Signs Your Crush Isn’t Into You!!!
2. If your crush shows signs of being into someone else, ABORT!
This is another confirmation, not that he needed one.
All Wes wanted was for his summer to be like a good ‘90s rock song: days in the sun, being a slacker, and falling in love at a party. It figures things wouldn’t work out that way. Wes wants Green Day and life gives him Backstreet Boys—crushes and heartbreak and truly awful parent-child relationship issues.
A weight settles against Wes’s chest. It’s as if someone’s wrapped rubber bands around his lungs, cutting off the air flow. He tastes the bile at the back of his throat. Is he even standing? He’s not sure.
Nico’s out with another girl. I need to move on.
Erratic heartbeats in his ears are the loudest noise he’s ever heard.
“Wes,” Cooper says quietly. “They’re just—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ella interrupts, frustrated. She pivots to Wes. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Wes shakes out of his daze. “What? No. We can’t.” He tries to lift his arm to wave around the bookstore, but he’s too numb. “Open mic night.”
Ella looks over her shoulder at Zay. They share a conversation with their eyes. Eventually, Zay says, “We can hold it down.”
“No,” Wes protests, voice shaking.
“I was gonna upstage you anyway,” Zay argues gently. “Sorry Wes, but I shine too bright for co-hosting.”
He does, but Wes knows it’s not why Zay’s doing this. It’s not pity either. It’s just Zay. The silly kid always acts as though he owes the world when, really, it’s the other way around.
“It’s settled then.” Ella stalks over to the front counter. She tugs on her leather jacket, swings her car keys. “We’re going out.”
“Ella,” Wes says hoarsely, throat dry. “This is unnecessary. We have to be here for the bookstore and—”
“It’ll be fine,” Ella says sharply. “The bookstore, like any other day, will prevail. We’re leaving.”
Before Wes can launch into his next desperate plea out of a night sure to be filled with alcohol and crying and feelings, Anna says, “I’m going too.” She’s already armed with her denim jacket and a light gray beanie.
Shit. Wes has no reinforcements to battle Anna’s determined, Teflon smile. He’s defenseless when they gang up on him.
“Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”
Going out is code for a trip to Downtown Los Angeles. It only takes forty-five minutes in traffic on I-10 for Ella to regret her decision. But she blasts pop grunge mayhem the entire way, so her road rage is minimized to a few choice swear words and middle-fingered salutes. Anna wails along from the backseat while Wes rides shotgun, slouching. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he creeps on Nico’s Instagram, searching for clues to who this girl is. It’s masochism at its finest.
Since Nico hasn’t updated his feed in days, Wes dives into his older posts. He clicks on every tag in a photo for an unfamiliar account. He zooms in on every image for the barest hint of a hand or a foot or anything that might resemble someone other than Nico standing on the beach with a sunset backdrop and a cheesy expression. He achieves total stalker stardom by scrolling through Nico’s followers as if those tiny profile photos will unlock the mysteries of Red Hair Girl.
They don’t.
He’s nauseated and broken and embarrassed by the time they pull up on Fatburger for fries and milkshakes.
Wes manages to huff half a Maui banana shake with minimal brain freeze before they reach their true final destination: the top deck of a random parking garage near Seventh Street. Moonlight bursts through rangy clouds east of the city. Each breath is charged with the scent of greasy fries and polluted summer air and motor oil. They sprawl out on the hood of Ella’s car, three-deep, munching and slurping.
The car’s windows are cracked. Fortunately, Wes took control of the music before they arrived. Weezer’s laid-back, power pop anthem “Island in the Sun” serenades the city. It’s a cool night. July’s dead and August has arrived to wear summer’s pale gold crown.
His phone buzzes. A text from Calvin to join the ones from Leeann and Leo. Wes ignores it, turning on his side to face Ella and Anna.
“How do you get over someone?”
Ella, knees bent, eyes on the few visible stars in the sky, replies, “Try not to get under them?” with an unreasonably serious face.
