One Last Hold (24 page)

Yes, he had left without a backward glance, and she figured he’d do it again, now, if he could. He didn’t want to talk about this, he never wanted to talk about it, and she shouldn’t push him.

But she needed to talk about it. Their relationship could never go any further if they continued to ignore the reasons they hadn’t been together the past ten years. And she would always worry if he’d do it again: leave her without a backward glance.

“Why was it so easy for you to leave me?” she asked, hating the way her voice rasped over the words.

“The accident, Caitlyn. I couldn’t live with myself anymore. How could I expect you to live with me?”

She arched her head up and stared into his tortured eyes. The flame in his green depths pained her. This is why they needed to have this conversation. This is why Wesley would always have a wall around him if he didn’t chisel the guilt away. “You did not kill your mother.”

“Yes. I did.” He blinked, the rise and fall of his chest heavy.

“Wesley, you did not.” She sat up, using an abusive tone with him so he’d get her point. “I doubted myself for a very long time. I thought I did something wrong. I thought you blamed me for what happened. We were all fighting the night of the wreck because they weren’t happy with your news either. I was upset, crying. If she hadn’t unbuckled her seatbelt to move closer to me, to comfort
me
, she would still be alive.”

“We’ve already been over this.”

“I wasn’t good enough for you. I knew you were in pain, but I tried to help in the best way I knew how. I tried to give you space, but that wasn’t good enough for you.”

He pulled on her hair as he unwound it from his finger. “You tried to make me change into someone I wasn’t.”

“I never tried to make you change. You never gave me a chance to accept your dream.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he croaked. “But you hurt me, too.”

“How could I hurt you? Like you said, you have to have feelings for someone for them to be able to hurt you.”

“I did have feelings for you!”

“Did?” she asked softly.

He tried to sit up in bed but she pushed on him to keep him down. “You don’t need to get up right now.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You are so stubborn! Let me raise the bed if you want to sit up. You’re going to cause your stitches to come out and who knows about that contraption around you. Do you want to start all over?”

A grin tugged on his lip and he grasped her wrist. “You’re feisty.”

“I’m worried about you. And I think you’re just trying to change the subject.”

“Why would I do that?”

She pulled her hand away. “If it was up to you, you would avoid this subject as long as you lived.” He turned his head away and clenched his jaw. She caressed him and ran her fingers through his silky brown hair, feeling large bumps caused from his wreck. There were bald splotches where they had to shave his head, but his hair would grow back in no time.

Patches of dark stubble intensified his sex appeal and even with him in the hospital bed, she couldn’t stop thinking about doing exactly as he had suggested and lock that door.

Wesley pulled his head away from her touch. “Women need to talk about things to get over them. Men don’t. What women don’t understand is that they worry so much because they dwell on that shit. Why can’t we just move forward?”

“I…I don’t know if I can,” Caitlyn whispered.

There, she’d said it. She didn’t know if she could watch his races every weekend and wonder if that would be his last. Didn’t know if she could stand by his side while he put his life in danger every weekend. Didn’t know if she wanted this life for herself and didn’t know if she could watch him be killed the way she’d watched his mom die.

Her worst fear had come to fruition and now all he cared about was getting back on the track.

He hadn’t professed his love but even if he had, she couldn’t give him an ultimatum. And even if she could, his choice was obvious. Racing would always be his first love.

His only love.

Could she live with that?

“Well, darling. That’s your choice.”

Was it? Was it her choice? He’d never asked her to stay. Never asked her to try to live with his choice. Never professed his love to her.

Maybe it would be different if he did.

“You want to talk about it?” Wesley sat up straighter and clenched his jaw. “Fine, let’s talk about it. You’re giving me an ultimatum.”

“I’m not,” she said, her pulse a hard mass of nerves. “I didn’t give you one then. I’m not giving you one now.”

“You don’t know if you can do this. You don’t know if you can move forward—”

“I don’t know that I can watch you put your life in danger every weekend.”

“Racing isn’t dangerous.”

