Page 80 of Licks

Goddamn Gwen for walking away from me. Goddamn me for letting her.

She loved me. That much I knew. When I’d asked her to deny it, her expression had been unmistakable. Her nose hadn’t twitched. Her body had leaned toward me. Her lips had parted in longing…and she hadn’t uttered the words.

Gwen loved me as much as I loved her, but she was stuck in one of her self-loathing spirals, hating on herself, choosing solitude over connection. Thinking herself unworthy.

Resentment toward her mother surged. Mary may have brought us together through her cryptic letter, but she was the reason Gwen was treading water now, shutting down on me. I’d been worried Gwen wouldn’t forgive me for never meeting her father, stealing that precious time from her. In the end, she blamed herself. Typical Gwen. Stubborn Gwen.

And stubborn Gwen was a force to be reckoned with.

This was the girl who’d cut me out of her life with the precision of a neurosurgeon.

Twice.

Still, I should have chased after her. Followed her discreetly, at least. Only an idiot would let his best friend walk into a potentially devastating situation alone. It wasn’t right. I should be with her, not leaning on the park bench from her mother’s journal.

Gwen’s car was long gone. I stood like an idiot, feeling chilled. Lost.

A never-ending line of tourists paid for their Alcatraz tours. I could join them, distract myself for a few hours touring the prison. Instead I searched the bench, as we’d planned. It was fruitless. Mary’s name was nowhere to be found, which meant I could have lied to Gwen. I could have continued my ruse and burned the letter. I could be with her now.

Except Owen was right: I’d always know.

I stood and paced. I checked my phone. The screen was blank.

Fuck.

With all the running around we’d been doing, I hadn’t charged it. Gwen couldn’t reach me. I couldn’t call her. What if she got to the house and panicked? What if the woman who lived there lashed out at her?

When I’d visited last week, the woman had seemed nice enough: in her forties or fifties, brown curly hair, glasses, wearing a T-shirt that read I’d rather be gardening. I’d donned my PI skills and had claimed a client offered Ted Mercer’s name to have his driveway repaved. The woman’s chin had wobbled when informing me of Ted’s passing.

If Gwen told her who she was, that sweet demeanor could shift to sour. Things could get nasty fast. I gripped my phone and cursed under my breath. Screw it. She may not want me with her, but I couldn’t let her do this alone.

The street looked the same as it had a week ago. All except for Gwen’s gray Impreza parked at the curb. I pulled up behind her. She was in the driver seat, her head bent forward. Was she crying? Had she already been in the house?

I tried to unclick my seat belt and pocket my keys while opening the door. All I managed was to jam my elbow. Gritting my teeth, I made it out and reached the side of her car in six long strides.

Her tousled hair hung forward, shielding her face. The journal was on her lap, her head firmly planted on her steering wheel. She didn’t seem to be breathing.

Worried, I knocked on the driver’s window. She jumped so suddenly she whacked her elbow on the door. She rubbed her skin and squinted at me. There was a crease on her brow from the steering wheel, moisture in her eyes. She said something I couldn’t hear.

I rushed to the passenger side and let myself in, yanking the door shut behind me.

She looked like a sad puppy. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, baby. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“But you were right. I pushed you away again, for the same stupid reasons I did as a kid, thinking you’d be better off without me. That I didn’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything. And you heard my albums—those hate songs? The sad ones? That’s what happens when I’m without you. That’s not better, Gwen. You make me better.”

Her chin trembled. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.”

“I kind of deserved it.” Remorse still emanated from her. Only one thing would erase it. I reached over and ran my thumb down the sweet dent in her brow line. “If you’re at fault here, then you need my forgiveness, which I can offer, under one condition.”

She bit her lip, waiting.

“You forgive yourself first.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. Not enough to spill, but her strife was potent. An internal battle waging. Like Gwen, I was my worst critic at times, hating songs that fans loved, kicking myself for concert blunders. Reliving arguments where I should have said this or done that on an angry loop in my head. Accepting ourselves, fuck-ups and all, was no easy feat. Particularly tough when no one taught you how.