Legacy (19 page)

Chapter 22

W
es’s first client on Thursday mornings was Mr. Grover Clabeaux. Mr. Grover was 83, and he’d been the shit back in the day, earning the IFBB’s Mr. America title in 1958. He still came to the gym three days a week, mixing his strength training with water aerobics, the stationary bike, and walking on the indoor track. At Lafayette Fitness Club, he was something of a living legend, one of the oldest members and a favorite of the owner.

But these weren’t the only reasons Wes escorted him from the weight complex to the indoor pool every week; the man was a character. Mr. Grover smiled and said hello to everyone, and he lit up whenever they stopped to talk to him for a minute or two. Walking with Mr. Grover was a slow process, but between greetings, the man dispensed all kinds of advice that made Wes laugh. He laughed, but he listened, too.

Never date a girl who smokes,
Mr. Grover had said the first time he’d met the man.
Her kisses will taste like an ashtray.

This was six years ago in Wes’s early days at the club, and he’d learned that Mr. Grover was right sophomore year—the hard way. Since then, it’d been only non-smokers for him.

Clearly, by the taste of her, Corinne had never even seen a cigarette, Wes thought idly as he held the natatorium door for his elderly client.

“Thank you, son,” Mr. Grover said, shuffling in. “Can’t be late for my date.”

Wes grinned at the joke. The 10 a.m. water aerobics class was almost all women over 60. Sometimes, Mr. Grover was the only man in the pool, and he loved every minute of it, but what he loved most was that Mrs. Clabeaux was always in the water waiting for him.

Mr. Grover stopped by the benches to remove his shoes, and Mrs. Clabeaux, sporting her flowered swim cap, waved to her husband and gave him a radiant smile.

Wes had never thought of it this way before, but standing there watching, he realized that Mr. Grover was an incredibly lucky man. Luckier than he’d likely ever be. Luckier than Michael had been. The man had enjoyed years—decades—of being welcomed with that glittering smile. Michael had been given such a smile, but not the years, and Wes could live to be 100, and he doubted anyone would ever be that happy to see him. At least not the woman he wanted.

“The way to a woman’s heart,” Mr. Grover said, seeming to read Wes’s mind. “Is to let her know that she’s it for you. The Alpha and the Omega. If she understands that—and you mean it and you live like you mean it, mind you—she’ll be yours ‘til the end of time.”

Wes never questioned Mr. Grover’s little sermons, but this didn’t make sense to him, given his current situation.

“I can’t imagine it’s all that simple,” Wes muttered, unable to keep his doubts to himself.

“Of course, it’s that simple,” the old man said, raising a finger for emphasis and looking Wes straight in the eye. “If you
mean
it and you
live
like you mean it.”

Wes had no doubt that he meant it and, now, after rooming with Corinne and imagining how life could be if she were his, he guessed that living like he meant it would be as easy as breathing, but he felt certain—as though there were a brick in the pit of his stomach—that how
he
felt didn’t matter at all.

“What if she’s in love with someone else?” Wes asked as quietly as he could manage and still be heard. It was embarrassing, standing next to the pool that was quickly filling with old women, asking an octogenarian for dating advice.

But Mr. Grover’s eyes lit up and, if possible, his ever-present smile pulled a little higher.

“Have you told her that she’s your Alpha and Omega?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

This is ridiculous,
Wes thought, regretting his question.

“No, sir,” he mumbled. But Corinne had become exactly that in a matter of months.

“Well...what are you waiting for?” the old man rasped, eyeing Wes as though he were an idiot.

Wes shook his head, ready to retract his question and move onto his next client.

“It’s complicated,” he answered, shaking his head. And then, unable to stop himself, “He’ll always be the better man.”

“Hogwash!” Mr. Grover bellowed, startling Wes. “The problem with your generation is that you’ve got no grit. You think that just because something is simple, it’s got to be easy. It sounds like you’ve given up before you’ve even tried. Well,
that’s not living like you mean it,
son!”

