Happenstance: A Novella Series: Part Three

by Jamie McGuire

Weston managed a tired chuckle.

  “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe his sugar is low,” Frankie said, already holding a cone under the soft-serve machine. She dipped a tower of vanilla, complete with a perfect curl on top, into the vat of cherry dip-cone sauce, and she handed it to Weston.

  He chomped off the top and hummed his satisfaction. “Way better than detention,” he said with a mouthful.

  By the time Julianne walked in, Weston’s color had already returned.

  “Hey, guys,” she said, grabbing Weston’s wrist. She stared down at her watch and then smiled up at him half a minute later. “Pulse is good.”

  “Erin forced me to eat ice cream and rest instead of going to detention,” Weston said, seeming sleepy. “I should break up with her.”

  “Does detention have anything to do with the fact that you’re covered in paint?” Julianne asked, leaning her head a bit as she focused on Weston’s pupils.

  Frankie crossed her arms. “I was going to ask about that.”

  The drive-through speaker beeped, and Frankie stood next to the window, greeting the customer while still watching us.

  I winced under Julianne’s expectant eyes. “We sort of started a paint fight at the mural.”

  “You did?” Julianne asked, her voice going up an octave.

  “I did,” Weston said, holding his dip cone high in the air. “She just retaliated.”

  Julianne covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. She smoothed her features and then stood tall. “All right, Weston, I’m taking you to Dr. Briggs’s office to get you checked out. Your mom is going to meet us there.” She turned to me. “Are you working or going to detention?”

  I looked at Frankie.

  “Just come after,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m afraid if I don’t go, Mrs. Cup might go to more extreme measures. I don’t want to end up getting suspended.”

  “Come on,” Julianne said, leading us outside.

  “I really don’t need to go to the doctor,” Weston said, seeming disgusted at the thought.

  “Tell your mom that,” Julianne said.

  She took me to my car, still parked at the mural. Lethargic and unhappy, Weston gave me a peck on the cheek before he drove away with Julianne.

  When I walked into detention, Mrs. Cup stood. “How’s Weston?”

  “Jul—my mom took him to see Dr. Briggs just to make sure he’s okay.”

  Mrs. Cup nodded, sitting back down at her desk. She sank back into her chair as if the guilt would sneak up and swallow her at any moment.

  After another half an hour, Mrs. Cup released us, and I rushed out to my car. I drove a few miles per hour faster than usual to get to work.

  Frankie was swamped when I got there, and I quickly tied on my apron and opened my window.

  “You look a little silly, wearing an apron when you’re covered in paint,” Frankie said, chomping on a wad of gum.

  “Probably,” I said before taking an order from the small boy at my window.

  Once the rush died down, Frankie began the task of cleaning up the mess we’d made. I grabbed a rag and helped. We scrubbed down the chocolate syrup and strawberry sauce and then wiped the candies away. A strange, unfamiliar feeling came over me, like I had been dropped into a dream I’d once had.

  “What?” Frankie asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She made a face. “I haven’t seen you in however long, and you’re holding out on me? Really?”

  “It’ll sound awful if I say it out loud.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  I sighed. “It feels weird to be here.”

  Her expression twisted into something I’d only seen when the Erins were around. “Weird, as in you haven’t been here in a while and you’re out of practice? Or weird, as in you’re too good to be here?”

  “Frankie!” I whined.

  After the flush on her cheeks changed from pink to bright red, she turned away from me, took a breath, and then faced me again. “I’m sorry. You warned me, but I still wasn’t prepared.”

  “Is that really what you think of me?”

  “Maybe I’m just waiting for you to turn into Alder. Just…so much has changed for you in a short amount of time, but everything is still the same for me. It’s jarring.”

  “I agree,” I said, that annoying whine still in my voice. I tried to stop, but every time my mouth opened, I sounded like a spoiled brat.

  It was no wonder she felt like I was turning into Alder. I sounded a bit like her in that moment.

