he agrees.

“So, tell me, what have you been up to?”

“We’ve been running around since I got here actually.” He fills me in on the errands John has helped him with the past couple of days.

“It sounds overwhelming. Like you have to start from scratch with everything.”

He nods, expression serious. “I’m mostly worried about finding work.”

Many of his letters touched on his fear of not getting hired because of his record. “Did you fill out any applications yet?”

“Yeah. My probation officer, Mr. Ross, gave me a list, so I applied to everything, but the jobs are not…ideal.” He grimaces.

“Nothing in carpentry?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “No, but I’ll take anything I can get for now.”

“Maybe you could do freelance work on the side. We have a freelance mister fix-it man we call if we need repairs at the bookstore. Would you be interested in helping the next time we need someone?”

His expression brightens at the thought then dims again. “I guess it depends on what the job is. I don’t have any tools yet.”

I struggle not to smile. My parents have all his old tools, plus some new ones, at their house. They’re planning to give them to him tomorrow at Sunday dinner. “I’ll give her your number just in case you can be helpful.”

He grimaces again. “I don’t have a cell yet, either. Maybe you could give her my email? Or John’s landline?”

Shit, he literally has to buy everything all over again, and it must be tough when he doesn’t have a job yet.

“That works.”

The doorbell rings, and Wes gets up to collect the pizza. My stomach grumbles at the mouthwatering aroma, and we dig in.

“I think this is the most delicious pizza I’ve ever had.” He closes his eyes in bliss as he chews.

“I don’t imagine you had pizza like this in prison. But then again, all I know about prison food is what I’ve seen in the movies.”

“The movies are fairly accurate in that department.” He chuckles. “So, you live close by?”

“Yes, it’s not far from here, about ten minutes.”

“And how’s independent living treating you? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

I flush, thinking back to what I told him in my letters. Somehow, it was easier to share my thoughts, fears, and feelings when I was writing them down on paper. Now, with him in front of me, big and gorgeous, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, I’m feeling a bit shy.

“I like having my own space.”

“I bet. Can’t wait to see it.”

“Oh, it’s not much. Just a small apartment. No lawn. No garage. You probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Hey”—he reaches across the table to cover my hand with his—“don’t do that. I’m proud of you, Anna. You’re living on your own and making it. I’d love to have a small apartment, something…anything of my own.”

Tears prick my eyes when I hear Wesley say he’s proud of me. I nod, squeezing his hand and swallowing my pizza around the lump in my throat.

“You’ll get there, Wes. It’s just going to take some time.”

“I don’t even care about the big stuff right now; it’s the small things. I’m anxious to have some kind of routine.”

“Routine?”

He scratches his neck, as if nervous. “Yeah. The last ten years have been a strict, regimented routine beyond my control. It sucked, but it became my normal. Now that I’m out, not having to follow rules feels good, but not having a routine feels a bit weird, almost like I’m a balloon without a tether, like I could just float away at any minute.”

I frown. “Really? You don’t want to just…fly by the seat of your pants because you can?”

“Yes, and no. Don’t get me wrong; I like not having to listen to anyone. But it’s disorienting. Isaac, my counselor in prison, warned me about this feeling, but I brushed him off. Now, I’m trying to remember what his advice was.”

“Maybe you should make up your own routine. Make a new normal.”

He takes a sip from his pop and tilts his head, considering. “I guess it just feels like I can’t do that yet. Not until I get a job or some tools and supplies to start building things again.”

“I get that, but you could start small. Work out, job search, fix up that ugly truck, sketch design ideas for when you eventually get some supplies—stuff like that.”

He smiles a rare, crooked smile, one I can’t help but return, and nods. “A new normal. I like that.”