by Lynn Painter
He looked really concerned, and for some reason I felt compelled to reassure him. I blindly reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I think it’s fine. As soon as the bleeding stops, we’ll probably be good.”
“She’s so much tougher than you, Bennett,” Adam said.
“No shit.” Wes adjusted one side of the shirt so I could see a little better, and I felt his big, warm hand squeeze around mine. “I’d be bawling.”
Michael added, “Same.”
“Oh my God, what happened?” An adult appeared in my line of sight, a blond woman with a severe bob, looking worriedly down into my face. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
I repeated what I’d said to Wes, and she suggested I try removing the shirt. She said in a knowing voice, “I bet most of the bleeding is done.”
As she took a second to lecture the boys on how they shouldn’t be in the practice gym, I steeled myself for moving the shirt. Even though I knew it was really immature, part of me didn’t want to, because surely there were blood smears on my face. And ewwww, right? I didn’t want Michael—or anyone—to see me like that.
But I took a breath and lowered Wes’s shirt, glancing up at everyone.
And… The expressions on the boys’ faces were not good.
Michael coughed a little and said, “Well, it doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.”
I looked at Wes. He was perpetually tactless, and I knew he’d be honest with me. “What’s wrong?”
I stared at him, waiting. He was shirtless, having donated his shirt to my bloody nose, and I got momentarily distracted by the sight of his chest. I mean, I wasn’t usually one to ogle anyone’s physique, but my neighbor was wicked defined.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Adam said, answering before Wes and yanking me out of my pectoral revelry, “but your nose looks kind of like… Mrs. Potato Head’s nose.”
“Holy shit, that’s it!” Noah nodded emphatically. “Not the rest, but for sure the nose.”
Michael didn’t even hide his laugh, but it was at least a warm, friendly laugh. “It does resemble a potato nose. And it’s bleeding again.”
He was right—I felt a warm trickle on my upper lip. “Oh my God!” I re-covered my nose.
“No, it doesn’t; don’t listen to them.” Wes lifted my chin in his thumb and forefinger, and his eyes dropped down to my covered nose. “Your nose is just a tiny bit swollen.”
Noah muttered, “Tiny bit?” at the same time the lady said, “You should probably go to the ER, dear. Just to make sure it isn’t broken.”
The ER, really? What about my Laney-free ride home with Michael? I said, “Um—”
But Wes interrupted with, “Nope, no objections. I’m taking you to the ER, and you can call your parents on the way. Cool?”
Adam said, “Dude, you didn’t drive. And quit being so bossy to the missus.”
My nose was throbbing but I couldn’t stop the smile. Wes’s friends were ridiculous. “I don’t need you to take me to the hospital. I’ll call my dad.”
“But Helena said she and your dad would be at the movies.” Wes looked worried, which made me feel a little warm and fuzzy. Which meant I probably had a concussion. He looked up something on his phone and said, “The hospital is literally right down the street.”
“Oh yeah.” He was right about my dad and Helena, and probably about the hospital, too.
“I’m sure they can meet us there if you call them.” Wes gave me his hand to help me up. “Think you can stand?”
“Of course.” I let him pull me to my feet.
“You better shirt up, man.” Adam made a face. “You look like a perv in just jeans, like an underage stripper.”
I pressed the shirt tighter against my face as Wes grabbed his jacket from the floor and put it on over his bare chest. My cheeks were on fire—I felt like I was watching something dirty—and I shakily managed to say, “Let’s go, you pervert.”
But as we exited the gym, it occurred to me that Wes had donated his clothes to me twice now. Either I was on a hidden-camera show and Wes was pranking me, or he was seriously the nicest guy.
* * *
“Hair hero. Oh my God, I don’t even have words.” Wes’s face was serious as he walked with me down the steps on the side of the school, but there was that mischievous twinkle in his eye, the one that never went away. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?”
