Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  “Aha! You knew his name!” I bolted upright and pointed my finger at him with an I-caught-you grin. “You did watch it!”

  “Let’s just say Mom had a penchant for all the Disney movies and leave it at that, okay?” Wes pulled into my driveway and shoved the gear into PARK.

  “You sure are asking me to keep a lot of secrets lately.” I stared at him, making no move to unbuckle my seat belt. “First your piano-playing ability, now your knowledge of Disney flicks.” And your messed-up childhood that obviously still bothers you more than you want to admit.

  Wes must have heard what I hadn’t said because he leaned over toward me, inches from my face. His hand, still holding mine on top of the console, squeezed my fingers. “Is that a problem?”

  His breath, hinting of peppermint gum, was warm on my cheeks. I met his gaze, watched his eyes drop from mine to my lips and up again. “Not a problem at all.”

  He smiled and started to close the distance between us.

  The porch light flicked on and off in my peripheral vision. I sat back with a groan as the curtain on the front window fluttered and the lights blinked again. “I get it, Dad.”

  “Creative.” Back behind the wheel now, Wes tilted his chin up at me, his former confidence and borderline cockiness firmly in place. “Don’t worry. Next date, it’ll be just us.”

  My stomach shivered in anticipation as I slid out of the Jeep. I hesitated, not wanting to lose the connection we’d made. “When is that?”

  Wes shrugged. “It could have been right now if it weren’t for someone’s curfew.”

  “Well that’s obviously not an option.” The porch light punctuated my point with another blink. “Call me?”

  Wes pushed the gear into REVERSE, my hint to close the door. “Good night, Addison.”

  “‘Night.” I shut it and stepped back, my mind whirling and replaying the evening as I navigated the walkway to the front door. My lips felt gypped from his near kiss, and it wasn’t until I shut the front door behind me and turned off the porch light that I realized he’d never agreed to call me.

  Chapter Twenty

  Marta slipped into the pew at the end of my row and sank down beside me with a grin. “I feel like I escaped.”

  “You made it!” Yay. Now I didn’t have to sit alone among Mrs. Vanderford and the blue-haired observers—or worry about any more awkward convos with Mr. Keegan. I passed Marta a bulletin. “I can’t believe your host mom let you visit our church.” I lowered my voice. “Especially since they’re, you know—”

  “Catholic?” Marta laughed as she adjusted the hem of her black skirt. “That doesn’t mean they refuse to let me sit under a Protestant preacher.”

  “Hey, after seeing that turquoise belt, I figured I’d better not assume anything.” I held up both hands in defense.

  “Ha-ha.” She stuck her tongue out at me. “Speaking of … I’m assuming Wes didn’t exactly have a good time last night?”

  I twisted the bookmark ribbon from my Bible around my finger and shrugged. “He thinks you’re cool.” As cool as Wes would admit anyone to being, anyway. Maybe Marta wouldn’t pick up on how I didn’t mention Luke—

  “But not Luke.”

  Rats. I shrugged again, not wanting to get into it. Wes had confided in me last night, and blabbing it seemed wrong—even if it was to my best friend. Especially after all that talk about secrets.

  “Addison, it was obvious. If Wes’s dislike for Luke was supposed to be a secret, then he should learn to become a better actor.” Marta snorted. “He was not being subtle with what he thought.”

  “Then why’d you ask?” I opened my bulletin, pretending to peruse the contents but really just trying to redirect my attention before my frustration boiled over. I felt extremely defensive about him and annoyed at the fact that I did. Wes and I weren’t in this serious relationship—yet. I really had no reason to get all worked up over someone else’s opinion of him. Yet there it was regardless—a fierce loyalty shooting through my veins like a drug.

  Marta laid a cool hand on my forearm. “I know you care about Wes. I am not trying to insult him. I am simply asking if you knew why he acted the way he did last night.”

  My bulletin fell to my lap. She was right. We’d both been there, so it was ridiculous to cut corners. I could share with her without revealing too much personal information. “He’s jealous.” To sum it. Saying the words out loud gave me a tiny thrill, and I couldn’t help the pleasure of the moment. Wes, jealous about me—after ditching Sonya, of all people, to ask me out. If he felt territorial over me, that must mean we were heading toward some kind of commitment. The thought sent an excited buzz through my stomach.

