Wesley

“Your skin is so soft; I could touch you all night long.”

Tonight has been amazing. Another one of my chairs at the bookstore sold. Eddie let me draw up the renovation plans for a project at work all on my own. He says he trusts me and thinks I’m ready to manage projects. He told the new guy, Austin, that he’s assisting me for this job, but I’m in charge. Plus, Mr. B thinks I should resubmit the paperwork to the bank. Only six weeks have passed since my last try, but in that six weeks, I’ve established Scott’s Custom Craftsmanship as my own business, opened a business account, created a website and the beginnings of a social media following. Plus, I’ve already made over ten thousand dollars in sales.

Ten.

Thousand.

Dollars.

People seem to like my style of furniture and are willing to pay for unique pieces that blend style and comfort.

So, Anna and I went out to celebrate. We visited The Grumpy Monk again. Desirae, Tae, Christy, Josh—her husband—and even Neil came out to have a drink with us. Desirae told him he should be the mascot for the place.

“I’m a priest, not a monk!” he said, offended.

To which, we all laughed and laughed.

Now, we’re back at Anna’s, tangled up, naked, in her bed. I bent her over the couch five seconds after we walked through the door. My cock wanted to be a part of the celebration, too.

Anna lies in the crook of my arm, and I can’t stop trailing my fingers over her skin—my favorite thing to do whenever we’re naked and not having sex.

“Mmm,” she sighs.

I trail up her smooth, soft arm, over her shoulder, collarbone, and down in between her breasts. My eyes follow the path my fingers make, loving the wake of goose bumps that follow. Then, I reach her tattoo. I trace it—four lines with a slash across and four lines next to that. A tally of nine.

I want to know what she’s counting so badly.

She stills as I pay homage to this mark on her skin. Her breathing gets shallow, almost as if she wants to hold her breath. It’s serious—the meaning behind her ink.

I just…wish she would trust me enough to tell me.

I shift onto my stomach and scooch down so that I’m eye-level with her tattoo. She warily watches me, eyes glassy all of a sudden. I wish I could take away the hurt.

I hold her gaze, trying to project everything I feel for this woman through our connection, and lean down slowly, so slowly, and kiss her tattoo. Her skin is warm against my lips, and I linger, planting soft kisses. Her fingers comb into my hair, and I settle, laying my head on her waist.

The minutes tick by as we lie like this. My head moves up and down with every breath she takes. As my ear is pressed against her stomach, I can hear the sounds her body makes inside, gurgles and groans. I can even hear her heartbeat from here.

I want to marry Anna. I feel it in my bones. She’s it for me.

I want to put my ring on her finger and tell the whole world she’s mine. I want to be the father of her kids. I want to buy her a house and take care of her forever.

Maybe I’m even ready to tell her family.

When I’m about to drift off to sleep, she finally says something, “When I was sixteen, I got pregnant.”

They echo. Her words.

I hear them again and again in the silence that follows.

“I got pregnant.”

I wonder if I imagined it, but I can hear her rapid heartbeat and feel her muscles stiffen as she braces for my reaction.

My mind races back in time for clues. How did I not know she got pregnant? Was she sick? I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will help me shuffle through the memories from when she was sixteen. I remember she stopped running, and I thought it was weird. That night that I found her crying and upset, she must have been upset over this.

I wait for her to keep going. Obviously, she didn’t have the baby. But why? Did she have a miscarriage? I could see a miscarriage after getting pregnant so young leaving deep-rooted scars.

Then, another memory surfaces. My eyes pop open wide, nausea swirling in my belly, my heartbeat loud in my ears. I never figured out why she’d needed a fake ID to say she was eighteen. The niggling feeling from that night is back.

Anna swallows thickly, and her stomach catches on a sob, rocking my head with the motion. I realize she’s crying.

Oh, Anna.

I crawl up the bed and gather her into my arms, tucking her head under my head. Her tears are hot as they drip onto my chest. I smooth her hair and kiss her forehead.

“It’s okay, Angel. I’m here.”