Wes stood frozen, paralyzed, and half of the women bobbing on their foam noodles were now in audience. Marla, the instructor walked in at
your generation
, and she eyed Wes with mild alarm.

Aww, fuck.

“You’re right, sir,” he stammered, already stepping back toward the exit, desperate to flee. “Thank you very much. Enjoy your class.”

“Don’t be afraid of a little competition!” Mr. Grover exclaimed, beaming. “Do you think I got Ester without a fight? Heck, no! The other fellows were lined up for miles!”

Titters and squeals. Now
all
of the women in the pool, plus Marla, were his amused audience.

Wes knew he looked horrified, but he tried to manage a respectful nod before sprinting out the exit. In his haste to escape, he burst through the double doors.

And nearly plowed into Michael’s mom.

“Oh, God—”

“Wes, my goodness!” Mrs. Betsie gasped, clutching him by the arms to steady herself.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Betsie!” he said, cursing himself and feeling his red face flush another shade darker. “I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry.”

She chuckled and gave each arm a squeeze.

“You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t in such a hurry, Wes, dear,” she said. Mrs. Betsie smiled for him, but he could see that her eyes looked tired, that the sadness that now lived at their edges would probably always be there. “I’m glad to run into you, though. Even if I might have been knocked down.”

She released his arm and adjusted the swim bag on her shoulder.

Wes blinked.

“Are you going to water aerobics?” he asked, stupidly. Of course, she was. The woman was wearing beaded flip-flops and a fuchsia cover-up and carrying a mesh bag with a beach towel. How close had she come to witnessing the scene with Mr. Grover? Would she have known that Corinne was the woman in question? Would she be hurt if she did?

“Yes, I just started coming,” she said, giving him a misty smile. “Michael always wanted me to exercise and take better care of myself...I feel better when I do.”

Wes felt like a heel. Of course, Mrs. Betsie would be hurt. She didn’t need him to fall for Corinne any more than Corinne did. Too bad he couldn’t really help himself.

“How’s Corinne?” she asked, when he’d just stood there in abashed silence.

Wes managed a smile.

“She’s doing a little better,” he told her honestly. She was actually doing a lot better. “She got a job last week at a new gallery downtown.”

The corners of Mrs. Betsie’s eyes lifted.

“Did she? Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said with a hushed awe. “Dan and I were getting so worried. You’re such a good boy for helping her, Wes.”

Kill me now
, he prayed.

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Betsie,” he muttered, frowning.

“Well, it’s not
nothing
, Wes. Dan told me how she looked the day you went over back in January. And I stopped by there a few weeks later, but she wouldn’t come to the door, even though I’m sure she was home,” Mrs. Betsie said, the worrisome memory clouding her eyes. “We were afraid we might lose her, too. You very well may have saved her life, Wes.”

“Mrs. Betsie, please,” Wes said, shaking his head. Her words were jarring him on too many levels. He couldn’t stand her gratitude when he knew she’d be sickened if she learned of his feelings for Corinne, but he also didn’t want to think about how bad off Corinne had been, how close he’d come to not helping her, what he would have done if she’d hurt herself.

“Alright, I see I’m embarrassing you,” she teased, misunderstanding his agony. “If she’s doing better, do you think the two of you might like to come to dinner on Sunday? It would be so wonderful...”

Her wistful look had returned, and Wes knew he couldn’t refuse, even if he’d have to wear blinders to keep from ogling Corinne the whole time.

“I’ll talk to Corinne and see if she’s up for it,” Wes agreed. “Thank you.”

“No, dear, thank
you,”
she said, her eyes filling. “Seeing you is like having a little piece of Michael back. We need it.”

She reached for him, and Wes had to clench his teeth against his shame as he hugged her.

Because he’d been working with Mr. Grover, Wes hadn’t seen Corinne following her morning yoga class, and he knew she was leaving right after to go meet her new boss at the gallery. After the embarrassing scene by the pool and the tortuous encounter with Michael’s mom, Wes would have thought that he might be able to put her out of his mind for a little while, but, if anything, he wanted to see her or talk to her even more. It was pathetic, Wes knew, but for the first time in his life, he had it bad.

