I can never get that time back. I can’t make it up to her. And knowing that, having to live with that, hurts more than anything.
Wesley leans back against the fake stone wall. He clears his throat. “Maybe we can visit her together.”
I’ve heard when an animal, like a fox or a wolf, is caught in a steel trap, that it will do anything to get away, even chew off its own leg. That’s how I feel right now. Like I would chew off my own leg to get away from this conversation.
“There’s really no point,” I say. “She won’t remember you.”
He shakes his head. “That doesn’t mean there’s no point, Q.”
Easy for him to say. He hasn’t seen her. He doesn’t know what it’s like to sit across from someone you love and have them look at you like you’re a stranger.
Wesley must see the fear on my face because he says, “If you want me to, I’ll go with you.”
And just like that, another piece of the wall I’ve built up between us crumbles. It suddenly occurs to me that no matter what happened between us in the past, like it or not, Wesley and I are connected by our love for Gran. By our memories of her. And right now, it feels like he might just be the only person who understands what I’m going through. Because he’s going through it, too. Maybe not to quite the same degree as I am, but he is.
Wesley’s hand is resting near mine, close enough that if I just moved an inch or two, we’d be touching. A sense of longing suddenly sweeps through me, so strong that it scares me. My feelings for him are all over the place. They shouldn’t be, but they are, and I don’t know what to do about them.
I know what Erin would say: Take his hand. Take his hand and let go of everything. He can help you through this. You can get through it together.
I’m so close to doing that when I hear the solid tread of boots slowly coming down the hall. Heavy breathing. The tap of a cane against the stone floor.
Wesley and I exchange an uneasy glance. By unspoken agreement, neither of us says anything as the footsteps draw closer. Maybe if we’re quiet, if we’re really lucky, Alan will pass right by us.
I hold my breath as he lumbers past. But just when I think we’re in the clear and we’ve escaped his notice, Alan stops and turns around.
“Well, well, well,” he says, stepping into the alcove. He’s so large, he blocks the entrance. “What have we here?”
“Hi, Alan,” Wesley says. “Can you give us a minute?”
I elbow him. Clearly, he’s forgotten what happens when you provoke the king. I do not want to end up in the stocks again.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” I say. I would curtsey, but with Alan towering over us, there’s not enough room to stand up.
Alan strokes his beard, studying us. He’s dressed in a black tunic and a long purple cape, a brassy gold crown with fake rubies perched on his head.
“Lovers’ quarrel?” he asks.
Wesley flushes a deep red. I feel my own cheeks burning.
Alan clearly doesn’t pick up on our utter mortification. Because if he did, I’m sure he wouldn’t do what he does next: close his eyes and start to sing, low and deep and slightly off-key. “Pastime with good company. I love and shall, until I die. Grudge who list, but none deny! So God be pleased, thus live will I.”
I have no idea what the lyrics mean, but I’m guessing from the wide smile he gives us when he’s finished that it’s some sort of love song.
“I wrote that in 1513 for my beloved Catherine,” he says.
“Didn’t you behead her?” Wesley says.
I elbow him again.
“I did not,” Alan says indignantly. “I had our marriage annulled. I needed a male heir, you see.” He suddenly straightens, a signal that he’s gearing up to give us a full report on King Henry VIII’s extremely colorful love life.
“Apologies, Your Majesty, but I must finish preparing for the royal banquet,” I say. “Your guests are set to arrive forthwith.”
Alan rubs his hands together eagerly. “I hear we are having quite the feast!”
Really, it’s the same old turkey legs we serve every night, but I can’t help but admire his enthusiasm.
Before I can stand up, Wesley lightly grabs my elbow.
“Can you wait for me when your shift ends?” he whispers. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
I know he’s probably only offering to give me a lift because he wants to continue our conversation, to talk more about Gran and try to convince me to go see her with him, and not because he’s actually into me. But while my head understands this, my heart can’t seem to tell the difference; it’s beating double time, so quickly I feel light-headed.
Spending more time with Wesley is the last thing I should be doing. And yet I find myself telling him yes.
* * *
It’s weird being in Caleb’s truck without Caleb. Nothing’s changed, really, except for the rabbit-popping-out-of-a-top-hat thingy hanging from the rearview mirror. But it feels different in here. Smaller, somehow. Wesley fills up the space more. Or maybe I’m just more aware of him than I ever was of Caleb.
I move closer to the door to put as much room between us as possible. But the distance doesn’t really help. I’m still way too aware of him.
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to drive something that’s not covered in Goldfish crackers,” Wesley says, backing out of the parking space.
“Hm.” I fiddle with the radio until I find a country station. I hide a smile as he glances over at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Really?” he says. “You like country music?”
“Shows what you know. I’ve always liked country music.”
He’s clearly not convinced, but he doesn’t switch the station. At a stoplight, he lifts his pirate shirt and sniffs the hem, exposing a swath of his tight, flat stomach and a fine trail of golden hair that makes me warm all over. He makes a face. “God, I stink,” he says.
He smells, it’s true, but underneath the fried turkey there’s something else, something distinctly Wesley that makes my knees start to shake.