I pull the sheet of the bed over us when I feel her shiver, and I gently rock her as she cries. The lump in my throat could choke me. I swallow it down.

“I was so scared. At sixteen, I was terrified of how having a baby would change my life. And how I might fuck up a baby’s life. How could I raise a child when I was still a kid myself? How could I ask my parents to raise another baby when it was my responsibility?”

She lies back on the pillow, leaving my arms empty and cold. She plucks a tissue from the nightstand and angrily wipes her tears. Once she blows her nose, she grabs a few more tissues and unseeingly looks up at the ceiling.

I can’t imagine what she went through. I wish she had told me, so I could have been there for her. I hope Charlie was there for her. Please, God, let him have been there for her.

“I know Charlie would’ve supported me. He would’ve let me decide what to do and given up all his dreams for me. But I didn’t want him to resent me. I didn’t want to be the reason he threw his future away.

“So, I…I didn’t tell him.” Her voice is quiet and regretful.

Her eyes finally meet mine, those big brown eyes, so full of pain, welling with tears. “I didn’t tell him, and I had an abortion.”

I don’t flinch. I hold her gaze, steady and sure. I can’t believe she went through that all by herself. She’s so strong.

“I had an abortion so that my life wouldn’t change. Except everything changed. I changed. How could I become an obstetrician? How could I deliver babies after that?” She cringes, wrapping her arms around her middle, like she often does when she’s upset.

“And I couldn’t even look at Charlie. When I finally told him…he hated me. Hates me, as it turns out.”

So, that’s what his cruel words were about.

She sighs and looks back up at the ceiling. “He wanted nothing to do with me after that. I wanted nothing to do with myself either. I realized what a mistake I’d made. I was such a coward.” Her tears start fresh. “If I had been brave, I’d have a nine-year-old.”

Nine. That’s what she’s counting.

I glance down at her tattoo and see her covering it with her hands.

She shakes her head. “So, you see, Wes, I’m not an angel. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with what I did. And I’m ready to move on. I’m ready for everything with you. But I understand if this makes you feel differently about me.” Tears slide down her pretty face, her nose swollen and red from crying.

I can’t stay silent anymore. I wipe her tears and tilt her chin to look at me. “Hey.”

She keeps her eyes closed, as if she can’t bear the thought of seeing me while I say my piece.

“I love you, Anna.”

She shakes her head, as if that’s impossible.

“I do. I love you even more now that you told me. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me about it.”

When she finally meets my gaze, her forehead is wrinkled in confusion.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that alone. I wish you had told me. That’s what you used the fake ID for, right?”

She nods sadly.

“I would have gone with you, you know.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

I nod. “I would have gone with you, held your hand, driven you home. I can’t believe you went through something so huge by yourself.”

“But…I did nothing right!”

“You did what you thought was right at the time.”

“I should have told Charlie.”

I nod. “Yes, maybe you should have. But we all make mistakes, Anna.”

She laughs a bitter laugh.

“I’ve made mistakes, too. Big ones. Ones that landed me in prison.”

“I almost think I should have gone to prison, too.”

“Having an abortion isn’t illegal. You have the right to choose. It’s your body, your choice.”

She picks at her tissue.

“Do you love me?”

Her answer is swift. “Yes.”

“Even though I made mistakes?”

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it. There are different levels of mistakes. You’re a good person, Wes.”

“So are you.”

She turns away from me, pulling her legs up to her chest.

I slide right in behind her, spooning her.

“So are you, Anna. No one is one hundred percent good or one hundred percent bad. Good people make mistakes and do bad things. Bad people do good things, too. One mistake doesn’t define who you are,” I reiterate the words she once told me.

I link my fingers with hers, and she relaxes into me.

“I love you, Anna Bellamy. No matter what you did in the past. I’m ready for everything with you, too.” I wrap my arms around her midsection, one hand resting on her belly where her baby would have been, the other hand on her tattoo.

She wraps her arms over mine and squeezes. “I love you, too.”