  Frankie cocked her head and blew her bangs away from her face. “I know. You’re right,” she said, shaking her head. “Your whole world is spinning, and I’m feeling sorry for myself because you have a gallon of paint on your hundred-dollar jeans, and you haven’t even mentioned it.”

  I looked down. “These aren’t that expensive, are they?”

  She nodded.

  Horrified, I stared at the Skittles-colored denim. “Why didn’t Julianne say anything?”

  “She bought them for you?” Frankie deadpanned. “Of course she did. You’ve been shopping at the secondhand store your entire life, like the rest of us. Why did I think you’d know what you were wearing?”

  “How do I get paint out of jeans?” I asked, scrambling to wet a clean rag. It was too late though. The paint had dried.

  “So, what is it like, not having to worry about anything?” Frankie tried to cover the bitterness in her voice but failed.

  “I still have worries. Sam and Julianne still have worries. They’re just different.”

  “How so?”

  “Basically, they’re the same worries you have, except for paying for things. They worry about me. They worry about the future, about their friends, about work—stuff like that. Having money doesn’t make the hard stuff go away.”

  “Wait for it,” she said, holding up one finger. “I might be shedding a tear for rich people everywhere.”

  I threw my rag at her, trying not to smile. “What I meant by what I said earlier was that my life has been split in two—then and now. This was a huge part of my life before Sam and Julianne.”

  “And Weston?”

  “No. He’s the only thing that’s part of both. He’s the bridge that carried me over.”

  “You did the carrying today.”

  “I owed him one—or fifty.”

  We continued cleaning, only waiting on a half-dozen customers before closing time.

  “Ride?” Frankie asked, for old times’ sake.

  “No, thank you,” I said without mentioning the obvious.

  “Adios, bitchachos!”

  I waved to her and sat in my car, laughing once and shaking my head. I pushed the ignition button, and the engine growled awake. I wasn’t scheduled to work again until after graduation, and even though I was going to miss Frankie and the Dairy Queen, it wasn’t my safe haven anymore. That was now my house, my parents, and Weston. Those all made me feel protected and secure.

  Thoughts of Weston, Sam and Julianne, Gina, Frankie, and how much everything had changed swirled in my mind as I drove home, but it was no accident that I bypassed the Aldermans’ house and went straight to the Gates’ home.

  Weston’s truck was parked in the street. The days were getting longer, so the setting sun was casting pink and orange hues onto his cherry-red paint. I crawled up into the bed of the truck and popped the lid off the cooler in the back. After sloshing my hand through the ice water, I settled on a Fanta Orange. I pulled the can out and then plunged my dripping hand in for another.

  The neighbors must have gotten a new puppy because a small German shepherd bounced and barked behind the fence next door as I followed the curved sidewalk connecting the drive to the front door. I hadn’t been this way too many times. I usually came through the garage with Weston.

  The lit doorbell button blinked when I pushed it, and cathedral-like bells began to ring in a formal melody. A few moments later, Veronica opened the door with a warm smile
and tired eyes. After a second of recognition, she took a step back, opening the door wider, and gestured for me to come in.

  “He’s downstairs,” she said, looking down at my paint-covered clothing.

  “It’s dry,” I promised.

  “I should hope so.” Amusement undermined her efforts to retain a scolding tone.

  She cupped her hip with her palm and shook her head as I walked past. I easily navigated the path to the finished basement. With each downward step, familiar fluttering in my stomach amplified. It wasn’t gravity pulling me down the stairs. It was an irrefutable force that had been borne in the bed of a red Chevy truck and fostered in a pair of emerald-green eyes. I wondered if the light-headedness that came over me when I was about to see Weston would ever stop feeling quite so powerful, and it occurred to me how devastated I would be if that day ever came.

  Halfway down the steps, Weston’s face came into view. He was sitting on the couch, his torso twisted, his back facing a paused episode of a reality show. His elbow pinned down a small throw pillow next to him. He was paint-free, his skin shiny and red from scrubbing.