Even worse was how he felt about the job. He was happy for her, of course. Happy that she was ready to take on something that excited her and happy that she’d been given the opportunity. But beneath that, in the shadow of his mind, an itch of a thought kept at him.

She won’t need you for long. Once she’s really back on her feet, you’ll have no reason to stay.

If the possibility that she would kick him out had worried him after the kiss, the certainty that he’d have to leave once she was strong enough haunted him now.

Look, asshole,
he asked himself,
would you rather her weak and helpless or strong and happy?

The answer was easy. Strong and happy. A thousand times over. Even if it meant he was out of her house.

But he didn’t think he could handle being out of her life.

Wes reached for his phone on his way back to the second floor weight room.

Thursday, June 12 10:02 a.m.

How’s work? Just ran into Mrs. Betsie. She wants us to come to dinner on Sunday. Want to?

Wes watched his phone for a response, but when he saw his next client leaning against the weight room wall, eyeing him impatiently, he put it away.

An hour later, he checked it again.

Thursday, June 12 10:44 a.m.

I don’t know...might be hard. How’d she look?

Wes sighed. He knew it would be hard, and he didn’t want to put Corinne through any more pain than she already had.

Thursday, June 12 10:58 a.m.

She looked okay. I can tell her you’re not up for it yet.

Thursday, June 12 11:00 a.m.

No, don’t. I can deal. Mrs. Betsie and Mr. Dan deserve better.

Pride lifted Wes’s chest. There she was, his strong girl.

Michael’s strong girl,
he corrected himself.
Fuck it. OUR strong girl.
He wondered, absently, what Michael would think of that.

Thursday, June 12 11:01 a.m.

Whatever you say.

Thursday, June 12 11:02 a.m.

I say I can handle it as long as you are there.

Wes stared at his phone as a rush rose in his blood. Did she have any idea that he was hers to command?

Thursday, June 12 11:02 a.m.

I’m there.

Chapter 23

F
or a week and a half, Corinne had worked at The Green Door Gallery from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., and she loved every minute of it.

Ann was the best boss in the world. There was a lot of work to be done, but Corinne was given license to contribute to the exhibit design and the gallery’s decor, helping her boss to prep the wall space, arrange the lighting, and eventually make plans for each exhibit that would be featured for the grand opening.

The gallery was a small, rectangular space that provided about 600 square feet of area. Ann had hoped to showcase six artists in that arrangement, but Corinne convinced her to stick to only five, giving each enough room to highlight their best pieces and invite conversation clusters throughout the space.

Corinne had told Ann that she wasn’t ready to be a featured artist, but her boss said that she still wanted her to have two or three pieces to display anyway. Corinne had, indeed, returned to her studio and opened her paints again. After two hours at it, her first canvas ended up in the garbage, and her second was poised for the same fate when Wes had come home from work on Thursday afternoon and stopped her from doing irreparable damage to it.

It wasn’t a portrait or a landscape, but an abstract piece, a kind of synesthesia. She’d started by taking the 3x6 canvas oriented long ways on her easel, bisecting it down the middle with a kohl line, and filling in the left side in the darkest black acrylic. That part had been easy, of course, even though she wanted the brush strokes of the black to reveal intensity and strife.

The right side she’d thought to make white at first, but the white was too pristine, too full of light. She’d mixed a light gray that was just a hint darker than white and covered it just so, but this, too, seemed too simple to capture the background of what she’d planned. She had mixed and covered, mixed and covered until she was ready to lose her mind.

Thankfully, Wes had come home and found her struggling.

“I need contrast,” she explained cryptically, never comfortable discussing a work in progress. “But not a stark contrast.”

He stood there glistening in gym clothes after running home, nursing an Abita Purple Haze, and Corinne forgot the painting for a moment. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers over the sinews of his forearms.

“A contrast?...Or a transition?” he had asked, frowning at her mess.

A transition
, Corinne had realized.
Of course.

She had immediately used the tip of her palette knife to score a faint line down the middle of the “white” side, and she proceeded to mix a darker gray.