  That is, if my dad would even begin to allow it. The buzz dissipated, and I shot my father, who sat on the first row going over his sermon notes, a look. Fat chance of that—especially when he wouldn’t even let us sit in the Jeep for ten seconds without flashing lights. Yet I couldn’t come to terms with just sneaking around like my friends did. What was wrong with me?

  Why did I have to be so good all the time?

  What did I have to lose?

  “Jealous of Luke? So Wes knows Luke likes you.” Marta’s voice pitched, hinting at her disappointment. “Luke and I went to Screamin’ Cones after you and Wes went home, and we had a long talk. He knows you’re into Wes. But he’s bummed about it.” She shook her head with a sad smile. “He thinks he can change your mind.”

  “That’s sweet.” Sweet, but annoying. I needed Luke on my side. If Dad refused to let me and Wes date alone, then I’d have to keep doubling with Marta and Luke. And if Luke wasn’t on board, or was going to make Wes miserable every time we were all together, then the whole arrangement seemed pointless. It wasn’t much of a date to constantly have to calm down Wes’s temper. Who knew how many packs of gum he’d go through if forced to deal with Luke on a regular basis?

  The gum reminded me of him calling me out on my beliefs, and my neck burned with shame. Some witness I was to the bad boy next door. I couldn’t even give an honest answer about my choices.

  “He’ll get over it eventually.” Marta crossed her legs, bobbing one booted foot toward me. “Both of them.” She hesitated as the choir began filing into place in the choir loft. “But Addison, I’m a little concerned.”

  “About what?” We stood together, reaching for the hymnal at the same time as our music minister asked us to rise. My fingers rushed to find the right page while my ears begged to hear Marta’s fears.

  “You and Wes.” She leaned closer to me, peering down at the words to “How Great Thou Art.” I knew the verses by heart, so I handed her the hymnal so she could see.

  Mrs. Vanderford, always in front of me, shot us a look over the looming shoulder pad of her dress, clearly instructing us to hush. But I had to know what Marta meant. “What are you talking about?”

  Marta lowered her voice to a whisper, still staring at the hymnbook. “He doesn’t seem right for you.”

  I jerked away from her in surprise, my blood pressure immediately rising and sending a hot flush through my veins. My heart beat a wild protest. “That’s your opinion.” I didn’t even bother to whisper this time and was rewarded with another glare from in front of me. I ignored the woman and turned my searching gaze to Marta.

  Marta just shrugged, an apology filling her eyes as she turned the pages to the next hymn number on the PowerPoint screen. “Blessed Assurance.” Perfect. I sure could use some of that right now.

  “I’m just being honest. He seems kind of … rough around the edges.” Marta gestured to my dad on the front row. “You’re a preacher’s daughter.”

  “And you said not to let that define me.” Blood roared in my ears, drowning out the voices of the congregation around me.

  “It shouldn’t.” Marta whispered so softly I could barely hear her. “But you should also know better.”

  Her last words struck me like a slap, and I reeled backward, away from her. Away from “Blessed Assurance.�
� I stared blindly at the flowers in front of the pulpit, their autumn blooms of orange and burnt red blurring into a kaleidoscope of color.

  Know better? Sure, Wes had an attitude about Luke. Sure, he wasn’t Mr. Polite or Prince Charming, as he’d admitted himself. Sure, he had a stereotype about him with the motorcycle and the tattoos and the chip on his leather-clad shoulder, but he wasn’t dangerous. Marta didn’t know him like I did. She didn’t know the vulnerable side, the side that confessed to dark childhood memories. The side that sat with me in my driveway at twilight and admitted his world was screwed up. The side that whispered to me, and me alone. I don’t know why he’d chosen me, but I wasn’t about to slap it all aside because of pretense and assumptions.

  And trust me, that choice had nothing to do with—well, okay, a little to do with—how he made me feel when he kissed me.

