Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  “His mom taught him to play, you know.” Mr. Keegan seemed suddenly lost in thought, his head tilted as he continued to stare at the carpet. “She was a natural, just like him. We nicknamed her Songbird.”

  My breath hitched. Songbird. Wes’s tattoo?

  Facts seeped through sudden bursts of memories, filling the cracks with truth. It seemed so obvious now. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Wes, playing secretly at Got Beans. Wes, refusing to play onstage for Jessica. Wes, begging me in the foyer during the show to understand. “This isn’t about image, PK.” I hadn’t let him finish. Just accused him of awful things and left, pouting because I hadn’t gotten my way.

  Yet he still played.

  For me.

  My stomach twisted as grief wrung me inside out like a rag. “I didn’t realize.” I should have. If I cared as much as I thought I did, I should have seen the signs. The clues. Yet all I’d seen was my own agenda—and the one I thought Wes had.

  Wrong on both accounts.

  “Well, I’d better get going. Your dad gave me homework.” Mr. Keegan stood, slapping his legal pad against the palm of his hand with a smile. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

  His words mirrored Claire’s, and I returned his smile even though confusion and regret still had me drugged. Somehow I was more of a mess than ever before, yet God had used me to reach two very different people. Talk about miracles. “Same here.”

  Mr. Keegan lifted his hand in a wave and slipped outside into the hallway. I stared at my father’s door, wishing I could curl up on the carpet in the fetal position and just cry. What was I supposed to do with this new information? I’d always known there was good inside Wes, despite his carefully crafted image of the opposite, had known there was a hurting heart beneath the leather and tattoos. But how could I go to him now after rejecting him twice? Even if he wanted me back, how could I help him as a friend, without crossing the line toward more? Because even if that was what I wanted—and even if that was what he still wanted, which was probably a long shot after all the blows to his ego—how could I pursue more than friendship knowing Wes didn’t want anything to do with God?

  The door to my father’s office opened, and Dad walked outside. “Addison! I was just heading out for lunch. What are you doing here?”

  I stood up, swiped the tears off my cheeks, and asked the only thing that felt even remotely right at the moment.

  “Would you pray with me?”

  “I can’t believe you’re not harping on me about this cheeseburger,” Dad mumbled around a big bite of juicy beef covered in cheese.

  I handed him a napkin with an angelic smile. “That’s because I’ve already decided you’re having salad for dinner.”

  He grinned, wiping his mouth before reaching for another french fry. “At least I opted out of the mayonnaise. Kathy made me read a nutrition chart the other day comparing calories and fat grams of condiments, and I had to admit I was a little surprised.”

  Since he’d already made such obvious progress, I held my tongue as he reached for the saltshaker, glad Ms. Hawthorne was doing her part as promised. We’d work on him together. For once the thought brought more peace than anguish, but maybe that was just because I’d already been through enough emotional drama for the day.

  And it wasn’t over yet.

  After his fries were severely salted, Dad looked at me. “I appreciate your telling me what Wes’s father said earlier. I know you have a lot to process right now. But it seems like there’s more on your mind.”

  This was it, my blinking neon opportunity to share my fears. If I didn’t take this chance, Marta would kill me. I took a fortifying sip of Coke then set my cup on the table between us. “There is.” I hesitated, searching for the right words, before realizing there really weren’t any. “Someone at church said something sort of—mean—Sunday.”

  Dad’s eyebrows rose, but he kept chomping, allowing me the chance to continue.

  “She implied that you were embarrassed about my decision. You know, about committing my life to God and all after having grown up in the church.” I drew a deep breath. “That you were ashamed of me.”

  Dad choked, snorting and coughing into his napkin.

  “I knew I should have taken that saltshaker away from you!” I jumped out of our booth and pounded him on the back, drawing the stares of more than a few fellow patrons.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay.” Voice raspy, Dad held up one hand to stop me as he sucked down a long sip of pop. “It’s not the food. I’m just really shocked someone in my congregation said such a thing. Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand?”