It’s only pheromones, I tell myself. Just a simple chemical reaction. It doesn’t mean anything.
But Wesley chooses that moment to smile at me—a real smile, not his usual irritating smirk—and my stomach does a slow cartwheel.
He’s always been pretty easy to read—at least, the Wesley I used to know was—but I can’t tell what that smile means, or what’s going through his mind right now. Or maybe I’ve just lost the ability to read him.
We drive the rest of the way to my house in silence. Even though I tell myself not to, I keep stealing glances at him. His window is rolled down and the wind is ruffling his blond hair. I like his profile. His nose isn’t perfect, it’s a little too big for his face, and his ears stick out, which is why he wears his hair long. But put all together, he is devastating.
The scale is seriously beginning to tip in his favor. All because he’s good-looking! I am so shallow.
Wesley must feel me watching him because he takes his eyes off the road for a second and looks over at me.
“So I have an idea,” he says. “Maybe when we’re in London, we can check out your gran’s old house. Remember all those stories she used to tell us?”
My smile falters. London. Right.
When I don’t answer him right away, he glances at me again. “You don’t seem excited. I was expecting excitement.”
“Well … I definitely want to see where Gran grew up.”
Someday.
“I sense a but…”
But I’m not going to London.
I don’t say it, though. I don’t want to tell him. Not yet. We’ve done enough deep diving in my emotions today.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks.
So I may not be able to read Wesley anymore, but it appears that he can still read me.
I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”
I don’t think he believes me, but he’s run out of time for questions
because we’re now in my driveway. He glances at our house.
“The place looks pretty much the same,” he says.
Maybe it’s the same on the outside, but the inside has definitely changed.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, climbing out of the truck.
“Hey, Q?” Wesley calls out the window. “I meant what I said. I’ll go visit her with you, if you like.” He sounds so sincere, so willing to help, that it further disarms me.
Hating Wesley James is becoming increasingly difficult. My judgment is being clouded by his hot looks and his general niceness.
“Thanks,” I say. But there’s no way I’m taking him up on that.
thirteen.
Dad waits until I’ve almost finished my breakfast before dropping his bombshell.
“I don’t understand,” I say, blinking at him. I set my fork on the plate, my appetite obliterated. “You said you needed that money to pay off your bookie.”
“Yes, well, that was the plan.” The smile hasn’t slipped from his face, but he won’t meet my eyes. “But then I got a tip on a horse. A sure thing.”
I do not like where this story is going. Not at all. “There’s no such thing.”
Dad rips open a packet of sugar and dumps it into his coffee cup. He picks up a spoon and starts to methodically stir, using the distraction to gather his thoughts. “The thing is, ladybug, I really believed that I could double our investment,” he says. “I was sure I’d make enough to pay him off and send you on your trip.”
There is a small corner of my heart that is hoping—praying—that he’s going to tell me he came through this time. That he’s not going to say he lost all my money on a stupid bet. “And?”
He grimaces. “And … well. Turns out Irish Whiskey wasn’t such a sure thing after all.” He finally meets my eyes and, with that, the last bit of hope I had of getting to London is gone.
How could I be so stupid? I gave him all of my money. I gave him my dream. And for what? So he could gamble it away on a horse?
The worst part is, I should have known better. I’ve seen what he’s done to my mom, to Celia. Even to my gran. I just didn’t think he’d ever do it to me.
“I can’t believe this.”
“Ladybug, I know you’re upset,” he says, reaching for my hand. “But I will pay you back. This is a minor setback. I’ve had a streak of bad luck, that’s all. Gambling is all about odds—it’ll turn around. I just need to catch a break.”
I’m going to throw up. Right in the middle of this restaurant.
“I’ll make it back. I always do,” he says.
Not true. Not even close to being true.
“So what now?” I shake his hand off. “What about your bookie? How are you going to pay him? He doesn’t exactly look like a patient person.”
“Keep your voice down.” Dad glances at the couple at the table next to us. They’re staring at their menus, pointedly trying not to eavesdrop. “I told you, I’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “Trust me.”
Trust him? That’s all I’ve ever done. And look where it’s gotten me.
“What about your job interview?” If he got the job, maybe he could make enough to pay me back. Please God.
He flinches. “Yeah, that didn’t work out, unfortunately.”
Of course it didn’t.
I push my chair back and grab my messenger bag from underneath the table. “I have to go.”
“Quinn, please,” he says. “I know you’re disappointed you’re not going to London, but—”
“Yeah, I am. Of course I am. But that is nothing compared to how disappointed I am in you.” I don’t stay to see if my words have any impact—why would they? He’s heard the same thing from the rest of my family, many, many times before—I push through the door and out onto First Street.
I cross the street and head to Pike Place Market, where I can easily get lost. The market is especially busy on Saturdays, and I know a spot that Dad would never think to look for me. I slip past a knot of tourists who are watching the guys behind the famous fish counter toss fish at one another. Down the stairs, until I’m standing in a crowded alley that smells like watermelon and fruit punch, thanks to the million pieces of gum covering the red brick walls and hanging from the grimy windows like stalactites.