  Marta pressed the bulletin in my hands, and I looked down to see a handwritten note she’d scrawled in the border. Will explain more later. Do not be mad.

  I let out a slow breath and nodded. There was nothing to do now but wait and discuss this further after the service—maybe over something really yummy to distract my own temper, like a cheeseburger and Cajun fries. I angled slightly to drop the bulletin to the pew behind me, and as I straightened I caught Mr. Keegan’s eye from across the aisle. He nodded at me as he sang, his eyes dark and haunting—just like Wes’s. I returned his smile with my own, my thoughts churning.

  Maybe his son wasn’t the only one with secrets.

  My burger practically oozed as I squished it together and leaned in for a big bite. As much grief as I gave my dad about eating healthy, I had to admit, sometimes a girl just needed some beef. And cheese. And pickles and onions and jalapeños.

  Across the table, Marta dipped a fry in a pool of ketchup. “It’s going to be rough going back home in a few months.” She gestured to the meal in front of her. “Mom never lets me eat like this.”

  “I bug my dad about his cholesterol and carb intake.” I took another bite, juice dribbling down my chin, and swiped it with a napkin. “But I don’t have health problems, so I figure I can be a hypocrite a few times a week.”

  “Yet.” Marta grinned around her fry. “If you keep this up …”

  “Let’s just say I’m starting to see my dad’s argument with food—’but what a way to go.’ “I mimicked his deeper voice, earning a laugh from Marta. I reached for my paper cup full of pop and returned her smile. Comfort food was a must, after the whispered yet heated conversation we’d had during the worship service and the follow-up convo I knew was yet to come.

  I set my cup down and took a deep breath, needing my food to settle before taking another monster bite. “So, now that we’re fat and happy, what else do you need to tell me about Wes?”

  Marta wadded up her empty fry container and tossed it on the tray between us. “I don’t want to offend you. But basically, the more I’m around Wes, the more I don’t see him as your type.”

  “What do you mean, my type? Is there a certain type I’m supposed to go for as a PK?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Marta shook her head. “I meant I am afraid he’ll get you into trouble.”

  “Me, in trouble?” I jabbed my chest with my finger. “Yeah right. I can barely even go over my preapproved weekly caffeine limit without feeling guilty. I somehow doubt Wes is going to convince me to go get some ink or hold up a convenience store.”

  “You know what I mean.” Marta fiddled with her straw wrapper. “There’s other ways to get in trouble besides breaking the law or getting tattoos.”

  Oh. That. I felt my face burn, and I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “Yes, I know what you mean. But what makes you think Wes sleeps around?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Marta wrinkled her nose.

  “Do you honestly think that because he wears a leather jacket and rides a motorcycle that he sleeps around?” But he did, didn’t he? I knew he had to have done so with Sonya, and if not, then they probably came pretty close based on the vague comments he’d made a few months ago. But that didn’t mean he did that with every girl he met. Marta was judging Wes on his appearance. That wasn’t fair.

  “It has nothing to do with his clothes. It’s just a vibe he gives off.”

  “No, it’s a vibe he hides behind.” I straightened on my side of the booth. “You don’t know Wes like I do.”

  Marta leaned forward. “He doesn’t go to church, does he? I remember you telling me that his dad talked to you after the service—it seemed like he came alone.”

  If it hadn’t been for the sincerity and lack of judgment in Marta’s eyes, I’d have gotten even more defensive. Instead I reminded myself she was my friend and looking out for me. I inhaled a long breath. “Mr. Keegan has been in our church for years. Wes, not so much.” But that didn’t mean he might not come with me later, once we were committed. Once he cared enough. Right?

  Marta squinted. “Do you even know if he’s a Christian? If he believes like you do?”

  A pang of guilt stabbed my heart, and I squirmed in my seat, wishing I could write it off as heartburn. All the youth lessons I’d sat under these past five years suddenly rang in my mind. Stuff about not dating anyone you wouldn’t marry—and not marrying anyone who didn’t share your faith. I agreed with that. But I wasn’t marrying Wes. We weren’t even an official item yet. It seemed a little premature to be upset about details that wouldn’t even matter until marriage.