  “Hey,” he said, watching me walk all the way to the front of the couch.

  Before I could respond, he grabbed me and pulled me down until my back landed on the cushions. He planted a warm wet kiss on my mouth. His hands were beneath me, squeezing my body against his, while he searched my mouth with his tongue. I knotted my fingers in his hair and parted my knees, letting him settle in between them.

  When he finally pulled away, we were both breathless.

  “Sorry,” he said, his eyes still focused on my raw lips.

  “What was that about?”

  “You smell like ice cream,” he said simply, brushing a piece of hair from my face.

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  The hunger in his eyes flattened, and he sat up with a frustrated sigh. “Fine, Erin.”

  My body followed him with my hands perched behind me. “What did I say?”

  He looked over at me, and then his expression softened. “I’ve been asked that about a hundred times today.”

  “What happened?”

  “Something about dehydration from the new bronchodilator. It happens to a fraction of a percentage of people. Just a freak occurrence. I’m really fine. Two bags of saline, and I’m golden.”

  “Two bags?” I noted the evidence on his hand—a Band-Aid partly covering a new bruise.

  Weston targeted the corner of the room where the wall met the ceiling, his jaw flitting under his five o’clock shadow.

  “Why are you so angry with me?”

  “I just want to talk about normal stuff. You make me feel like an invalid. I’m not dying.”

  “I can’t be concerned? You were taken to the hospital by an ambulance a couple of days ago.”

  “So?” he snapped.

  I stiffened. “I’m not taking anyone’s shit anymore, remember? Not even yours.”

  My words made him pause, and he craned his neck, turning slow in my direction. His eyes were round spheres, wide with disbelief. “Who crapped on your cracker?”

  “You! I expected a little crankiness, but you’re giving me whiplash.”

  He thought about that for a moment and then sighed, rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “Wow. I just took the last few days out on you, didn’t I?”

  “Do you even have to ask?” I said, arching an eyebrow.

  He peeked over at me and then chuckled. “Not that I don’t love you like this, babe, but you’re a little testy today.”

  “I’m testy?” My voice shot up an octave. “I’m testy,” I deadpanned, looking forward.

  A stifled laugh burst from Weston’s lips, and then it grew into a full-blown cackle. He pulled me next to him and kissed just behind my ear. “I just got a glimpse of our forever, and it’s kind of amazing.”

  He was fighting dirty. How can I stay mad at him when he says things like that?

  He wedged his fingers between mine, and then his fingertips touched the top of my hand with the tiniest bit of pressure. He squeezed his shoulder between the couch and me, and then he looked up at me with knowing eyes. “You still with me on Saturday?”

  “Do you still want me to be with you?”

  He shook his head as if my question was disappointing. “I wish I needed you to breathe, Erin. Then, you’d be with me half as much as I wanted.”

  He mirrored my appreciative smile, kissed my hand, and then settled against the couch cushion before clicking the button on the DVR remote.

  “MOTHER BEAR,” Frankie said, breathing out the words.

  Julianne held her hand over her heart with an equally shocked look on her face. They were both watching as I walked out of my bathroom in my blush-colored gown.

  I stood in front of the full-length mirror. “I can’t breathe,” I said.

  “Is it too tight?” Julianne said, walking over to help. “It’s not even zipped yet.”

  “No, I just…”

  “You’re stunning,” Julianne said with glossy eyes. She lifted the zipper and then smoothed a russet stray that had escaped from the low side bun the hairstylist had pinned after spending half an hour curling my hair.

  It’s for body, she had said. Trust me.

  “Weston is going to pee himself,” Frankie said. She snorted, amused with whatever image was in her mind.

  “No, because Sam mentioned Weston’s been to the bathroom at least four times since he arrived,” Julianne said.

  “He’s nervous?” I asked.

  “Terrified,” she said with a wink and a mischievous grin.

  I turned one more time to make sure the see-through fabric on the back of the dress stopped high enough on my lower back, reaching back to feel the jewels I could reach.

