He takes in the beer bottle in my hands, the bits of shredded label littering my lap. “Q … are you drunk?”
For some reason, I find this funny, so I start to laugh. And I can’t seem to stop.
“I guess that answers my question,” Wesley says as hysterical tears run down my face. It all stops pretty suddenly, though, when I’m hit by a really strong desire to throw up.
Wesley must notice that I’ve turned green because he takes my bottle and passes it to Erin. “Why don’t we get you some air.” He stands up and grabs my hand, helps me to my feet. The room spins. I’m so busy trying to keep everything down that I barely register when he slides his arm around my waist. I let him lead me outside onto the tiny balcony. He slides the grimy glass door closed behind us, cutting us off from the party and the throbbing techno music. We’re on the third floor but it feels much higher, maybe because the stars are so dizzyingly close, like I could touch them if I just reached high enough.
Wesley steers me to a weathered lawn chair parked beside a planter full of cigarette butts. Judging from the sheer amount of butts—and the pyramid of empty beer cans stacked in the corner—Travis and Ewen spend a lot of time out here.
That planter, I decide, is my backup plan. While throwing up in front of Wesley would be beyond humiliating, I still feel like it’s a better option than that bathroom. Fortunately, the cool night air has already started to calm my stomach, so maybe I’m out of the woods.
Wesley leans against the rusted wrought iron railing, studying me as I take deep breaths, like I’m practicing yoga. “Better?” he asks.
I nod. “A bit, yeah.”
He glances up at the fat yellow moon. Since he’s no longer looking at me, I feel safe studying him. I’m so used to seeing him in his pirate costume that he looks kind of weird in normal clothes. Less like he should be on the cover of a romance novel, and more regular hot boy. He’s wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt the same stormy color as his eyes.
What is wrong with me? Wesley James ruined my family. I’m going to give up hating him just because he’s all right to look at and he makes my knees a little bit weak?
Pathetic.
It’s then that I notice something crawling along the dirty cement, near Wesley’s foot. It’s a big nightmare of a spider—ugly and hairy, probably it has fangs—and I’m totally paralyzed. When Wesley sees it, he bends down, extends his fingers, and lets the thing crawl into his hand. Then he gently moves it to the railing where it won’t get stepped on.
He catches the horrified expression on my face and smirks. “Come on, Q. You’re not scared of a little spider, are you?” He makes a move to pick it up again and I get a little scream-y. He chuckles. “I’m just messing with you.”
Of course he is. He’s always messing with me. He’s made it his life’s work to mess with me.
“I’m not that surprised that you’re afraid of it, actually,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
“You seem to be afraid of a lot of things.”
My eyes narrow. Oh my God. Who does he think he is?
“Elaborate,” I say. Before I kick you in the junk.
“Let’s see…” Wesley strokes his chin, his eyes wandering the sky, like he’s searching for the answer up there. “Clowns.”
I snort. “So? Everyone is afraid of clowns. If you aren’t afraid of them then there’s something wrong with you.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” he says.
“And you just proved my point.”
He smiles. “All right then. Thunder. Remember that time we got caught in a storm?”
Yes, I do. We were on the way home from school. I made him run the entire three miles, even when my lungs felt like they were going to burst after the first couple of blocks. By the time we got to our street, I was soaked to the skin, but so relieved to be home, I hardly cared.
The other thing I remember about that day? Wesley held my hand the whole way. I didn’t have to ask him to do it; he just did.
“Big deal. Those are totally common, everyday fears,” I say. “It’s not like I’m afraid of things that actually matter.”
A total lie, obviously. I’m afraid to see Gran and that matters more than anything else. But I’m definitely not going to tell him that.
Maybe it’s the alcohol—okay, it’s definitely the alcohol—but suddenly I want to prove to Wesley that I’m not afraid of anything. Not him, and not a little spider. So I get out of the chair and, without really thinking it through, grab the spider off the balcony railing.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod. It is hairy. And crawly—oh so very crawly. I really want to shot put it over the side of the balcony, but if I show fear, that will prove Wesley’s point. And I’m so not doing that. So I let this spider crawl on my hand, trying to ignore the tickling sensation on my palm. It’s almost worth it just to see the shocked expression on Wesley’s face. Almost.