  “I’m sure.” I didn’t want to name names, didn’t want to put Mrs. Vanderford in a negative light in front of my father, even if she did deserve it. It wasn’t my place. Besides, the point wasn’t the who—it was the what. And I had to know if she was right.

  Dad lowered his voice as he realized we still had an audience from his near-choking episode. “Is that why you stayed home Sunday night? To avoid this person?”

  I nodded slowly. “And you.”

  Dad’s expression grayed, and he reached across the table toward me, dragging his sleeve through his puddle of ketchup and not even noticing. “Why, Addison?”

  Emotion pricked my throat. “Because I don’t know if she’s right.”

  His grip on my hand tightened, and grief filled his gaze. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. And trust me, I’ve heard some whoppers.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, even as tears threatened my eyes.

  “I know we’ve had our struggles and that I haven’t been a perfect parent. The Lord knows I’ve tried.” Dad finally pulled his arm out of the ketchup and began dabbing his sleeve with a napkin. “But if for one minute I’ve ever given you reason to think this woman’s words could be true, I apologize.”

  “So you’re … happy?” My voice sounded so little-girl small, but I couldn’t help it. I casually handed him another napkin, as if his next response didn’t matter in the least.

  “Am I happy that my daughter made a decision about her faith from her heart? Of course I am.” Dad grinned at me across the table. “I couldn’t have been happier Sunday morning. Probably couldn’t have been more surprised, either, but that’s partly because of your altar-call methods.”

  “I was boxed in. And the song was almost over.” I couldn’t help but giggle at the memory, wishing I could have seen my pew vault from my father’s point of view. “And I totally didn’t realize your microphone was still on.”

  “That was the sound guy’s fault. He usually turns it off during invitations so any altar prayers won’t be broadcasted.” Dad laughed as he wadded up his trash. “I’ll tell him he owes you a mocha.”

  “That works.” I helped Dad load the tray with our wrappings, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. Months. Maybe ever. Who cared what Mrs. Vanderford thought if her negativity was hers alone? Maybe I had embarrassed Dad a little with my methods, as he’d put it, but I’d eventually live down the details of that morning, and the important part—the heart part—would live on. And that was what mattered.

  For me and for Dad.

  “I wish you’d have come Sunday night.” Dad leaned back in his seat, draping one arm around the back of the booth. “There was a certain young man in the back row who might have caught your attention.”

  I picked up my drink for one last sip. “Who?” If he said Luke, I might just have had to throw my french fry holder at him.

  “Wes.”

  I spit Coke onto my lap. “What? Wes? At church?” I parroted on like an idiot, unable to stop. “Our church? Wes Keegan?”

  “That’s right. I saw him myself from the pulpit.” Now it was Dad’s turn to hand me a napkin, and I took it, mind racing.

  What did this mean? Had Wes shown up for me? What about all the stuff he had said about his parents and hypocrites?

  “Did he ask about me?” My voice sounded tiny again—and far away. I coughed, my pop still lin
gering in my throat. Only Wes could choke me up while not even being in the same room.

  “I didn’t get to speak with him. He slipped out during the invitation.”

  Equal parts relief and regret filled me with those words. Relief Dad hadn’t embarrassed Wes by singling him out, regret that I didn’t know more about why he was there. Would he have talked to me if I’d come? Would I have even seen him in the back row?

  Ha. The rate I was going, I’d probably have felt his presence from the parking lot.

  Dad stood and picked up our tray. “Who knows, maybe he’ll be back.”

  I followed Dad to the trash cans, absently tossing my empty cup before we stepped outside to the parking lot. Secret hopes warred for attention, battling reality and logic with fantasy. Maybe Wes would be back. Maybe he’d decided to make an effort for me. Maybe I’d somehow reached him like I’d somehow reached Mr. Keegan and Claire.

  Maybe this wasn’t “the end” after all.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Marta sashayed toward the lit three-way mirror, bouquet in hand. “Here comes the bride….” She whipped around at the foot of the makeshift stage and tossed the bouquet to me.