“Oh!” she scoffed. “That’s why you’re in this hospital bed right now.”

“It’s no more dangerous than your writing.”

“Writing isn’t dangerous. I don’t risk my life every week to do it.”

“It could. What if you got some jungle assignment, or had to go to some war? What if you caught a disease while in a foreign country?”

“I don’t do that kind of writing.”

“What if you got run over by a racecar when you were there to do a story?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I’m not being any more ridiculous than you are,” Wesley growled.

“This–” Caitlyn said, spreading out her hands to indicate the hospital room, the machines attached to him. “This is exactly why your mother died. So you wouldn’t. This is why we all fought that night, because they didn’t want you to do something so dangerous.”

Wesley visibly tensed, and she regretted the words as soon as she’d said them.

“Get the hell out of here.” Wesley pointed to the door, his voice deadly calm. “And out of my life.”

*

Wesley watched her leave, closing his eyes against the agonizing pain.

She’d made her choice, and he made his.

Blowing out a breath, he wrapped a hand around the remote and resisted the urge to throw it against the wall. Throw something, anything, just to expel his anger. His hurt, his frustration.

I don’t know if I can.

He didn’t know if he could ever get over his guilt, and she didn’t know if she could live with his racing.

During his time in jail, two thoughts had consumed him. Racing, and having Caitlyn in his arms. He never wanted to let go, of either. But now he was pushing her away, and he had no idea why.

Of course he knew why. This could never work. No point in delaying the inevitable.

I don’t know if I can.

He wasn’t about to call out to her. Damn if he called out to her and begged her to come back.

His mouth soured. Not because of the hospital, his lack of water, his lack of hope. But because he didn’t know what to do next, didn’t know how to apologize to Caitlyn. Didn’t know how to tell her none of this mattered. It was his life, but none of it mattered without her in it.

It had to matter. He wouldn’t give up racing. Not for her. Not now, not ever. Not for anyone.

But he wanted her to love him, love the sport as much as he did, wanted her to support him, fight for him, believe in him.

Forgive him.

If she didn’t, none of this mattered.

Racing would allow him to run from his past for the rest of his life and it wouldn’t appear he was running. But he didn’t want to run.

He didn’t know how he felt about Caitlyn, not anymore, only that he’d never felt anything stronger, more confusing. Shouldn’t love be more obvious? More intuitive?

It’d be in his best interest to let her leave, no matter how painful it was to watch her go. His pulse thrummed low at the knowledge. Was that true, or was it only his fear?

The truth slammed into him, hard. He didn’t want to outrun his past. He wanted to own up to it, embrace it, and stop making excuses.

Excuses of why he couldn’t love again. He’d never love anyone, ever. Not like he loved Caitlyn. He’d tried. No woman had ever had ever made him this damn crazy. Guilty. Stupid.

And heroic.

None of this was about his past. He’d like to convince himself it was. Like to convince himself that the way he felt about Caitlyn was only the memories. He’d loved her once, but he’d walked away. He’d do it again if he had to. If it was to punish himself, so be it. He could punish himself for the rest of his life and be just fine with it. But this was the here and now. Take away everything else and the only thing left was crazy, stupid, and heroic.

He wanted Caitlyn in his life. He wanted to love her forever.

*

Caitlyn tore the sheets and pillow casings from her bed, fighting back tears as she balled them in a pile and stuffed them in a trash bag.

Did she deserve to be unhappy? Was that why everything in her life was falling apart?

So Wesley didn’t want to talk about it? That was fine with her. It was
all
fine with her. He didn’t want her to be a part of her life?

Fine.

Her breath heaved as she whisked the new fitted sheet and tightened them on the corners of her bed. The smell of downy-soft cotton and rain-scented fabric softener gave her a headache and did not make her fresh and clean.

God, why had she even said anything to him? Why hadn’t she learned the first time not to open her mouth?