After what seems like forever but is probably only ten seconds or so, I set the spider back down. I am dying to go to the gas station and scrub my hands, maybe throw up a little, but I lean against the railing to steady my shaking legs.
“Well,” Wesley says. “I did not expect that.”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it totally is. I held a spider! There is nothing I can’t do.
“So now we just have to work through your clown issues. Maybe we should go to the circus sometime,” he says. He’s suddenly standing close to me. Way too close. Like if he took one step forward, we’d be sharing the same breath. One small step closer and he could kiss me.
For the first time since Wesley James walked back into my life, I’m not thinking about how to get him out of it. I’m thinking about kissing him.
I lean into him a little and his mouth curves into a smile, like he knows what I’m thinking. Because he’s thinking the exact same thing.
My heart is full-on racing now.
But as his fingers skate lightly over my arm, sending zings through my entire body, someone raps on the door. A blond girl is standing on the other side of the glass. When Wesley looks over at her, she smiles.
“Do you know her?”
“Uh, yeah,” Wesley says, taking a step away from me. “That’s Jolie. My girlfriend.”
fourteen.
Whatever it was that was about to happen between Wesley and me—if anything was about to happen—vanishes as the girl slides open the glass door and bounces onto the deck.
Wesley has a girlfriend. A GIRLFRIEND! One that he’s never mentioned. Although, since I’ve made a point of not asking him any personal questions, this shouldn’t really come as a surprise.
Still. I am struck by how much it bothers me. It should not bother me. But oh, it does. Especially when this girl slides into the space I just vacated and wraps her arms around his waist. Something she does with ease, probably because she’s done it a million times before.
“Hey, you,” she says, standing on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. “I know we agreed I wouldn’t come up for another few weeks, but I just missed you so much.”
“Uh, hey.” The tips of Wesley’s ears have turned red. He shoots me a look that I can’t quite decipher. Probably it’s pity. Pity for me for thinking, even for an instant, that there could ever be anything between us. “Quinn, this is Jolie,” he says.
“Nice to meet you.” She smiles. She is Tinker Bell in combat boots—short, pixie-cut blond hair, wide blue eyes, perfect little snub nose. She’s wearing baggy cargo shorts that hang off her hips, a snug T-shirt, and beat-up black boots that somehow make my red flip-flops with cherries at the toes seem tragically uncool. But they’re one of the only non-British-y items of clothing I haven’t gotten rid of.
“Jolie is from Portland,” he says.
“We’re doing the long-distance thing.” She rests her cheek against his chest in a way that makes me want to break her tiny fairy arms off.
This is not good. Not good at all. I feel sick and I don’t think it’s jus
t the alcohol. Somehow, against my better judgment, I’ve developed serious feelings for Wesley. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
My face feels unnaturally stiff. I’m trying to return her smile, but my lips aren’t fully cooperating. I must have some weird smile/frown hybrid going on because Wesley seems kind of alarmed. He clears his throat and turns his attention back to his girlfriend.
“How did you know I was here?” he asks her.
She gives him a gentle punch to the ribs. “You weren’t answering your phone, so I called Caleb. He gave me the address.” She gazes up at him, smiling slyly. “Surprised?”
He nods. So I guess that makes two of us.
Wait. She knows Caleb? I guess that means she’s visited Wesley before. Met his friends. Probably stayed with his family.
As if to underscore their relationship, Jolie kisses him again. Only this time, she puts a whole lot of feeling into it. Enough that a blush creeps into my cheeks, as if I’m spying on a very private moment. Which I guess I sort of am.
It’s clear that I’m cramping their reunion and I definitely don’t want to stick around until they finally get tired of tonguing each other, so I squeeze past them to get to the door. But in my haste, I trip over the planter and send cigarette butts flying all over the artificial turf.