  I quickly caught it and tucked the flowers behind my back as the bridal consultant shot us a dark look—one almost as snooty as the giant sign on the door proclaiming No FOOD OR DRINKS in a font bigger than the store name. I couldn’t imagine how this place did business. Here it was almost Christmas, yet not a single garland or berry graced the entire place. Everything remained white, crisp, clean—practically sterile.

  I was almost afraid to sit down in the viewing area for fear of wrinkling the fabric on the love seat.

  Marta giggled as the woman turned away, and I thrust the bouquet back into her hands. “Will you give this to Ms. Hawthorne already before you get us kicked out?” Not that I’d mind going home. Obviously Crooked Hollow didn’t have a bridal store, so we’d ridden an hour outside of town with Ms. Hawthorne and Marta singing show tunes the entire way.

  Scratch that. Maybe the snobby boutique was the lesser of two evils after all.

  “Sorry. I just love weddings.” Marta tapped on the door of Ms. Hawthorne’s dressing room. “Here you go!” She passed the bouquet over the top. “Almost ready to model?”

  “Not quite. This is one stubborn zipper.” My teacher’s muffled voice grunted from the other side of the door.

  I carefully sat back on the plush sofa where I’d suffered through six other dress showings and crossed my arms. I so wasn’t in the mood for this. As much progress as I’d made with my dad and Ms. Hawthorne—er, Kathy—I just couldn’t totally jump on board with this wedding yet. Not when she and my dad spent every waking moment at our house going over plans for the Big Day this summer. Not when I, in a moment of insanity, agreed to be the maid of honor.

  And not when every stupid piece of lace and tulle in the bridal store made me wonder where the heck Wes had been the past three weeks.

  Ever since my talk with Dad at the diner, I’d been trying to find Wes. I spent more than half of my Thanksgiving break inside Got Beans at random hours of the day, trying to catch him playing the piano, to no avail. I’d staked out the music shop, almost accidentally stole a Christmas CD I’d carried around the store for an hour while stalling, and spent hours walking casually around the block, hoping to find him cruising on his motorcycle among the holiday traffic.

  Nothing.

  It was like he vanished, riding out of my life as quickly as he rode into it. And why wouldn’t he? I’d given him no reasons to stay and far too many to leave. If he really meant he was done with his dad, he could have easily left town. But wouldn’t I have heard about it? And where would he go? Certainly not back to his mom.

  “Maybe this is the one.” The dressing-room door finally swung open, and Kathy emerged. I had to admit, she looked beautiful in the fitted dress with a subtle shimmer of sequins lining the sheer sleeves.

  But beautiful or not, I couldn’t get used to the idea of a grown woman having a full-fledged wedding with a white dress and the works. Since it was Kathy’s first wedding—and only, Dad joked—he insisted she do it right. In my opinion, right was in the eye of the beholder—and at the moment, I envisioned a clearance-rack purchase from the mall and a justice of the peace.

  Hoping my hesitancy didn’t show on my face, I joined the two in the front of the mirror, ready to perform my reluctant duties of maid of honor—whatever that meant.

  “Ja. But maybe not long sleeves in the summer.” Marta tapped her chin with her finger as she studied Ms. Hawthorne’s reflection in the mirror. “Though it is an evening wedding, right?”

  “Oh my.” The bridal consultant popped back up like a bad dream and immediately began fussing over the full skirt. “This one is ravishing.”

  Sure she thought so—the price tag dangling from Ms. Hawthorne’s hip was five hundred dollars more than the two dresses before it. The suit-clad saleswoman might as well have had a giant commission sign on her forehead. I might not know where to stand or what to do during the ceremony as maid of honor, but I could handle some things.

  “Excuse me.” I smiled politely at the worker exclaiming over Ms. Hawthorne’s dress. “Can you tell me where I could get a supersized fountain drink like the one that girl just walked in with?”

  I didn’t know saleswomen could fly.

  “Thank you.” Ms. Hawthorne shot me a grateful look in the mirror as she smoothed the front of her gown. “They like to hover, don’t they?”

  “Like a UFO.” I joined her in the reflection. “What do you think?”

