It Was Us

IT WAS US

ANNA CRUISE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead,  is entirely coincidental.

IT WAS US

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2013

Mission Bay Publishing

cover design by Mae I Design Photography

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.

This book is dedicated to every single one of you who fell in love with Abby and West's story. I never thought I'd write
three
books about these characters. But they sort of grabbed on to my heart and didn't let go. I hope you enjoy this final chapter in their story—it was a bittersweet journey for me and I hope you know that, without
you
, this never would have happened. Thank you for caring. Thank you for supporting. Thank you for wanting to hear what happened next to them.

Thank you for being the awesome readers you are.

Love,

Anna

ONE

ABBY

“Hey, beautiful.”

I opened my eyes slowly, squinting as the light hit my eyes. For the first time in almost a week, I didn't feel like I was going to die.

West stood in the doorway, a Padres hat sitting backward on top of his head, a tender smile on his face.

“Hey,” I managed.

He moved closer, his feet soundless as they padded across the room. He took a seat at the edge of my bed and reached his hand underneath the sheets, searching for me. His fingers found mine and he wrapped his hand around them, squeezing gently.

“How are you?” he asked.

I swallowed a couple of times, a test of sorts. The flu that had knocked me to the ground for almost a week had finally abated. My throat no longer felt like I was swallowing razor blades and the headache that had rendered me a crying, simpering mess was finally waning, a dull ache replacing the stabbing knives that had taken up residence in my head for days.

“Better,” I said. “I think.”

His blue eyes held a mix of concern and amusement. “You think? You don't know?” He shook his head. “Maybe the fever killed off a few more brain cells than we thought.”

“Shut up.”

But I said this with a smile. I'd gone down—hard—the week before and had spent six miserable days in bed. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so sick for so long. I could barely open my eyes, could do nothing but sleep and, at my worst moments, hope someone would put me out of misery. In a turn of events, my mother had become my nursemaid, bringing me bowls of soup that sat untouched and glasses of cold ice water that turned lukewarm because I couldn't muster enough strength or energy to swallow either of them.

And, through it all, West had come by. Nearly every afternoon, after classes and practice were over, he'd come and sit with me. I didn't remember most of it but when I would open my eyes and scan my bedroom in a fever-induced haze, I would see him. Sense him. Parked in a chair next to my bed, a textbook propped in his lap, his expression intense as he flipped through pages or jotted down notes on the pad of paper underneath his book. He would stay late, well after the sun had gone down and my parents had gone to bed. He'd plant cool kisses on my fiery forehead and squeeze my shoulder and stroke my arm and whisper words I couldn't hear.

“Glad you've decided to rejoin the living.” He grinned and I wondered how his smile still managed to make my heart skip a beat. We'd been together for almost two years and a look from him could still launch butterflies in my stomach. “I'm not really into zombies.”

I tried to prop myself up on my elbow. “No? Not into brain-eating?”

“Gross. Sushi is about as close as I get to raw meat.”

“We could cook the brains,” I pointed out.

He considered this. “True. But I bet they're chewy. Like the fat on a pork chop or something.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Yuck. Stop talking about it. Makes me want to vomit.”

“What's new?” His grin widened. “Pretty sure you've felt that way for a week straight.”

I acknowledged this with a smile. He was right. “Can we please stop talking about eating brains and pork fat?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Uh, you brought it up.”

I shook my head and immediately regretted it. A wave of dizziness washed over me, the knives sharpening themselves inside my skull. I dropped my head back to my pillow.

“You okay?” West was done joking, his voice full of concern.

I managed a nod. “Yeah. I think. Just weak.”

He stood up. “I'll get you something to eat. Something to drink. That sound okay?”

I closed my eyes and thought about it. As if on cue, my stomach growled loudly.

He laughed. “Alrighty, then.” He leaned down and kissed the top of my head, his lips brushing my hair. “Be right back.”

