CHAPTER SEVEN
The next two days and nights were Weston-free, but they were far from drama-free.
The Clash of the Cheerleaders had given me a permanent migraine, and though my actors were proving to be decent at memorizing, they spoke their lines with as much emotion as roadkill. Plus, Kevin, the boy with the ever-showing boxers, simply would not stop taunting the wise men, no matter what kind of threats I hurled his way.
I rubbed my temples and did another countdown in my head. Twenty-five days.
I was on edge, testy, and annoyed, but worst of all, I couldn’t get a certain set of dimples out of my mind.
“Miss Cole?”
I snapped out of my mental torment.
“Yeah, Josie?”
“Is it true we have to practice every Saturday?”
I tried my best to smile sweetly. “Yes, we need to practice every day we can.” And about ninety more than that.
“Well, I have a Christmas party I have to attend on the fourteenth. It’s out of town. We go every year.”
“Yeah, I have something going on that day, too,” Kevin said.
“Me, too,” another kid piped up.
I stood with my hands on my hips. “All of you have a Christmas party to attend that Saturday? You guys, that is just a week before the show. That is a crucial Saturday practice.”
“Please, Miss Cole. We will work extra hard,” Josie said.
Suddenly, I got an idea.
“Extra hard?” I asked.
The stage was filled with bobbleheads.
“Okay, a Saturday off means that you have to start taking your roles seriously. No more hawking loogies in the middle of your lines. I want to feel the emotion and humor and voice of each of your characters.”
“So, all we have to do is become better actors, and we can have that Saturday off?”
“Yep. And Miss Peach—I mean, Mrs. Aarons—and I will be the judge of that.”
Misty nodded, impressed that I finally remembered her married name.
Perfect.
So, as it turns out, teenagers are the spawn of the purest kind of evil.
On Friday evening, Weston arrived at the theater, trailing behind a pack of devilish hoodlums—a.k.a. my actors.
“What are you doing here?” The hiss of my voice caused several glances to shoot our way.
“I’m their secret weapon, apparently.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They want a Saturday off.” He shrugged. “I’m gonna help them get one.”
“No one cleared this with me.”
“Well, Ms. Tinseltown, consider yourself informed.” He hopped up on the stage with one bicep-straining motion. “All right guys, get in your places. We have a show to put on.” He clapped once and shot me a not-so-innocent grin.
No way. I turned to Misty, looking for her to confirm my outrage.
“I say let him help us. He does know the kids, Georgia.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled. Fine. I can do this. Weston was just one more obstacle to tackle.
A bridge to cross. A gap to jump. A mouth to kiss.
Strike that last one.
“What do you think, Miss Cole?” Weston asked.
Everyone stared at me.
I blinked. “Um . . . what was that?”
“Can the wise men add a swagger to their walks?”
The boys demonstrated this, and I nearly choked with laughter. Misty giggled uncontrollably.
“Yes . . . yes, I think that’s great.”
Weston winked at me and continued with his observations and ideas. Despite the sudden urge to join him up there, I remained on the floor.
“Okay, then, let’s take it from the top.”
As the kids took their places, Weston dropped himself into the seat next to me in the front row. And I heard Misty’s snicker on my other side as he did so.
Weston leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“That people still know how to ask for help when they need it.”
I stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the smirk on his face, although his proximity made it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything but him. Shifting in my seat, I tried to create an extra pocket of space between us.
“Shh. I’m trying to listen to my actors.”
The low rumble of amusement in his chest caused my pulse to tap dance.
“If you would stop trying so hard to hate me, you might just find that you actually enjoy my company.”
A little too much, probably.
“You heading over to play bingo?” Weston asked as I locked the theater door.
I glanced at my phone. 8:38 p.m. I had promised Nan I would stop by the community center if I could, but Weston hadn’t been part of that plan.
“Um, I’m not sure yet.”
“Debating an offer for a hot date?”
I guffawed. “Definitely not.”
“And what if I ask you out?”
I stopped and turned. He was grinning, obviously amused by his stupid joke. “You’re so—”
“Charming, handsome, funny, witty . . . just pick your adjective.”
“Irritating.”
His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Hey . . . that’s not as bad as some of the things you’ve called me in the past.”
I opened my car door, and he walked to the passenger side. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Riding with you to bingo.”
I stared at him. “Do you understand the phrase ‘personal bubble’?”
“Nope.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not staying long. Drive yourself.”
“Nope.” He opened the door and plopped into the seat, reclining it as he did.
Unbelievable.
“This tiny car was not made for guys my size.”
He was right; he looked ridiculously cramped. His muscular build, height, and overall fatheaded arrogance were too much for my miniconvertible.