  She nibbled on her lower lip, the most indecisive movement I’d ever seen my teacher make. “I’m not sure. What would your father think?”

  Ew. This conversation was heading down a path I had no interest in venturing. I opened my mouth to mumble some sort of response but was thankfully saved by Marta.

  “It’s lovely.” Marta grinned as she took the bouquet from Ms. Hawthorne and posed in front of the mirror. “But I am a wedding—what do you call them?—fanatic! Maybe my opinion is biased. I actually want you to buy all six dresses.”

  Oh good grief. “If you want my opinion, I think this shop isn’t you.” I plucked at the yards of fabric and wrinkled my nose. “You have great taste in clothes, Ms. Haw—Kathy. I think you could find something better for yourself back at home without busybody customer service and elaborate props distracting you.” I snatched the bouquet from Marta’s hand, ignoring her whine of protest. “I’ve always heard when it’s the right dress, you just know.” At least that’s what they said on TLC.

  “That’s a great point.” Ms. Hawthorne smiled, her features relaxing for the first time in an hour. “Sort of like with love. When it’s the right man, you just know.” She nodded at her reflection, having obviously come to some sort of conclusion for herself, then disappeared back inside the dressing room.

  Leaving me alone with her words rattling around in my brain.

  “When it’s the right man, you just know.”

  I wouldn’t be seventeen for another thirty days. I had no business trying to figure out who I loved or if I loved anyone. I should be focusing on me—on my schoolwork, on the fact that college was only a year and a half away. On figuring out how to live my faith for the first time. On my dad’s upcoming marriage and all these major life changes barreling toward me.

  So why wouldn’t Wes’s image go away?

  “What do you say we ditch this place, snag one of those holiday milkshakes from Sonic, and head home?” Ms. Hawthorne called over the dressing-room door.

  Marta and I grinned and slapped each other high fives.

  Now that was the teacher I knew and loved.

  This was the first year Christmas didn’t hold nearly the amount of magic I’d remembered. Maybe it was the pile of wedding-planning books stacked beside the nativity set on the coffee table, or maybe it was the gifts labeled “Kathy” under the tree for the first time, or maybe it was the din
ing room table set for three.

  Or maybe I just missed my mom.

  I curled up on the couch in the dark, inhaling the steam from my cup of hot chocolate, and drank in the sight of the lit Christmas tree. The stacks of presents were long gone from that morning. The bracelet my dad had given me dangled from my wrist, and I watched the jewels catch the light of the tree.

  It’d been a fun day, full of homemade cookies, juicy turkey, and torn wrapping paper. Yet something just didn’t quite resonate, despite my earlier attempt at having a quiet time in my room reading the Christmas story from the Bible.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Wes, wondering what he was doing with his dad, if they were celebrating the holiday or avoiding each other. Wondering if they had anyone to cook Christmas dinner, if they’d bothered to put up a tree or buy presents.

  If Wes had stopped by Sonya’s house again.

  The lamp by the door suddenly clicked on, illuminating Dad standing in his new monogrammed robe. “You’re up late.” He yawned. “Can’t sleep?”

  “Too much sugar, I guess.” I gestured with my mug. “So Ihad to get more.”

  He chuckled and joined me on the couch. “You sure were quiet today.”

  He noticed? I pulled my feet up to make room, not really up for a deep conversation but unwilling to lie about my feelings anymore. We’d never make progress with each other if I refused to talk.

  I drew a deep breath. “I miss Mom.” I didn’t add that Kathy’s presence just made Mom’s absence even starker. There was honesty, and then there was cruelty.

  Dad stared toward the tree, his expression morphing into shadow. “I do, too.”

  “You do?” I couldn’t help the incredulous tone of my voice. “I mean, I know you did. As in, past tense. But I thought now, since the engagement …” My voice trailed off as the hole I’d talked myself into opened wider. Way to ruin Christmas, Addison.

  “I will always love your mother.” Dad finally met my gaze, tears glazing his eyes. “I’m thankful the Lord brought Kathy back into my life. But no one will ever replace my first love.”