“I mean, yeah, I think I’m a fairly amusing person.” I grabbed the metal railing and wondered how I’d ended up alone with Wes at the end of this night, instead of making magic with Michael. I was a little surprised that I didn’t feel more disappointed, but perhaps that was just my body’s defense mechanism to keep me from dying of embarrassment.
“What if Michael tells everyone that he’s my hair hero?”
It hurt to smile but I did it anyway. Wes was acting like my nose hadn’t just exploded in front of my forever crush, and I loved him for it. He was picking up right where our convo would’ve headed if not for my accident. “He won’t.”
“Because I could do so much better.” He started naming people as we walked down the dark sidewalk. “Like, Todd Simon—that guy’s got some good hair. And Barton Brown—you could get lost in Barton’s shiny mane. Those guys are worthy of hair heroism. Those guys are worthy of follicle adoration. But Michael Young? Puh-leeze.”
“You could never get Barton Brown; be realistic.”
“I so could get Barton. He’d probably lose it if I asked him to be my hair hero.”
“You would never ask him, Wes, and you know it. He’s in another hair league.”
“Why are you hurting me like this?”
“Sorry.” I tried not to stare as we walked under a streetlight, but I realized as I looked at him that his face was always fun. He almost never looked pissed or like an asshole, and I couldn’t imagine him being legitimately angry. “I guess I’m projecting.”
He glanced over at me and gave me a closed-mouth pity-frown. “How is the honker feeling?”
“It doesn’t really hurt now. Except when I touch it.”
“So don’t touch it.”
“Really?”
He shrugged and put his hands in his jacket pockets. “Seems logical.”
I was getting sick of holding that shirt over my nose. I pulled out my phone and flipped the camera to make a mirror, then stopped walking and slowly removed the shirt from my face. “Oh my God, I am Mrs. Potato Head.”
The bridge of my nose was so swollen that the entire thing looked wide. It was like my nose blended in with the rest of my face.
The good news: when I tilted my head back, it didn’t look like any more blood was waiting to fall.
This whole thing was just gross.
“I’ve broken my nose twice, and it’ll heal fast.” He put his finger on my phone screen and unflipped the camera so I could no longer see myself. “You might look like a child’s toy for a day, but after that you’ll barely be able to tell.”
I glanced at his profile in the dark and didn’t see any bumps or knots in his nose. But I said, “Define ‘barely.’ ”
He ignored me and said, “Call your dad.”
“Oh yeah.” I exited the camera and went into the actual phone. “Thanks.”
I called my father as Wes stood beside me on the sidewalk, scrolling on his phone, and after I told my dad what’d happened and then retold Helena, they said they were headed toward the hospital and they’d find us when they got there.
“By the way, thanks a lot.” I put my phone into my pocket and looped the disgusting shirt over the strap of my bag, and we started walking again. With every step I tried to figure out what was up with Wes’s sudden-onset niceness. The guy was apparently all-in on getting that parking spot. “You didn’t have to escort me.”
He nudged my shoulder with his and teased, “My luck, you’d bleed to death and then my guilt wouldn’t allow me to enjoy the Forever Spot.”
“Wait—you’d still take it,
even after having a hand in my untimely demise?”
I attempted to give him a playful punch, but he caught my fist in his huge hand. He grinned at the little noise I made and let go.
“Well, it’s right there, Buxbaum—how could I not?”
We stopped at a red light when we reached the corner, and he turned and looked at me. We were quiet for a moment, our smiles slowly simmering, and then he asked in his deep-and-gravelly voice, “So were you making any headway with Young before you got bashed?”
I don’t know why, but I was hesitant to tell him for a second. We’d been having fun and I didn’t want to get serious. But then I reminded myself that it was my let’s-get-Michael teammate, Wes. Why wouldn’t I tell him? “You know, I think I was. He was being a little flirty before you walked over to the small court, and he physically moved my arm to help me shoot better.”
“Sweet Lord, he touched you?” His eyes widened like this was a really big deal.
“He did.” I proudly raised my chin.