She might be suffering a mental breakdown, but she would be fine with it. She had known the consequences but decided to punish herself anyway. She was stupid, hoping maybe this time it would be different. Maybe this time he would
want
to talk. Maybe this time he’d tell her that he loved her.

She tossed the bottle of cologne in with the bag of sheets and hauled them to the Dumpster outside. She should donate them but didn’t want the bag lingering in her house a minute longer. Didn’t want them to exist anymore.

Why she sprayed her bed with his smell for the past ten years was a question she didn’t have an answer to. She tried throwing it out before and found she couldn’t sleep. This time, she had no choice if she wanted to get over him. She would never resort to spraying that scent on her bed again. She’d grow used to the smell of cotton and if nothing else, she’d spray lavender or some woman scent on her bed.

Once back inside, she fluffed the new comforter on the bed and admired her new pillows. Bright orange with red roses lent a feminine appeal. She was tired of masculine. Tired of purple, seeing as how Blake’s entire office was sheathed in purple. She needed color. Lots of color.

Wesley was the one who didn’t want to work a relationship out, the one who couldn’t talk about the problems, the one who didn’t want to find happiness because he didn’t think he deserved it.

She sunk to the bed and grabbed a pillow, hugging it into her stomach. As much as she tried to convince herself of no fault, guilt consumed her once again.

She should have left well enough alone.

He’d continue to race. That’s what he loved, and eventually he’d find a woman to marry, maybe even have kids together. With his scars, the relationship probably wouldn’t be as deep as a woman would like, but maybe he’d get lucky and find a woman who wasn’t looking for deep.

She curled into a ball, fighting back tears. She hoped he’d never find a woman to share what they once had. She’d never find a man, but why shouldn’t that be okay with her? After all, many people would never experience even once what she experienced, so if she had to settle for a mediocre relationship for the rest of her life, so be it.

As long as she never saw Wesley again. Forget the biography, forget the past. Maybe she’d write a fiction story or something. She would stop talking, stop questioning men and their motives, and just be alone for the rest of her life.

She’d start by quitting her job. She couldn’t work for Johnson Webb. And definitely not with Blake, the man who’d lied to her.

But she had one thing to do first.

“I need to talk about my parents.”

Wesley opened Tim’s refrigerator and took out a beer, popped the top and guzzled a quarter of it, before turning on his heel and shutting the door with his foot. He sat at the barstool and took another drink as he watched Tim chop vegetables.

After being released from the hospital two days ago, he agreed that he should take time off from racing. And yet, racing was the last thing on his mind. All he could think about was Caitlyn. He missed her.

Garlic, oregano, and tomato laced the air as Tim created his world famous spaghetti. He dropped veggies into the skillet and turned to peruse Wesley.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

“Everything. How they met. What happened to them when I was three years old and he left for three years. Things like that.”

“I have pictures.” Tim placed a lid on his sauce to let it simmer and removed the noodles from the heat. “I even have a journal of your mom’s.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. When she died, I went over to the house and took some things without Johnson knowing. I hoped eventually, when you started a family of your own, you would want those pictures. I was afraid Johnson would get rid of them, or keep them and you’d never get to see them.” Tim strained the water out of the noodles and placed them on the counter, checked his sauce again, then grabbed a beer and sat beside Wesley.

“Well where are they?”

Tim nodded and rose to fetch the pictures, while Wesley stole a piece of tomato from the salad in the fridge.

“Hey,” Tim said when he walked in and caught Wesley.

“I’m hungry. Don’t tell me I’m gonna spoil my appetite.”

“It’s damn good spaghetti. Try not to spoil it.” Tim handed him a suede-covered, well preserved book. “Here are the pictures. Her journal.”

He accepted the journal and sat at the table, afraid to open the pages. Had it even been opened since her death?

“And I almost forgot about this.”

“What is it?” Wesley asked as he took it, but realized what it was. His baby book. He and his mom had mused over it together several times.

“Does my dad know you have this?”

“I don’t even know if he knew it existed,” Tim replied. “And if so, who the hell cares. It’s yours, not his.”