“Want to get out and take your truck?”
“You gonna ride with me?”
“Nope.”
“Then drive on, Rudolph.”
We pulled into the community center a few minutes later, and Weston walked beside me as we entered the large hall. Fortunately, Eddy masked our entrance as she barked out the next sequence. She’d managed Bingo Fridays ever since I was a young girl. At a buck a card, the admission for the evening included unlimited soda, snacks, and popcorn. It was one of the town’s biggest social events. Even popular high school students could be found here on Friday nights.
I found Nan sitting by Franklin and scooted in beside her, careful to leave no room for Weston. But true to form, he wasn’t deterred. He grabbed a folding chair and set it at the table’s end, turning it backward and straddling it. Our knees bumped multiple times, almost as if he were doing it on purpose.
I ignored his boyish attempts for attention, focusing instead on Nan’s card.
“B-12,” Eddy hollered from the stage.
“Ooh . . . you’re only two away, Nan!”
She squinted at me. “You’re excited about bingo? Since when?”
I’ll pretend to be excited about anything to take my mind off the tingles shooting up my leg at the moment!
“Yep. I love bingo.” I threw back a few pieces of popcorn, realizing for the first time that I’d missed lunch . . . and dinner. As I reached for an Oreo on Nan’s plate, Weston stood up and walked off. Finally, I could breathe.
“You guys on a date?”
A giant piece of Oreo flew out of my mouth as I choked.
“What?” Nan asked, seemingly innocent. “Two days ago you couldn’t stand the thought of being in the same room with him, and now, you’re playing footsie with him on Bingo Friday.”
“I am not!”
She laughed so hard I worried she’d rupture something important.
“What did I miss? What’s so funny?” Weston set a full plate of food in front of me.
I looked up at him, completely bewildered.
“You haven’t eaten, right?”
Speechless, I shook my head.
“Well, start chowing down. Mrs. Henrietta made her chicken salad sandwiches, and I know firsthand that if you don’t get to them first, someone else will. They’re like gold around these parts. I brought you two.”
I looked down at the plate and bit my bottom lip. Why do you do this to me, Weston? In only a matter of minutes, I’d morphed into the kind of girl who could cry over a kind gesture like the gifting of chicken salad sandwiches.
As I stuffed my face with the random foods on the plate, Weston answered Nan’s questions about Savannah’s care.
“Willa said she was up most of last night vomiting, but she had a better day today. It’s just really hard for her to keep anything down.” I swallowed a large bite of chocolate cake and awkwardly pushed my plate away, hoping I didn’t look like the most unsympathetic human being ever.
“Well, I have a few things I’d like you to take up to Portland with you on Sunday, if you don’t mind. Some books. They’re ones that Georgia loved when she was little.”
Weston shifted his gaze to me, and a spasm rocketed through my core.
No! Stop that! Why was my body always defying me when it came to him?
“I’d love to take whatever you have for her, Nan.”
“Great.”
Weston’s phone buzzed, and his brow furrowed.
“Hang on.” He stood and walked toward the window. I couldn’t help but watch him. Weston James was like a piece of fine art, one I hadn’t allowed myself to fully appreciate until now. But with his eyes fixed outside and my pride momentarily banished, I surreptitiously studied the masterpiece in front of me.
“Maybe you should just take a picture—you know, with that fancy phone of yours,” Eddy muttered as she sat down with us.
Flames crept up my cheeks to the tips of my ears. “I . . . I was looking out the window.”
“Ha! Sure you were. That backside of his was discussed at length during my book club a few months ago.”
Oy. I did not need to know that. “Okay, then.”
Eddy’s voice grew shriller. “What? I’m just saying—”
“We need to go,” Weston said, taking my arm and pulling me up.
“What? Where?”
Was that Willa on the phone? Had something happened to Savannah? Weston’s stride was quick, my arm tucked under his. I didn’t even say good-bye to Nan. Not that I had a clue what was happening.
“I need your keys.”
“Why?”
“I’ll fill you in on the way. Hand them over.”
I rolled my eyes and placed them in his palm.
After adjusting every single custom seat setting I had, Weston started my car, and we were on our way. Where? I still had no clue.
“Weston, what’s going on?” I buckled my seat belt.
“We’re rescuing Prince Pickles.”
I belted out a cough-like chuckle. “Who?”
“Savannah’s dog. The neighbor called. I guess he dug out of the backyard again. I swear, that mutt is the bane of my existence—yippy and annoying—but Savannah loves him for some reason.” He shook his head.
“Hmm . . .”
“What?” he asked, glancing over at me.