“Whoops,” I say, laughing a little. What I really want to do is curse because I stubbed my toe hard against the ceramic pot. “Guess I’m still drunk.” And I am, a little bit, although not enough to forget that this ever happened, unfortunately. “Nice to meet you,” I say to Jolie.
“Yeah, you too.” She doesn’t look at me when she says this, but then, she’s distracted—her hand has found its way underneath Wesley’s T-shirt. I hear her say, “What did you say her name was again?” as I slide the door closed.
Erin’s still sitting on the couch, but Travis is with her now, and since the last thing I want is to be with another happy couple, I pretend not to hear her calling my name. Instead, I limp into the kitchen where I find Caleb standing in the corner, his hands tucked into his pockets. He looks as uncomfortable as I feel.
“Hey,” he says, watching me dig my bag out from the jumbled pile underneath the kitchen table. “You leaving?”
“Yeah. I need to take a walk,” I say.
“Want some company?”
I should say no. I should go home and calm down, remind myself of all the reasons why I should still hate Wesley James. Why I should still destroy him. But maybe that’s not what I need right now. Maybe what I need is a distraction from this terrible, terrible day. A distraction, perhaps, in the form of my very cute band partner.
“Sure.” I slide my bag over my shoulders. Caleb follows me out the door and we head down the hall. I have no real destination in mind, but my feet eventually lead us toward the beach. He’s chatting about England, all the places he wants to see. I’ve never heard him sound so excited.
I wish he would stop talking.
“We should check out the Globe Theatre one night,” he says. “You know, where Shakespeare put on his plays?”
“I’m kind of burnt out on Shakespeare, to be honest.” I get enough of him at work. And it’s not like I’ll be in England to visit the Globe anyway. “But you should definitely check it out.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says. We walk past the restaurants and little souvenir shops that line the boardwalk, then cut across the street. At this time of night, the beach is pretty much deserted. As we get closer to the water, the air cools down, enough that I wish I’d worn more than just a T-shirt.
I sit down on the sand and kick off my flip-flops. “So I met Jolie,” I say as Caleb sits down beside me. “She seems nice.”
I know I shouldn’t be asking him questions about Wesley, that it will only make me crazy, but I can’t help myself.
He shrugs. “She is. I mean, I don’t know her that well—I met her for the first time a few weeks ago when she came up to visit Wes.”
“He’s never mentioned her to me.” I bury my toes in the sand. It’s still warm from the sun.
“Really?” Caleb glances at me. “Hm. They’ve been together about a year. Wes was really bummed that he had to leave Portland. I think they’re planning to apply to the same colleges next year.”
Of course they are.
I pick up a handful of sand and let it run through my fingers. The thought of Wesley with this girl depresses me, which is totally ridiculous. Up until half an hour ago, all I wanted was to pay Wesley James back. And now—irony alert—he’s found a new way to cause me pain and he doesn’t even know it.
Unless he does.
Oh my God. I sit up, spilling sand all over my bare legs. What if Wesley knows exactly what he’s doing? What if he’s been shamelessly flirting with me these past few weeks, trying to get me to fall for him, just so he could rub his girlfriend in my face?
What if he’s trying to get back at me for trying to get back at him?
“Are you okay, Quinn?” Caleb asks. “You seem a bit jittery.”
“I’m fine.”
I’m so not fine. Somehow, someway, Wesley James has learned about my plan. And he totally has a plan of his own.
Well, I am going to beat him at his own game. Er, at my own game. At whoever’s game this is. Because there is no way I’m going to let him get the better of me.
Wesley James will not win.
As all of this is tossing around in my brain, Caleb is watching me closely. I turn to face him, hoping he thinks I’m still drunk and not having a psychotic break or something.
“You’re sure?” he asks. “Maybe I should get you home.”
I have to show Wesley that I don’t care if he has a girlfriend, that the moment on the balcony meant nothing to me. And the best way to do that is right in front of me.