“Like, how did he do it? Was it coachy and clinical, or…?”
“It was like this.” I reached over and moved his elbows from their position at his sides to a few inches higher in the air. “Only maybe lighter and more fingertippy.”
“Holy shit, Liz.” He gave his head a little shake and his mouth was wide open. “That’s huge.”
My lips slid all the way up into the beamingest geek smile ever, even though it sent a jolt of pain through my nose. “It is?”
“Oh my God, no. It isn’t.” Wes put his hands in his pockets and gestured for me to walk, as the light had turned green. “That was sarcasm. I thought you knew that until you said ‘fingertippy.’ ”
“Oh.” I cleared my throat and said, “Well, it felt like something.”
“Like something fingertippy?”
As he mocked my words and my Michael obsession, it hit me that everything was all wrong. Wes was the one walking me to the hospital, and it was Wes’s shirt that’d staunched the flow of blood from my face.
Wasn’t it supposed to be Michael?
He glanced over again, his expression unreadable as we walked up to the entrance of the ER. Just before the doors opened, he said, “You don’t seriously think his fingertippiness was a thing, do you?”
“How should I know?” I shivered in the cold and wondered why Wes all of a sudden seemed a little cynical. “It could’ve been.”
He let out a noise that was a cross between an exhalation and a groan. “How are you so bad at reading signals?”
“Wha—”
“Liz.” My dad stepped out through the hospital doors and rushed at me, his face harsh with worry. “We were literally at the theater across the street. How’s the nose?”
We went through the doors, and Helena, waiting beside the check-in desk, glanced at Wes and gave me a funny smile. Which immediately stressed me out on top of everything. The last thing I wanted was my dad to be looped into the false narrative of me and Wes being a thing.
Wes was nice to them and did the small-talk thing for a few, but he didn’t really even look at me the rest of the time. When he left, he said, “Later, Buxbaum,” and just kind of threw his arm up in a wave before disappearing.
I wasn’t sure what to think. He couldn’t be mad at me, could he? Why the weirdness? Was it all in my head?
I texted Joss about my nose (leaving out any Michael references, of course) while we waited for the doctor, because I knew she’d appreciate the ridiculous story. Her response:
Joss: Wes Bennett took you to the hospital??
Me: Yeah, but he was my ride so it was no big deal.
It felt good to text her about my nose, probably because it was safe territory. It had nothing to do with senior year—her obsession—and nothing to do with my Michael scheme.
Joss: SO?? OMG! Methinks Mr. Bennett has a crush…
So much for safe. I knew it was weird, but as I sat there on the paper-covered exam table, I missed my best friend pre–senior year. I missed being silly and obnoxious and 100 percent myself without having to dodge unwelcome emotional conversations.
Me: Shut up—I have to go.
Joss: Will Monday work for dress shopping since there’s no school?
See? I missed being able to text more than one sentence before stress and conflict came into our conversations. I felt like the total worst, but it didn’t stop me from texting:
Me: I think I have to work—SERIOUSLY—don’t be mad.
Joss: Shut up—I have to go, loser.
Ugh. I really needed to do the shopping thing before her feelings got hurt. Joss was a strong person with a lot of opinions, but underneath her stubbornness she was sweet and extremely sentimental.
Which was why we usually got along so well—we both were.
The doctor finally came in, and after poking and prodding my tender beak, she determined it wasn’t broken. She said it would look normal in a day or two, so I only had to Potato-Head it for a couple days. By the time we got home, it was eleven and I was exhausted. I showered and crawled under my covers, and was almost asleep when my phone buzzed.
I rolled over and looked at the screen. It was a text from a number I didn’t know.
Unknown: Hey, Liz—it’s Michael. Just wanted to check on you.
“Oh my God.” I fumbled for my glasses and turned on my lamp. Oh my God! I stared at the phone. Michael Young was texting to see if I was okay. Holy shit. I took a shaky breath and tried to think of a response that didn’t make me sound like a dweeb.