Anna snorts, and Wes joins her, a hand over his eyes.
“I don’t know. Feelings are overrated,” Ella says. “They’re messy. And emotions, if allowed to run wild, are way too controlling.”
“True story,” Anna mumbles, her mouth filled with fries.
“I mean, look at it. In high school, we treat relationships like a bragging right. We’re not really in it. It’s a game.” Ella sips on her chocolate shake. “And all the adults around us act as if being in love is this cure-all. Love doesn’t fix anything.”
“I don’t think it’s supposed to,” Wes says, head propped on his forearm.
“Exactly. Stop trying to fix your issues with love or sex or a damn puppy.”
“Puppies are nice,” Anna says.
“Okay, admittedly, any pet that will openly show you affection without needing anything other than food and somewhere to nap is hella awesome,” Ella agrees. “But why do people try to use other things to repair something inside themselves? Like, a kid won’t help you resolve long-ignored mental health issues just because someone on TV suggested children are the foundation of a strong relationship.”
Wes nods, though Ella’s not looking at him.
“I swear it’s the transitive property.” Ella glares at the indigo sky. “No one thinks about how much of your own shit you transfer onto someone or something else when you unload all that on them.”
“I don’t think that’s the transitive property,” comments Wes.
“Whatever it is, it’s harmful and abusive and ignorant.”
“Word,” Wes mumbles.
“Do you know I had to beg my mom to go to therapy?” Ella laughs roughly. “And get this—she’s so determined to make sure none of her wine o’clock plastic friends find out about it that, when she finally agreed, I had to find a therapist online. Skype sessions only. Poor Mrs. Graham couldn’t afford the social landslide that would occur if anyone spotted her fat, less-than-perfect daughter walking into an actual office building to work through her issues.”
Wes’s mouth slides open; no words come out.
From the other side, Anna’s arm comes around. She wriggles it under Ella’s defiant head, and they lie like that, scrunched together, Anna half-hugging her.
“Adults suck,” she says quietly. “And I’m one of them.”
Wes doesn’t know why, but he giggles at that. Ella does too. “You’re mildly acceptable in that role,” Ella says wetly. “But you’re too rad to be a full adult.”
“A half adult?” Anna asks.
“A quarter one,” Ella says.
Wes shifts back around, staring up at the nomadic clouds. In his peripheral vision, the city twinkles. He can identify a few buildings by shape, some by neon signage, but Wes could never draw them in his mind the way his mom does when she writes about Los Angeles. It’s one thing he can appreciate about her writing—the way she takes words and turns them into full murals in someone’s mind. Masterpieces hung in the brain.
Guiltily, Wes wishes she’d given that kind of attention and detail to him. If she spent less time trying to write her next bestseller, maybe she could help him solve some of his problems. Or maybe, at the least, she could tell him how any of this works.
“I think everyone’s parents suck in some capacity,” he says. “They’re all flawed children in adult-sized clothes.”
Ella snorts. “Your parents are golden.”
“The good kind.”
A calm breeze shifts over them. Ella tugs her leather jacket closed. Anna’s pulled her beanie so far down, she no longer has visible eyebrows. Wes snuggles into his hoodie, watching the sky.
“Okay, but Wes,” Ella says in that voice that usually accompanies a truly horrendous speech, “You high-key need to get over him. It’s time. Moving on from things isn’t the worst.”
Isn’t it, though? Change is something Wes hasn’t made friends with.
Ella channels her sincerity through cold fingertips as she wraps a hand around his wrist. “It’ll be okay if you meet someone new. If you let someone pursue you.”
Wes’s own fingers dig into his palms.
“You can’t stay hung up on him forever.”
He doesn’t plan to. Then again, maybe plans aren’t Wes’s strong suit after all?
The blue light of his phone screen draws his attention. There’s a new social media notification. Fate has crashed his pity-party.
Wes has several new private messages from one @manus808:
Ok. This took a lot of courage to do. So here me out. You and me eating good together. I know a place close to the bookstore. U down?