  “Stop,” Frankie said. “Nothing shows that’s not supposed to. No one could say a single negative thing about you in this dress.”

  My lips were tinted pink and glossed, my lashes were long and black, and my cheeks blushed to match my dress. Julianne had had Emmy, a makeup artist from the next town, come over and spend an exorbitant amount of time painting my face. I looked like me but the cover model version of me.

  “Well?” Julianne said. “Your Sam is downstairs with the camera. Veronica has hers, too. What do you say we head that way?”

  “If I can make it down in these shoes,” I said, walking carefully over to her.

  She took my hand and led me down the hall. Before I reached the top of the stairs, Julianne and Frankie passed by me and hurried down, so they could stand and witness my very possible tumble down the stairs. I gripped the banister and took the first step. I heard a few excited whispers until I came into view, and then there was a collective gasp. Julianne grabbed Veronica’s arm with excitement even though she was trying to snap pictures.

  Weston looked up at me from under his brow, but he was unreadable. His expression didn’t move an inch. He just stared at me until I stepped off the last stair. When I joined him, he took a deep breath.

  “Well?” Peter said, elbowing his son.

  Weston opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, so he just shook his head.

  Everyone chuckled around us.

  Weston opened a plastic container and slid a wrist corsage over my left hand. The pink roses matched the boutonniere I would pin to his lapel. Sam handed me the boutonniere I’d picked up the night before. It was still cold from being in the refrigerator. The inside of the clear container had fogged in places, and the small droplets of perspiration matched the shiny beads that had formed near Weston’s hairline.

  After dozens of pictures—inside, outside, inside again, with the parents, with each other, and standing by the white limo Weston had promised—I finally ducked my head and stepped into the vehicle. The driver, Louis, shut the door after Weston had settled in next to me.

  “I’ve never been in a limo before,” I said, glancing around the interior.

  The leather bench
we were sitting on could fit maybe three people, but the bench seat opposite us spanned nearly the whole length of the limo. The dark tint on the windows blocked out the sun, and the rope lighting edging the ceiling turned every shade of color imaginable in a slow cycle. On the passenger side was a line of tumbler glasses and wine glasses sitting in cutout circles next to a bucketful of ice. I wasn’t sure what the driver had thought two high school kids would use the ice for.

  To munch on?

  “Me either,” Weston said.

  “Really?”

  He shrugged. “I took the Huttons’ convertible last year. It was too nerve-racking. This is much better.”

  Last year, Weston had gone to prom with Alder. I had been working, but I had seen all the fancy cars and limos passing the Dairy Queen as they’d followed the main drag toward the high school. I recalled seeing Weston and Alder in that shiny white convertible. Neither of them had been smiling, and I’d wondered what the conversation would be like when sitting next to Weston Gates on the way to prom.

  I was getting ready to find out.

  “What was it like last year?”

  “Lame,” he said with a smile.

  “Then, why did you want to go this year?”

  “Because you said yes.”

  I pulled my mouth to the side and shook my head, picking at the fake white nail tips on the ends of my fingers. They were bugging me, and they had been since noon when Julianne had taken me to get a mani-pedi. It was a mystery to me why women would glue these things to their fingernails. My hands had been fairly useless for most of the day even though I’d asked for the tips to be cut down as short as possible.

  “You are always beautiful, but I love the dress and everything else,” Weston said, squeezing my hand.

  “I like your suit and tie.”

  Both were black, but the suit was tailored, the pant legs fitting narrower than the slacks Sam or Peter would wear to work. Weston’s shaggy brown hair was a couple of inches shorter than usual, but it wasn’t gelled down and matted to his head like most of the boys would do when they played dress-up. It looked soft, and I sort of wanted to run my fingers through it.

  Weston’s eyes settled on me with such affection that the blood beneath my cheeks caught fire. I wrapped my arms around his bicep and leaned against his side. His lips touched my temple once and then again.