Me: Well, my Mrs. Potato Head nose isn’t broken so it’s all good.
Him: Haha glad to hear it. Wes told me you refused all pain meds at the hospital because you’re a badass, so I figured that was the case.
Note to self: thank Wes for that one. I smiled and rolled over onto my stomach. It was like I could hear his rich, drawling voice speaking his texts aloud. It made me feel like rolling on the bed and kicking my feet like when Julia Roberts freaked over three thousand dollars in Pretty Woman.
Me: He’s right about my badassery, by the way.
Him: Um, I seem to remember a girl who cried when she got wet.
I rolled my eyes and wished he could forget that little girl.
Me: That girl was left behind a LONG time ago. Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to mess with the new Liz.
Him: Is that so?
Oh God—was he flirting? Was Michael Young actually flirting with me? I was beaming like the nerd I’d always been, as I typed, That is most definitely so.
Him: Well, I guess I might just have to get to know this new Liz.
I died. I don’t know how I managed to text from beyond the grave, but I was cool.
Me: I guess you might have to. If you think you’ve got the coconuts for it.
Him: What?
Aw, geez. What was he whatting? The coconuts? I was such an awkward texter.
Me: I meant that you might have to, if you think you’re up for it.
Him: Got it.
I didn’t want to ruin the chance to have a text conversation with Michael, but once again I was drawing a total blank on what to talk about. School, basketball, nose… hmm.
Me: So what are you doing right now?
Him: Texting you.
Well, that wasn’t much of a help.
Me: Sounds exciting.
Him: What does?
Was this for real? Was I really this awful at textual chitter-chatter? Shit.
Me: Nothing. On a random side note, I’m starving. Send food. SOS.
Him: I have to go get my pizza out of the oven because the smoke alarm is about to go off and wake my parents, but put me in your contacts. I’ll text you sometime.
I was going to pass out.
Me: You got it.
Him: Night, Liz.
I slowly set down the phone on my nightstand. Um… I was pretty sure I was excited. But what did it mean? Was I back in the game? I wasn’t sure, but he’d cared enough to get my numbe
r—I was guessing from Wes—and to personally text and see how I was feeling.
So even though it’d been awkward, it was still a good sign, right?
The love theme I’d written when I was seven suddenly came back to me full blast. Liz and Mike, love and like, together forever in all kinds of weather.
After I came down from my emotional roller-coastering, I got tired again and my nose started throbbing.
And I started worrying.
Because I had no idea what’d happened with Wes at the hospital. One minute we’d been walking there, doing our usual schtick, and the next it had seemed like he was mad.
And I hated the thought of him being mad at me, especially after he’d been so nice since the moment he’d picked me up that night.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and dialed his number, unaccountably nervous as I heard it ring. I thought it was going to voicemail when he picked up on the fifth ring.
“Hey, Libby Loo.” Wes sounded tired, or like he hadn’t used his voice in a while. It had that gravelly thing going on. “What’s up?”
I pulled my covers up under my armpits and ran my finger over the stitching on my comforter. “Did I do something to piss you off at the hospital?”
“What?” I heard him clear his throat before he said, “No.”
“Because you seemed… um, terse…? When you left?” I sounded like a nervous middle schooler, and I rolled over onto my side. “I’m just sorry if I said something to upset you.”
“Wow.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I had no idea you cared so much about making me happy.”
“Okay, stop that.” I laughed—which hurt my nose—and I said, “I just wanted to make sure we’re cool.”
“We’re cool, Lib.” His voice was deep as he said, “I promise.”
I rolled over onto my other side, trying to get comfortable. “Did you give Michael my number, by the way?”
“Yeah, I did. He wanted to check on you.”
“And he did!” I was smiling again and squealing a little. “He texted me to see how I was doing.”
“And? How’s the honker?”
“It’s okay.” I rolled onto my back and looked up at my ceiling fan. “Sore, but I’ll live. I still look like a freak, but the doctor said the swelling will go down soon.”