I closed my eyes again and, after what seemed like only ten seconds, he was back, a steaming bowl of deliciousness in one hand, a glass of something clear and sparkling in the other. And suddenly, I was both thirsty and ravenous. I sat up, adjusted the pillows behind me and reached for the glass.

He handed it to me and I took a tentative sip. It was cool and bubbly and my throat didn't close up in protest as the liquid slid down. Sips turned to gulps as I drained the glass.

I handed it back to West's waiting hand.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded.

He grabbed the chair next to my bed, pulled it closer and sat down. He leaned toward me, the bowl of soup in his hand. He lifted the spoon and brought it to me.

“I can feed myself,” I said, frowning.

He held the spoon to my lips. “I know.”

“So give it to me.”

“No.”

“West.”

“Abby.”

I rolled my eyes. “Seriously. I can hold a goddamn spoon. Give it to me.”

“I want to do it,” he said firmly. “Let me take care of you.”

I glared at him. “You have been taking care of me,” I said. “For an entire week.”

“No, I haven't,” he said, shaking his head. “I was gone for three days. But maybe you don't remember.”

I made a face. I remembered. He'd been in Los Angeles, a three-day game series with three different colleges. I remembered thinking that I would drive up for one of the games but whatever flu I'd contracted had knocked that idea to the curb in a hurry.

“Alright,” I said. “Not a week. But the last few days, you have.”

“I've been sitting next to you. Feeling helpless. Wishing I could take care of you. Make you better.”

My heart hiccuped a little as he spoke. I knew how he felt. It was how I'd felt when my mom had gone through chemo in the fall. There were days that had been miserable, that I'd watched her struggle as the drugs coursed through her body, killing the cancer that had invaded her breast but wreaking havoc on everything else, too. There had been days when, like me, she'd been too sick to eat or drink. Days when she'd been too weak to make it to the bathroom, when I'd cleaned vomit from her face, her hands, her clothes. I'd done it because I'd needed to. But I'd done it because I'd wanted to, too.

I lowered my chin and slackened my jaw and opened my mouth. And West smiled. He touched the spoon to my open lips, tilted it so the hot liquid pooled inside my mouth. I swallowed and, like a baby bird, obediently opened my mouth again.

He laughed. “That's better.”

He fed me the entire bowl of broth, and, like the soda I'd gulped down, I couldn't remember anything having ever tasted so good.

West stood up and carried the empty bowl and glass to my dresser. He set them on top, moved the chair aside and positioned himself on the edge of my bed. He stared at me, a goofy, crooked smile on his face.

“What?” I asked. I lifted my hand to my mouth. “Do I have soup on my chin or something?” I rubbed at my skin but it felt dry.

“Nope. Just looking at you.”

I grimaced. “Why? I'm a mess.”

His hand touched my hair, a gentle caress. “No, you're not.”

“I haven't showered in days. My hair is a rat's nest.”

“You're beautiful, Abby Sellers.”

“Bullshit.”

He shifted so that he was laying next to me on the bed. His hand settled on my hip but there was nothing sexual about his embrace. His lips touched my cheek. “You are,” he insisted. “And I've missed you.”

“I've been right here,” I said, loving the feel of his skin on mine. I'd missed his touch. “Right in this bed. Unmoving. Practically comatose.”

“I know,” he murmured. He dusted my eyelids with kisses, brushed his lips against my forehead. “But I've missed
you
.”

I touched his arm, my fingers trailing from his forearm to his bicep, his skin muscled and taut under my fingers. I loved his body, that heady combination of hardness and smoothness that never failed to get my heart racing. I turned so I was facing him and pushed my hips into his.

He chuckled. “I didn't mean that.”

“What?” I put one hand on his chest and used the other to lift his chin so he was looking at me. “You just said you missed me.”

“I did,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “But I wasn't talking about sex. I was talking about you. Just being with you. Talking to you. Hanging out with you.”

“But you did miss it?” I narrowed me eyes. “Sex?”

His lips quirked into a smile. “Uh. Yes.” He brought his head close, his lips whispering across my cheek until they settled on my ear. He bit gently, nipping the sensitive flesh of my lobe, and I shuddered. “Yes. I missed fucking you.”