9:56 p.m.
*HEAR me out! Damn I’m better with words I promise.
9:57 p.m.
*eating FOOD together. But also eating GOOD food together. Am I a dork?
9:58 p.m.
Of course I’m a dork! I said U down? WTF. Plz say this hasn’t changed your mind. Unless you were going to say no? I hope not. I’m fun ;)
10:00 p.m.
Chapter Nineteen
In less than an hour, Wes has learned many things, but the most important is—Manu’s way out of his league.
Third Street Promenade is an endless stretch of gray sidewalk, colorful shops, and restaurants sighing delicious scents into passing pedestrians’ faces. The complex has two movie theaters bookending opposite corners, along with multiple coffee shops and an Apple store unceasingly crammed with locals and tourists. But, tonight, Third Street is relatively mellow. The perfect evening for an unofficial date.
Wes is glad they haven’t put a label on this. They’re just two boys sitting on a café’s outdoor patio, chatting. Farther down the pavement, dinosaur-shaped shrubbery watches over passersby like sentries. Fairy lights are wound around trees; their shine rivals the streetlamps and neon signs.
Manu lowers his coffee cup. “Your turn.”
The scalding temperature of the black tea Wes slurps matches the fire in his cheeks. They’ve started a game—one fact in exchange for one embarrassing truth. Wes loves it, except when it’s his turn again.
Mentally, he’s compiled a list. A Manu list, the first of its kind.
Things I Know About Manuia
1. He’s from O’ahu, Hawaii.
2. Two major scars: one on the inside of his left ankle; the other on his left shoulder blade—the “scapula.” Google it. Both from surfing.
3. Oldest of five siblings. Four brothers, one sister.
4. Asked his first boy out to a high school carnival where he blew chunks all over said guy’s brand-new Nikes following an unfortunate ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl!
5. Studying to be a veterinary physician. Sounds way more complicated than grooming cats and playing with puppies.
6. He’s Polynesian, Filipino, and Japanese. Bonus Points: Hates the “Okay, but where are your parents FROM?” question. They’re from Hilo and Long Beach respectively.
7. Five Year Plan: Finish his degree, get a job in SoCal, buy a house, and visit Tokyo.
See, the imbalance is definitive. Manu is ready to adult. Wes just wants to save a bookstore. Thing is, Wes likes him. He loves how humble Manu is; the way he makes eye contact when someone speaks to him; how he’s not aware his pinky sticks out when he sips his coffee.
He likes that he can assess these things, and Manu doesn’t even flinch.
“Okay.” Wes rubs his hands together, thinking. “Fact: I’m—”
“No, no. Wait.” Manu laughs. It’s this deep, warm noise, like campfires sound in the middle of nowhere. “You already did fact. Embarrassing story time.”
Wes holds up a finger. “When did we agree on rules to this game?”
“They were implied.”
“Implication does not equal explicit statement,” Wes argues.
Holy Batgirl, why does he sound like Leo?
“Fair.” Manu rests an elbow on their table, then seats his chin on his knuckles. “Should we establish rules, then?”
Is he talking about this game or something else?
Wes swallows, throat dry. He sips more tea. Manu’s watching him. A feathery tickle crawls from Wes’s lower spine to the back of his neck. The patio is surrounded by stainless steel tiki torches. Golden flames dance light over Manu’s eyes.
“No rules,” Wes stammers.
“Fine. Fact: I like you.”
“Wait, no, it’s my turn and…”
Wes shuts the hell up. Manu likes him. He said it. No hesitation. There were no long moments of fumbling and creating lists about why he should say it. He didn’t spend an entire summer—and a greater portion of the last few years—debating over whether he should say it. It happened, and Wes’s been staring at him, jaw slack, eyes bugging, for entirely too long for this to be an acceptable response to someone saying, “I like you.”
Someone’s throat clears. Their waitress hovers above them with a small plate in the palm of one hand. A giant cinnamon roll dripping in melted cream cheese icing descends upon them. “Enjoy,” she says, then walks three tables down to take another order.