After Saturday morning yoga, Corinne returned to her studio and the painting in question. Now the canvas—a kind of off-centered triptych of black, dark gray, and light gray that faded to the pristine white only at the very edge—was ready for the next step. More black, but this time mixed with scarlet, indigo, moss, violet.

She had envisioned dahlia-like explosions of these evil colors menacing the black stretch of canvas. The shapes overlapped each other, suggesting chaos and suffering. Corinne sat on her wooden stool and lost herself to the palette and brush.

She heard Wes come in after 2 o’clock. Her right shoulder and the back of her neck seared, but phase two wasn’t finished yet.

“C?” he called from the living room.

Corinne smiled at the nickname. When Wes had first moved in, she had found it odd and irksome. No one had ever called her that.

But now she liked it because
Wes
did.

“Back here!” she answered.

She rolled her neck as he came in and found herself smiling again. He clearly had showered and changed after his last client, and his faux hawk was still damp.

“Wow...” he murmured, taking in the painting. “It looks totally different....Are those...dark bursts going to cover the whole thing?”

They weren’t; she had something else in mind, but Corinne was superstitious about explaining her plan.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said, circling her shoulder a few times before turning back to her work. She had almost reached the edge of the black background where she would stop for the day to let the grim colors dry.

“It’s so cool,” Wes mumbled, his words touched with awe. “Mind if I watch?”

“Not at all, but I’m almost done for now.”

Wes found a camping chair near the back door and propped it open just behind her right side. She never took her eyes off the canvas, but the air in her studio changed. Corinne felt—quite surely—that Wes wasn’t just watching her paint. He was watching
her.

And it didn’t make her nervous. In fact, it made her...
soften.
She steadied herself on her stool and concentrated on her brushwork.

But she was so
aware
of him.

Corinne could hear his breath and almost feel his eyes on her like a touch. Her belly warmed, as she felt, unmistakably, desire fill the small room. She knew that if she turned quickly to note the look in Wes’s eyes that she would read longing in them.

And she was envious.

Because she wanted the chance—without limits—to watch
him
. In the two weeks since their kiss, they had both been so careful
not
to let their looks linger on each other. She knew it wasn’t just her because she occasionally would catch Wes looking away if she glanced up while they watched TV. And he had caught her doing the same.

Corinne swapped out her filbert brush for a spotter and began tracing shadows, suppressing a sigh. She had so much resolve about how things should be between them—when Wes wasn’t around. But when they were together, she forgot nearly all of that.

Instead, she wanted to explore him.

And it wasn’t just a physical impulse. Yes, she wanted to explore his body with hers, to touch, to taste, to witness. But she wanted to explore him inside as well, to ask him a thousand questions she simply could not risk asking as merely his roommate, his friend.

When had he stopped hating her? What was he thinking now as he watched her paint? Did he feel this energy between them?

Or am I just crazy?
she asked herself.

The shadows looked better, but her neck and shoulder were screaming, and she rolled them again.

“Take a break,” Wes said, suddenly standing behind her. His hand landed on her right shoulder, squeezing her. “May I?”

“
Oh my God
,” she mumbled, slumping forward as warm relief halted the searing. He squeezed again and worked his thumb into her neck muscles.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes...” she managed. At that, his left hand came to her left shoulder, and he took over.

Delirium. Corinne turned to mush as he kneaded and rubbed. As his thumbs circled into her flesh, chills sped down her arms, and her eyes half closed. In the back of her mind, she worried that she might actually start drooling. For the second time, she was at the mercy of his expert hands, her body surrendering to him.

“It’s the stool’s fault,” Wes said, softly, continuing his ministrations.

“Hmmm...?” Corinne only just managed to respond. Wes kept massaging in the same slow, deep rhythm.

“It’s too low,” he explained, gently. “Or your canvas is too high. You have to raise your arm too much, and the result is this pain and stiffness.”

Vaguely, Corinne knew that what he said made sense, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was how good his touch felt.

Touch.

