Dad waits until I’ve almost finished my breakfast before dropping his bombshell.
“I don’t understand,” I say, blinking at him. I set my fork on the plate, my appetite obliterated. “You said you needed that money to pay off your bookie.”
“Yes, well, that was the plan.” The smile hasn’t slipped from his face, but he won’t meet my eyes. “But then I got a tip on a horse. A sure thing.”
I do not like where this story is going. Not at all. “There’s no such thing.”
Dad rips open a packet of sugar and dumps it into his coffee cup. He picks up a spoon and starts to methodically stir, using the distraction to gather his thoughts. “The thing is, ladybug, I really believed that I could double our investment,” he says. “I was sure I’d make enough to pay him off and send you on your trip.”
There is a small corner of my heart that is hoping—praying—that he’s going to tell me he came through this time. That he’s not going to say he lost all my money on a stupid bet. “And?”
He grimaces. “And … well. Turns out Irish Whiskey wasn’t such a sure thing after all.” He finally meets my eyes and, with that, the last bit of hope I had of getting to London is gone.
How could I be so stupid? I gave him all of my money. I gave him my dream. And for what? So he could gamble it away on a horse?
The worst part is, I should have known better. I’ve seen what he’s done to my mom, to Celia. Even to my gran. I just didn’t think he’d ever do it to me.
“I can’t believe this.”
“Ladybug, I know you’re upset,” he says, reaching for my hand. “But I will pay you back. This is a minor setback. I’ve had a streak of bad luck, that’s all. Gambling is all about odds—it’ll turn around. I just need to catch a break.”
I’m going to throw up. Right in the middle of this restaurant.
“I’ll make it back. I always do,” he says.
Not true. Not even close to being true.
“So what now?” I shake his hand off. “What about your bookie? How are you going to pay him? He doesn’t exactly look like a patient person.”
“Keep your voice down.” Dad glances at the couple at the table next to us. They’re staring at their menus, pointedly trying not to eavesdrop. “I told you, I’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “Trust me.”
Trust him? That’s all I’ve ever done. And look where it’s gotten me.
“What about your job interview?” If he got the job, maybe he could make enough to pay me back. Please God.
He flinches. “Yeah, that didn’t work out, unfortunately.”
Of course it didn’t.
I push my chair back and grab my messenger bag from underneath the table. “I have to go.”
“Quinn, please,” he says. “I know you’re disappointed you’re not going to London, but—”
“Yeah, I am. Of course I am. But that is nothing compared to how disappointed I am in you.” I don’t stay to see if my words have any impact—why would they? He’s heard the same thing from the rest of my family, many, many times before—I push through the door and out onto First Street.
I cross the street and head to Pike Place Market, where I can easily get lost. The market is especially busy on Saturdays, and I know a spot that Dad would never think to look for me. I slip past a knot of tourists who are watching the guys behind the famous fish counter toss fish at one another. Down the stairs, until I’m standing in a crowded alley that smells like watermelon and fruit punch, thanks to the million pieces of gum covering the red brick walls and hanging from the grimy windows like stalactites.
The Gum Wall is a local landmark, started in the early nineties, who knows why. It’s totally gross, but strangely fascinating. For reasons I can’t even explain, I find myself dropping by whenever I’m in the neighborhood. I can’t leave without contributing to the wall—I feel like it’s bad luck or something, and God knows I don’t need any more of that—so I dig a piece of Juicy Fruit out of my bag.
While I’m chewing the flavor out of the gum, a couple in matching fanny packs and visors asks me to take their photo. After months working at a theme restaurant, I’m so conditioned to snapping photos for strangers that I automatically take their camera when the woman shoves it at me, when all I really want is to be left alone.
“Oh, are you from England, honey?” the woman asks, pointing at my Union Jack T-shirt.
Note to self: Get rid of all British souvenir T-shirts. Of course, this will mean dumping a hefty chunk of my wardrobe as well as my personal style, but it will be worth it if I don’t have to answer such painful questions.