  “We haven’t talked much about faith stuff yet.” Not enough to brag about, anyway. I shrugged. “We’re still new as a couple, you know? It’s not like I can hand a guy a checklist of requirements every time he asks me out.” Although, on second thought, my dad would probably love that.

  “Ja, I know….” Marta’s voice trailed off. “I just want you to be careful. Extracareful.”

  “I will. I am. Remember—I’m a virgin and plan to stay that way.” But for some reason, the words didn’t sound nearly as concrete coming off my lips as they had in the past. I frowned. “You and I already had that particular talk.”

  “But did you and Wes have that talk?” She held my gaze, her eyes sincere and filled with compassion. “Because if you are going to be dating, you need to know what to expect. What he expects.”

  “He doesn’t expect anything.” Then I remembered Wes’s kiss and the gentle way he’d touched my face, and the fries in my stomach began to dance the hula. “Wes knows I’m not like Sonya. He would never ask that of me, even if he wanted to.”

  I didn’t think.

  “Did he end things with Sonya for you?”

  I nodded, still somewhat surprised it’d been that easy to win Wes over. I hadn’t even really tried. I’d just been there, listened, hung around. Thrown his sarcasm back in his face. Maybe that’s what Wes needed—someone to keep him on the up-and-up. Not someone like Sonya, who would only drag him down into what he didn’t need to be anymore. I could change him. I’d do it and prove it to Marta and my dad and everyone else who thought Wes was just a brooding rebel. I’d show them all.

  That is, if he actually called me. Why hadn’t he just said “okay” when I asked if he would, and then I’d know? Or maybe I shouldn’t have even asked. Was that considered clingy and annoying? Man, dating was hard. I almost missed my books.

  Marta slurped the end of her drink then tried to shove her straw through the ice in her cup. “I just hope you know what you are doing.”

  “I’m not doing anything other than trying to date a nice guy. A guy who needs a good influence.”

  Marta’s brow twitched, but to her credit, she didn’t argue. “You know, Luke is also a pretty nice guy. And his wardrobe actually involves cotton and jersey knit.”

  I threw a fry at her and laughed. “You can have Luke and his cotton T-shirts all you want. They don’t do anything for me.”

  Marta propped one elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hands. “Not that he’d look away from you long enough to see me anyway.”<
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  “Give him time. I’m not that hard to get over, trust me.” I rolled my eyes as I searched for the last fry in my bag. I shouldn’t have thrown away the other one. “Or hey, just use your turquoise belt to catch his attention. It practically glows in the dark.”

  “You are just so hilarious.” Marta flung her wadded-up straw paper at me, and I caught it and tossed it back as she giggled and ducked beneath the table. “Maybe I should enter the talent show after all. How to make ugly clothes look good.”

  “You’d make the top ten for sure.” I grinned at her, glad our friendship had survived the disagreement. Once again the differences between Marta and Claire struck me like a sledgehammer. Marta spoke honestly from her heart and invited discussion. Claire always insisted on winning every argument and forcing the issue until you just gave up from sheer exhaustion. She’d actually make a great lawyer. Maybe that should have been her talent instead of fashion.

  “When’s our next practice, anyway?” Marta pulled her phone from her purse and hit a few keys to access her calendar.

  “Tomorrow. Which reminds me, I need to get that ad copy to Debra at the Foundation for the newsletter.” I groaned. “I can’t believe we only have a few weeks until showtime.”

  No telling what Mrs. Lyons would have me do next. I’d have to draw the line in the assistant sand eventually. Like if she asked me to give her a pedicure or told me to clean the boys’ bathroom.

  “I just hope our advertising pays off for the Let Them Read Foundation.” Marta slipped her phone back into her purse. “This could end up making a real difference for some kids—assuming everyone gets their act together to make this show something more than a joke.”

  No kidding. “I hope so, too.” I helped gather the trash onto our tray and then carried it to the garbage can by the door. Man, did I hope. I hoped the talent show was a success. I hoped I wouldn’t find Claire puking in the bathroom again tomorrow. I hoped Mrs. Lyons didn’t get sent to the ER for high blood pressure the night of the dress rehearsal.