“Nothing,” I said in a sing-song voice.
Weston poked my thigh with his finger. “Tell me.”
I squirmed in my seat as he repeated the gesture. “It’s just that Savannah seems to have a knack for loving exasperating creatures . . .”
His mouth fell open in mock offense. “Oh. No. You. Didn’t.”
Swallowing the giggle in my throat, I pushed my door open the second Weston parked in front of Willa’s house. In no time, he was trotting up the porch stairs after me.
“Take it back.”
I shook my head. “No way.”
“Georgia Cole, I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly lovable—”
A shrill bark interrupted Weston’s rant.
“Weston? That you?” An older man rounded the corner holding a dog that looked like the end of a dirty mop. The mutt squirmed in his arms, wagging his tail as Weston reached for him.
Apparently, Weston’s feelings toward the dog weren’t mutual.
“Thanks, Mr. Murphy. Sorry he got out . . . again.”
Mr. Murphy waved him off. “No problem. I know what he means to that girl. You should tell your sister to keep better track of him.”
Weston frowned at the animal now licking his cheek with unabashed pleasure. “I will, thanks again.”
I laughed and shoved my frozen hands into my pockets. I waited for Weston to open the front door as Mr. Murphy walked away.
Prince Pickles went crazy the second Weston set him down. He spun in circles, his cottony hair a magnet for every piece of lint it encountered. No wonder he looked like a Q-tip dipped in soil. He ran to a room down the hall and then back out, barking at Weston’s feet.
“She’s not here, buddy.”
The dog sobered instantly, as if that were the only explanation he needed.
I took a tentative step forward. “He understands you?”
“He has some weird doggy ESP with Savannah. I think he knew she was sick even before Willa realized it. He wouldn’t leave Savannah’s side for weeks . . .” Weston looked out the window as Prince Pickles laid his head on the linoleum floor.
I glanced down the hallway, fighting to squelch the uncomfortable burn at the base of my throat. I was much better at writing dialogue than saying it. While Weston filled Prince Pickles’s water and food bowls, I studied each picture on the wall. Most were of Savannah, but a few were of Willa and Weston.
The wall of photographs was a timeline of memories, and one in particular twisted around my heart like barbed wire. I paused in front of it, taking in every detail. The background, the faces, the costumes—it was the night of the Christmas play seven years ago. There Weston stood, his arm around his sister’s shoulders, beaming at the camera . . . while I was weeping alone in the playground, nursing a broken heart.
Suddenly, my skin burned with fury. How dare he—
“Whatcha thinking about?”
I started at the sound of his voice. My heart flung itself against the brick wall I just rebuilt.
“Can we go back now?” I asked.
“Are you okay?” Concern edged his voice.
No. In no sense of the word was I okay, especially not while in the presence of Weston James. “I’m fine. I just need to get going.”
“Need to or want to?” He scanned my face for answers I prayed weren’t there.
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
I rolled my eyes and hiked my satchel strap higher onto my shoulders. I squeezed past him in the tight hallway.
Peeking my head into the living room, I whispered, “Bye, Prince Pickles. I hope you get reunited with your owner soon.”
The dog was safe, fed, and drooling on a large pillow.
Crisis averted. Weston didn’t need me after all.
He never had.
Jerking the front door open, I made my way back to my car, unwilling to allow Weston to bully me into staying there a minute longer.
I stood outside in the cold, waiting for Weston to unlock my car with the keys he’d stolen from me, when I heard his voice.
“We’re not driving anywhere until we talk.”
I whipped my head around. “What?”
Arms folded, eyes narrowed, Weston stood with his feet planted shoulder-width on the porch steps.
“Be serious, Weston. Let’s go.”
“Oh, I’m serious. And if you think you’re getting these keys back without wrestling me to the ground—a wrestling match I’d thoroughly enjoy, by the way—then you’re crazy. It’s time to talk, Georgia. Inside, where we won’t die from hypothermia.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, mirroring his macho demeanor. “No.”
The smirk on his face churned my organs into a rage stew.
“Then what’s your plan, Georgia?”
I had no plan, other than to get away from him—far, far away.
“Give me the keys.” I held out my palm as a shudder racked my body from head to toe.
He arched an eyebrow. “And if I refuse?”
Before I could answer, he strode toward me and manacled his large, warm hand around my wrist. My strength faded, extracted from my being by the heart-sucking vacuum that was Weston James. My knees trembled as he raised my hand to his mouth, warming it with his breath.
And then I was transported to another lifetime.
By the age of ten, Weston had more than made himself known in my life: pulling my hair, pushing me into puddles, and giggling when I misspelled a word during the spelling bee in fourth grade. But then one afternoon after school, he found me crying alone in the park.