“Nope. I grew up here.” In Seattle, obviously. Not right here at the Gum Wall. But I’m sure she gets that.
“Well, it’s a lovely city,” the woman says as I pose her and her husband underneath a huge pink gum heart. “We’re so excited to be here. We came all the way from Cleveland.”
It’s weird to think of Seattle as someone’s dream, the same way that London is mine. The Gum Wall could totally be this lady’s Buckingham Palace.
So, after I hand her back her camera, I muster up a smile and give her a list of places to visit. Less touristy places, the kind of inside scoop you can really only get from a local. The type of places I’d want someone to tell me about if I was visiting the city for the first time.
Hopefully, someone will do the same thing for me when I finally get to London one day.
* * *
Travis and Ewen’s apartment is near the beach. And that’s about the only good thing I can say about a place that belongs to two boys with no interest in domestic chores. I would wager that neither of them has cleaned the bathroom since they moved in six months ago. It’s so bad that I refuse to use their toilet. If the situation gets dire tonight—and it might, considering that I’m already on my second beer—I’ll use the gas station down the street. Where I have less chance of catching something.
I’m sitting on the lumpy futon Travis rescued from a thrift shop, hoping the alcohol will make me feel better. I don’t even really like beer, but I need something to help me relax. I’m a total ball of tension. So far, it’s not really helping, but maybe I just need to drink more.
Wesley isn’t here yet. Every time the door opens, I expect it’s going to be him. Every time it’s not, I take another swig of beer. The waiting is killing me. I don’t want him to come, but at the same time I’ve been waiting for him to arrive all night.
Ewen sets down an ice cream bucket filled with Doritos on the overturned plastic crate that functions as their coffee table.
“Haur ye gang,” he says, then walks away.
I’m about to reach for a handful of chips when Erin stops me with a shake of her head. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she says. “Trust me. The things I’ve seen them do with food…”
I pull my hand back. She doesn’t need to elaborate. I probably should have known better. See: unholy state of their bathroom.
Travis is across the room, fiddling with the dial on his enormous stereo system. It makes zero sense that two guys living in virtual poverty should own such an elaborate and obviously expensive piece of audio equipment. Clearly, music is higher up on the list of priorities than decent furniture.
“Is anybody else coming?” I ask, picking at the label on my beer bottle. I don’t look at Erin. I don’t want her to know that I’m asking about anyone in particular, but she figures it out anyway.
“If you’re referring to Wesley, he’s coming with Caleb.”
A flush creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “Actually, I was wondering about Caleb.”
It’s better if she thinks I’m into Caleb. I don’t want her thinking I like Wesley. If I admit I might be having non-hate-y feelings for Wesley, then she’ll pressure me to do something about it. Or, at the very least, try again to talk me out of my quest to get him fired.
By the time he finally shows up an hour—and two more beers—later, I’m pretty buzzed. Enough not to be too bothered when he’s quickly surrounded by my friends, people he hasn’t seen since grade school but with whom he seems to fit right in.
I’m trying for cool indifference by pretending that I haven’t seen him, that I haven’t been watching the door all night, but Erin swiftly shatters my cool with an elbow to my ribs.
“Wesley’s totally sneaking looks at you,” she whispers.
“You’re drunk.”
“Okay, yes. But that doesn’t change the fact that he keeps staring at you.”
“Maybe he’s staring at you,” I say, but my heart seizes.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” she says. “He’s coming over.”
I glance up and, sure enough, Wesley’s making his way toward us. Erin shoots me a look—see?—as she makes room for him on the couch. He plunks down, squeezing between us.
I slide my eyes at him. He’s sitting uncomfortably close, his leg brushing against mine. The zing that goes through me, well, I’ll just ignore that.
“We were wondering where you guys were,” Erin says.
I scowl at her. I don’t want Wesley to know we were discussing him.
“Oh yeah?” Wesley smiles at me and there’s that zing again. Stupid zing.
“I wasn’t wondering where you were,” I say. Which, of course, makes me sound like a complete maniac. Even more so because I’m slurring my words.
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.”