The Gum Wall is a local landmark, started in the early nineties, who knows why. It’s totally gross, but strangely fascinating. For reasons I can’t even explain, I find myself dropping by whenever I’m in the neighborhood. I can’t leave without contributing to the wall—I feel like it’s bad luck or something, and God knows I don’t need any more of that—so I dig a piece of Juicy Fruit out of my bag.
While I’m chewing the flavor out of the gum, a couple in matching fanny packs and visors asks me to take their photo. After months working at a theme restaurant, I’m so conditioned to snapping photos for strangers that I automatically take their camera when the woman shoves it at me, when all I really want is to be left alone.
“Oh, are you from England, honey?” the woman asks, pointing at my Union Jack T-shirt.
Note to self: Get rid of all British souvenir T-shirts. Of course, this will mean dumping a hefty chunk of my wardrobe as well as my personal style, but it will be worth it if I don’t have to answer such painful questions.
“Nope. I grew up here.” In Seattle, obviously. Not right here at the Gum Wall. But I’m sure she gets that.
“Well, it’s a lovely city,” the woman says as I pose her and her husband underneath a huge pink gum heart. “We’re so excited to be here. We came all the way from Cleveland.”
It’s weird to think of Seattle as someone’s dream, the same way that London is mine. The Gum Wall could totally be this lady’s Buckingham Palace.
So, after I hand her back her camera, I muster up a smile and give her a list of places to visit. Less touristy places, the kind of inside scoop you can really only get from a local. The type of places I’d want someone to tell me about if I was visiting the city for the first time.
Hopefully, someone will do the same thing for me when I finally get to London one day.
* * *
Travis and Ewen’s apartment is near the beach. And that’s about the only good thing I can say about a place that belongs to two boys with no interest in domestic chores. I would wager that neither of them has cleaned the bathroom since they moved in six months ago. It’s so bad that I refuse to use their toilet. If the situation gets dire tonight—and it might, considering that I’m already on my second beer—I’ll use the gas station down the street. Where I have less chance of catching something.
I’m sitting on the lumpy futon Travis rescued from a thrift shop, hoping the alcohol will make me feel better. I don’t even really like beer, but I need something to help me relax. I’m a total ball of tension. So far, it’s not really helping, but maybe I just need to drink more.
Wesley isn’t here yet. Every time the door opens, I expect it’s going to be him. Every time it’s not, I take another swig of beer. The waiting is killing me. I don’t want him to come, but at the same time I’ve been waiting for him to arrive all night.
Ewen sets down an ice cream bucket filled with Doritos on the overturned plastic crate that functions as their coffee table.
“Haur ye gang,” he says, then walks away.
I’m about to reach for a handful of chips when Erin stops me with a shake of her head. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she says. “Trust me. The things I’ve seen them do with food…”
I pull my hand back. She doesn’t need to elaborate. I probably should have known better. See: unholy state of their bathroom.
Travis is across the room, fiddling with the dial on his enormous stereo system. It makes zero sense that two guys living in virtual poverty should own such an elaborate and obviously expensive piece of audio equipment. Clearly, music is higher up on the list of priorities than decent furniture.
“Is anybody else coming?” I ask, picking at the label on my beer b
ottle. I don’t look at Erin. I don’t want her to know that I’m asking about anyone in particular, but she figures it out anyway.
“If you’re referring to Wesley, he’s coming with Caleb.”
A flush creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “Actually, I was wondering about Caleb.”
It’s better if she thinks I’m into Caleb. I don’t want her thinking I like Wesley. If I admit I might be having non-hate-y feelings for Wesley, then she’ll pressure me to do something about it. Or, at the very least, try again to talk me out of my quest to get him fired.
By the time he finally shows up an hour—and two more beers—later, I’m pretty buzzed. Enough not to be too bothered when he’s quickly surrounded by my friends, people he hasn’t seen since grade school but with whom he seems to fit right in.
I’m trying for cool indifference by pretending that I haven’t seen him, that I haven’t been watching the door all night, but Erin swiftly shatters my cool with an elbow to my ribs.
“Wesley’s totally sneaking looks at you,” she whispers.
“You’re drunk.”
“Okay, yes. But that doesn’t change the fact that he keeps staring at you.”
“Maybe he’s staring at you,” I say, but my heart seizes.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” she says. “He’s coming over.”
I glance up and, sure enough, Wesley’s making his way toward us. Erin shoots me a look—see?—as she makes room for him on the couch. He plunks down, squeezing between us.
I slide my eyes at him. He’s sitting uncomfortably close, his leg brushing against mine. The zing that goes through me, well, I’ll just ignore that.
“We were wondering where you guys were,” Erin says.
I scowl at her. I don’t want Wesley to know we were discussing him.
“Oh yeah?” Wesley smiles at me and there’s that zing again. Stupid zing.
“I wasn’t wondering where you were,” I say. Which, of course, makes me sound like a complete maniac. Even more so because I’m slurring my words.
Wesley James Ruined My Life Page 9