Corinne was starved for it. In the weeks since they’d last slept in the same bed, she’d hungered to be touched again like that, gently, lovingly. It was different from being kissed. It wasn’t exhilarating and confusing. It didn’t ignite her and fill her with guilt. This was being nurtured, soothed. As Wes massaged her, her muscles relaxed, and her defenses did, too.

She didn’t want her life to be over. And she didn’t want to be alone. And here was Wes, beautiful and kind, showing her every day, every moment, that she wasn’t alone.

But on the heels of this thought, fear arrived.

Holy shit!

Corinne sat up straight.

“Thanks, I’m good,” she said, standing up and refusing to look at Wes.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, clearly thrown by her jolt. She busied herself by picking up her brushes, knives, and palette.

“Yeah, I’m done for today...I’m just going to go wash these outside.”

She made for the back door, expecting Wes to stay behind, but he followed her and hovered on the top step as she turned on the faucet. Corinne glanced at him leaning in the doorway, watching her.

He looked good.

I’ve got to get out of here.

Corinne scrubbed the brush she held with extra vigor, forcing herself to focus on the task.

“So, what do you want to do tonight? I was thinking maybe we could go see a movie...” Corinne could hear the edge in his voice. Was he tense? She glanced up again. The corners of his eyes looked pinched. He
was
tense
.
“Maybe
Spiderman?...
Or something else...I think
Transcendence
is still playing. Johnny Depp...”

Corinne bit her lip. She couldn’t sit next to him in a darkened theater for two hours, and she couldn’t explain why she couldn’t.

She had to come up with an excuse.

“Actually...I...um...am going out with Heather tonight,” she lied, grasping for the one girlfriend who’d made an effort to keep in touch with her over the last six months.

“Heather?...Lamarche?” Wes asked, blinking in surprise. Of course, he was surprised. Other than the gallery, the gym, and Morgan’s, she never went anywhere without him.

But that needed to change.

“Yeah...a girls’ night,” she said, finding the conviction as she spoke, but returning to the clean-up task so he wouldn’t see through her. “She mentioned wanting us to get together when we ran into each other at the party. And I survived that...plus starting my new job...I think I’m ready for a night out.”

When he didn’t say anything in response, Corinne looked up again, fearing that he might doubt that she was ready for anything as normal as a night out, but what she saw in his eyes wasn’t doubt. Was it
hurt?

“That sounds good,” Wes said, finally. “Maybe Chad wants to hang out tonight.”

Corinne breathed a sigh of relief. She definitely needed to get some distance. Both of them needed it. She finished cleaning her tools and headed back into the house, aiming for her room, where she could text Heather in private and try to turn her lie into the truth.

“Yes! Drinks and dancing!” Heather squealed on the phone.

Corinne had to swallow her gasp. She’d made her bed; now she had to lie in it.

“O..kay...Where and when?”

“Pamplona on Jefferson,” Heather said without hesitation. “Let’s say...8:30? Then clubbing?”

“Sure…”

But Pamplona was the perfect choice, Corinne realized when the hostess seated her. She’d only been there a few times, and never with Michael. The white sangria was just as good as she remembered. As Corinne waited for Heather at the trendy tapas restaurant, she sipped eagerly, wanting to kill her case of nerves. The prospect of talking to someone other than Wes gave her the jitters, but Heather made it easy for her from the start.

“So tell me about this new job!” Heather sang, giving her a warm hug when she came in.

“It couldn’t be better,” Corinne answered, truthfully. She told Heather about Ann and her concept for The Green Door, and they split an order of the Catalan spinach, the ceviche, and the Castilian mushrooms. After another sangria and a dessert of chocolate truffles, Corinne was about as relaxed as she was going to get.

They’d covered all of the safe topics (work, Baby Clementine, her father, and yoga), and Corinne was grateful that Heather seemed to understand that this was necessary. They never mentioned Michael. They never mentioned Wes.

By the time they left Pamplona to walk down to City Bar, Corinne had a comfortable buzz and was looking forward to the obliteration that only deafening dance music could provide.