“Dig in,” Manu says, offering a fork to Wes.
Their fingers brush. It’s an instant warmth to join all the other feelings wrestling around Wes’s stomach. Why hasn’t he said anything back to Manu?
Manu made it look so easy. But Wes is floundering, mentally kicking and screaming. He’s weighing the positives and negatives.
“Uh.”
No intelligible words escape the open hole that is Wes’s mouth. But his left hand scoots across the white linen tablecloth. It swims around the salt and pepper shakers and Manu’s forgotten coffee until his fingertips skim Manu’s knuckles.
Manu peeks down. Then, with icing drying on his bottom lip and mashed pastry on his tongue, he says, “It’s about time,” with a grin Wes will never forget.
The distance from Third Street Promenade to the loft is minimal. Manu’s car is parked in one of the garages near the complex, but he insists on walking Wes home. It’s an entire bolded, asterisked, all caps bullet point added to Wes’s list. Second Street toward Colorado Avenue is oddly empty as they stroll, but it elicits just enough courage for Wes to let their shoulders brush and hands almost link. Santa Monica is very progressive, but Wes still hasn’t found that comfort level where he knows he can walk hand in hand with another boy down a sidewalk at night. He’s seen it, sure, but he’s not there yet.
Manu doesn’t seem to mind.
“Your turn,” he says, pinky catching Wes’s, then swinging away. “Fact or mortifying childhood incident. Your choice.”
“You pick.”
Manu hums, eyes forward. “I’m drunk with power.”
A burst of laughter escapes Wes. It eases his thoughts away from the fact that they’re creeping closer to Paseo Del Mar. The night could end in a kiss, or Wes could invite Manu upstairs. That might end in a lot of heavy groping—or playing video games. Wes isn’t sure which he’d prefer.
They pause at a crosswalk. “Fact,” Manu finally says.
“My brother’s getting married sometime next year.” Of all t
hings, Wes doesn’t know why he decides to bring up Leo other than he got a text from Leeann about shoes while at dinner. “My future sister-in-law is so rad. But I don’t exactly get along with my brother.”
“I get that,” Manu says. He leaves it at that.
He doesn’t ask invasive questions or force Wes to spew his nightmarish childhood fights with Leo all over the sidewalk. He simply lets it go.
Another W in the Manu column.
“My mom loves books,” Manu says as they move down another street. “As a kid, I used to hate it. She’d bury her face in a book for hours, forgetting I exist.” A clipped laugh slips past his lips. “So I stole her copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”
“By Maya Angelou,” Wes says absently.
Manu bumps their shoulders. “Yup. At first I was just hiding it, but then I had to know what she loved about books. I decided to read it myself. And… fuck. I couldn’t put it down.”
The way he says it, eyes glazed as if he’s staring into a time loop, shoulders free and loose, Wes almost feels as if he’s there. In tiny Manu’s bedroom, holding a beat-up paperback novel. His heart races.
“I never stole from her again,” Manu whispers, coming back to himself. “I asked. Whenever she finished a book, I asked to read it.” They stop at another crosswalk. “Some I probably shouldn’t have read, but my mom was just stoked I wanted them.”
The backs of their knuckles brush. Wes’s fingers dip into the spaces between Manu’s. He’s only testing the limits. But Manu never pulls away. He smells like woodsmoke and bergamot, but nothing like Nico’s grapefruit body wash…
Wait. No. No, no, no.
Wes can’t do this. He can’t be on an informal date with a guy who listened to Wes ramble about the hierarchy of Superman films and think of Nico. It’s the worst kind of self-imposed trap. Crushes are supposed to be temporary, fleeting. And yet Wes has allowed this one to become another organ—a necessity in order to function properly.
“Hey.” Manu slows down. Wes does too. “Something on your mind?”
They’re mere feet from the pastel pink building leading to the loft. Wes glances between the door and Manu and their hands, still playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can.
The Summer of Everything Page 19
