“Notice anything different?” Rachel asks, leaning close so I can see the small gold stud in her nose.
“Shut up! You got your nose pierced? Has Joe seen it yet?”
Rachel shakes her head.
“He’s going to freak.” Joe’s always harping about authenticity. Girls in the fifteen hundreds did not pierce their noses. Or any other body parts, except for maybe their ears, and I’m not even sure they did that.
She shrugs. “What’s he going to do? Fire me? There are laws against that.” But she checks over her shoulder to make sure he’s not lurking behind her.
She’s right: There are laws against unjustly firing someone. Which means I have to make sure that my plan to get Wesley canned is airtight.
Not that I have a plan. It’s been two days since the car wash and I still haven’t thought of a way to get him fired. And I have to do it soon, because my resolve is weakening. Every time I see him, he chips away a little more at my defenses, and I’m afraid if I spend much more time with him, they’ll crumble completely. That can’t happen.
The restaurant doesn’t open for another half an hour, so Rachel’s showing me a photo of the exact shade of blue she wants to dye her hair when Wesley comes charging through the front door.
What is he doing here? His shift doesn’t start for another hour. I may have checked his schedule, but only so he wouldn’t catch me off guard. Like he’s doing right now.
He’s dressed in his pirate costume—billowy white shirt, black leather vest, big black boots with the laces undone. His skull and crossbones hat is clenched in his fist and there’s a distinctly un-Wesley-like scowl on his face—an expression that only darkens when his eyes land on me.
Uh-oh.
“Can I talk to you?” His voice is tight. He glances at Rachel leaning on the hostess desk, watching us with interest. “In private,” he says.
I do not want to talk to him in private, now or ever, but he turns on his heel and stalks down the hall. I’m not sure what he could be so worked up about, but unless I want him to air his issue in front of Rachel—the gossipiest person ever—then I have no choice but to follow him.
My heart hammers as I walk toward the little alcove I just saw him disappear into. Wesley rarely gets mad. At least, the Wesley I knew five years ago never did. But I’ve done a few things lately that might make him angry, so it’s difficult to know exactly what set him off.
I guess I’m about to find out.
I find him sitting on a stone bench underneath a portrait of a glowering King Henry VIII. Henry looks a lot happier to see me than Wesley does. Wesley’s arms are crossed over his chest. His posture isn’t superinviting, but I sit beside him because there isn’t anywhere else to sit and I’d feel even more awkward standing in front of him. The bench is cold and hard, but it’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as the lengthening silence between us.
“When were you going to tell me about Gran?” he finally says.
My breath catches. Of all the things I expected he might say, this wasn’t one of them.
Wesley stares at me and his eyes are so full of anger and hurt, I have to look away. “You knew I wanted to see her,” he says. “You didn’t think you should tell me that she has Alzheimer’s?”
“How…?”
“I wasn’t getting anywhere with you, so I called your house. Your aunt filled me in.”
Thanks, Celia.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” he says.
A spark of anger ignites inside me. Who does he think he is? “I didn’t realize I had to,” I say. “She’s my grandmother. Not yours.”
It’s a mean thing to say, and I regret it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. I know Wesley loves Gran and I know she loves him, too. I also know she wouldn’t be at all happy about the way I’m treating him. No matter what my reasons.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I can’t believe I’m apologizing to Wesley James. But Gran would want me to be kind, and it’s the least I can do for her. And also because he’s right: I should have told him. Despite everything, he deserved to know.
Wesley’s breathing changes. Slows down. His face softens, the lines in his forehead smooth out. He lets out a long breath and leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. I’m relieved he’s no longer mad, even though he has every right to be.
“This sucks,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“How long has she been sick?”
“Awhile.”
He fiddles with his hat, pulling at a loose thread at the top of the embroidered skull. “I figured something was up. The last package I got from her was about six months ago.”
I still can’t believe Gran kept in touch with him and never said a word to me about it. I didn’t keep secrets from her. But she sure kept a big one from me.
“What was in it?”
“The usual stuff,” he says. “A couple of comic books, some of her shortbread cookies. A letter.”
I swallow. Now is the time to tell him that I have a bundle of letters he wrote to her. I found them the other day in one of the boxes of Gran’s stuff that Celia and I packed. Not gonna lie, I was tempted to read them. So very tempted. But in the end I decided not to because I know Gran would have been seriously disappointed in me. And I have enough guilt when it comes to her.
I should tell Wesley I have his letters. I should, but for whatever reason, I don’t.
“I wrote her to tell her that we were moving back to Seattle,” he says. “I was a bit nervous about coming back here.” He glances at me. “I didn’t know what to expect, if anyone would be happy to see me.”
By anyone, he obviously means me. And that makes me wonder what Gran told him about my life. How much of what’s happened in the past few years does Wesley know about?
“I guess that’s why she didn’t answer my last letter,” he says.
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach as I think about him waiting for an answer, waiting for Gran to respond.
“She didn’t want anyone to know she was sick,” I say.
She was diagnosed a couple of years ago, but it was only about six months ago, right around the time she must have sent Wesley her last letter, that she finally told me.
I’d seen a change in her over the past couple of years, of course—she’d forget simple things, like the name of the street she lived on or where she’d put her keys—but I didn’t think anything was really wrong with her. I just thought it was a normal part of growing older.
My gran seemed indestructible. She’d always been there and I assumed she would be for a long, long time. Until I no longer needed her, anyway. Not that I could imagine not ever needing her.
The worst part? I would have noticed she was sick a lot sooner if I wasn’t so wrapped up in my own life. That last year, I didn’t see her nearly as much as I should have. I was too busy, I always had something else—something better—to do.
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.