Caleb is the one I should want anyway. He’s sweet and considerate and cute. He might not make me zing in the same way that Wesley does, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe I don’t need the zing.
So I lean forward and kiss him. And almost from the second his lips meet mine, I know it’s a mistake.
It’s not that kissing him is bad. It’s just … nothing. I feel like I’m acting a part. I don’t lose myself in the moment, the way I did with (ugh) Jason Cutler last semester. The way I imagine I could with Wesley.
But I keep going, hoping it will get better. Hoping that Caleb can make me forget all about Wesley.
fifteen.
“Make sure you come home right after your shift ends,” Mom says, reaching into the fridge for a carton of juice. “I’ll be calling to check up on you.”
“Do you have to be so shout-y?” I hunch over my cereal bowl. She keeps telling me I’ll feel better if I eat something, but really, I don’t see how that’s possible. I don’t think I will feel well ever again.
Stupid beer.
“Some aspirin should take the edge off.” Mom gives the empty-ish orange juice carton a shake and then sighs heavily, shooting me a dark look. “How many times,” she mutters.
I’m lucky she’s not madder about me coming home drunk last night. I’m grounded for a week, but all that really means is I can’t watch TV or use the computer.
“I haven’t heard from your dad in a while,” Mom says, pouring the dregs of the orange juice into a glass and sliding it in front of me. The sight of all that pulp floating on top of the juice is not doing anything good for my stomach.
I push the glass away. “He’s been busy.” Busy losing my life savings. But, of course, I don’t say this out loud. Even after everything he’s done, I’m still protecting my dad. Okay, yes, I’m protecting myself, too—if Mom finds out I gave him money, I’ll be grounded indefinitely. But mostly I’m looking out for him. Or enabling him. Whatever.
Celia wanders into the kitchen in her bathrobe, her red hair completely hidden under a towel turban. She’s been staying with us since we put the rest of Gran’s stuff in storage. As much as I love Auntie C, I’ll be glad when she’s gone. She and Mom have been
on me about visiting Gran, and holding them off is becoming harder and harder.
As if on cue, the two of them exchange a not-so-subtle glance. Mom clears her throat. “Sweetheart, we’re going to see your grandmother this morning. I think it would be a good idea if you came with us.”
“Mom, please. Not today, okay? I’m not feeling well. And besides, I have to work later.”
“You have plenty of time before your shift starts,” she says as Celia busies herself making coffee. “And it will be a quick visit. Gran gets tired easily, so we don’t like to stay too long.”
Maybe this is part of my punishment. She’s going to force me to see Gran again.
“I’m not going.”
The disappointment is clear on my mom’s face and it takes a minute for her to respond. “Gran still has some lucid moments, Quinn. Not many, and not for long periods of time, but occasionally she’s herself again.” Mom accepts the mug that Celia holds out to her. “She’s been asking for you.”
My heart drops. The thought of Gran waiting for me, wondering where I am, should be enough to make me try. But I just don’t think I can do it. I mean, what are the odds that she’ll be lucid when I’m there? The alternative—facing that blank stare again—is way too upsetting.
Celia puts her arm around me. She smells like the vanilla bath gel we keep in the shower. “Quinn, sweetie, I know it’s hard. But we want to make sure that you see Gran now. While she’s still relatively well.”
I squirm out from under her arm. “What does that mean?”
“It means that we need to be prepared,” she says calmly. “We don’t want you to regret it if something should happen to her. Your grandmother is old and the doctors aren’t sure how much longer she—”
I back toward the door. I don’t want to hear the rest of this conversation.
“Quinn,” Mom says.
But I’m already gone.
sixteen.
“This is our big surprise?” I ask as a busted-looking white truck lumbers into the Tudor Tymes parking lot. I’ve been standing out back by the reeking Dumpster with the rest of the staff for the past five minutes, waiting for Joe’s big reveal. “A food truck?”
Wesley James Ruined My Life Page 10