I sighed, a low, almost-moan, and dug my nails into the smooth expanse of skin. He stiffened and re-gripped me, his arms tightening. I pushed into him again, this time feeling the growing bulge in his cargo shorts.

“Abby,” he whispered. He lifted his hips so he was further away from me, half hanging off the bed.

“What?”

“We can't.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and tried to pull him closer. “Why not?”

He shook his head. “You've been out cold for a week. This is the first day you're feeling better. I'm not gonna just have my way with you.”

“What if I want you to?”

“You need to rest.”

I let my hand trail down his t-shirt to the top of his shorts. I felt his body go rigid again. “What if I'm tired of resting? What if I don't want to rest?”

“And what about your mom? She could be home any minute.”

“No, she won't. She just left for the store. It'll take her hours.”

He just stared at me and shook his head but I could see his resolve was fading. I didn't want a wild afternoon of uninhibited sex. Even I knew I couldn't handle that. But to feel him laying next to me, his body against mine? To feel loved and be loved? I didn't just want that. I
needed
it.

“I'll feel like the biggest asshole, having sex with my sick girlfriend.”

I cupped him through his shorts and he groaned softly. “But it'll make me feel better.”

“Jesus,” he muttered but he didn't move away this time, just thrust into my hands, growing bigger and harder by the second.

“Please,” I whispered. I unbuttoned his shorts and slid down the zipper and wrapped my hand around him, eliciting another, louder moan. “Please.”

He lifted up, yanking his shorts off his legs.

And he didn't make me ask again.

TWO

WEST

I watched Abby sleep. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes brushing the skin underneath. She had dark circles under her eyes and her complexion was pale, the product of having spent almost a week locked away in her bedroom. But, to me, she'd never looked more beautiful.

I shifted the arm that was underneath her, bringing her closer to me. Her mouth opened slightly, a half-sigh escaping as she slept, and she snuggled against my chest. I felt my heart tighten and I held her close, breathing her in. She smelled like sweat and sickness but I didn't care. She was here. She was fine. And she was mine.

I'd just lived through one of the longest weeks of my life. I knew she'd only had the flu, knew she'd eventually get better, but it had been a huge wake-up call, having my girlfriend go down for the count. It wasn't like we were attached at the hip but we spent a shitload of time together. We studied together, ate together, slept together. And to have her sidelined—to see her laying in bed, feeling miserable—was about the most helpless I'd ever felt in my life. I imagined it must have been like how Abby had felt while her mom was going through chemo. In true Abby fashion, she hadn't complained during those long weeks of taking care of her mom. She did what was expected of her, what she needed to do. And when I'd ask her about it, see if she needed help or wanted to talk, she'd offer a tired smile and share careful bits and pieces, never upset or angry, always grateful that her mom was doing okay and that she was there to help.

Me? When Abby came down with a 104 fever and lay practically comatose on the bed, oblivious to me and everything else around her? I wanted to smash things, throw things, work out my frustration at having the person I loved most in my life feeling so thoroughly miserable. I would have taken her sickness in a heartbeat, figured out a way to suck it out of her and breathe it into me. Anything to spare her, to keep her from hurting. And when I'd had to leave her to go play ball, it had practically killed me. I'd managed to focus, to pull it together, but not without a few choice words from Coach Klein.

I glanced down at her again. I could feel her breathing, even and steady, her breath blowing softly against my neck. I ran my hand up her arm, lifted it to touch her forehead. She wasn't hot, wasn't clammy.

She was Abby. My Abby. Healthy and beautiful and as sexy as ever. I felt a quick stab of guilt. I'd had no intention of sleeping with her that afternoon. I wanted to comfort her, to slide into bed next to her and let her know that I'd missed touching her, reassure her that she was loved. But she'd looked at me. Touched me. Demanded I fuck her.

And I wasn't a guy to say no to my girlfriend. Not when she was demanding that.