Even though I knew he lived across the street, I wasn’t worried about running into him—or anyone for that matter. No one played at the park in mid-October. It was too cold.
Leaning against the big oak tree, I shivered as tears rolled down my cheeks. My mom’s most recent lecture replayed in my mind—her insensitive words, her unyielding expectations, her uncompromising demands.
When Weston slumped down beside me, I envisioned every nickname imaginable involving the word baby being tacked on to Georgia by the end of the school week. He’d mock me, tease me, ridicule me for years to come. All because the girl he saw every day at school—the one who wouldn’t be caught dead showing weakness to the world, the one who had challenged him time and time again inside the safety of those four walls Monday through Friday—didn’t match the girl who sat crying in the park. The girl who was so tired of compensating for her emotionally absent mother.
But Weston said nothing.
He simply lifted my hands to his mouth and warmed me from the inside out.
No words needed.
After that day, he still pestered me, of course, still sought me out in school and joked with me, but that day at the tree changed me—gave me hope.
That we could be more than just classmates.
That he could be something I’d never really had before.
A friend.
An unspoken, unexpected, friend.
Weston’s inviting breath dissolved the knot that had wrapped itself around my heart and held me captive to my doubts. As his lips brushed against my fingertips, his warmth sparked my frozen core back to life. I didn’t yank my hand away, or twist my arm, or elbow his wickedly attractive face. I simply thawed under his touch, berating myself for the weakness that had once again taken me over.
He reached for my other hand as if it were a piece of kindling to add to a fire—the one he’d just built inside me. “You are so stubborn.”
Diverting my eyes, I exhaled shakily.
“Why do you do this, Weston?”
“Do what?”
“This?” I nodded to my hands and pulled them away from his grasp, cold seeping into my bones immediately. “Just stop it already. We aren’t kids anymore.”
His intense gaze steamrolled me. “No, we certainly are not.”
Every hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. I swallowed.
“Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know, Georgia? Tell me why one day I was confessing my feelings to you and the next you pretended not to know me. Like I was suddenly some kind of creep for trying to talk to you at school . . . or anywhere.”
Weston stepped closer as my backside pressed against the freezing metal of my car door.
“Maybe I got tired of being your dirty little secret, the butt of your jokes.”
His jaw clenched. “What are you talking about?”
Placing my hands firmly on his chest, I pushed against him. He didn’t budge an inch. Instead, he caged me in, pressing his palms to the car on either side of me.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m an expert in one-sided relationships.” I practically spat the words.
Weston shook his head, and his body inched close, close, closer. “There was nothing one-sided about what we had . . . what I thought we had. You still owe me an explanation.”
I fought against him. “I owe you? Are you kidding me? Do you even remember what happened the night of the Christmas play, when you left me lying on the floor with a ripped dress, gawking at me like you had no idea why I had just flung myself at you?” My voice cracked. “While everyone laughed . . . including you and Miss Perfect!”
Weston’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the memory, a memory that was still near the forefront of my mind. “Why would I laugh at you? I don’t even know what happened that night.”
“You’re unbelievable!” I took a step to the side, struggling to free myself from him. “You and Sydney tricked me. You added that last-minute scene change just to humiliate me. Why? So the two most popular kids in school could have one last laugh at the underdog?”
Weston flattened me against the car door, holding me captive. His breath warmed the side of my neck as I turned my head away. “I made no plans to trick you that night, Georgia—not with Sydney or anyone else. I swear to you.”
I snapped my eyes back to him. “But I saw you wink at me—after Mr. Daniels told you about the scene change. I saw you! You agreed to that kiss and then let me stumble and fall off the stage!”
“No.” His soft whisper caressed my cheek. “No, sweetheart. I never agreed to anything like that. Whatever you saw, it was misinterpreted.”
“But Sydney said—”
“You’re really going to believe her over me?”
Yes. No. Maybe?
“But why . . . why would Sydney do that to me?” My voice was shaky and small.
As I stared at Weston’s painfully handsome face, I could think of a few reasons.
Sydney had always wanted Weston—to be crowned senior-prom queen and king with him, to be Lenox’s little couple of popularity and perfection.
But Weston hadn’t wanted that. He’d been too busy rehearsing for the lead in the winter play to think about that, too busy spending his extra time with me.
“I wish I knew, Georgia.”
A sob caught in my throat. “But you did know how I felt about you . . .”
The weight of his body against mine made my stomach spasm. “Remind me. How did you feel?”
Shaking my head, I closed my eyes for a long second under the scrutiny of his gaze. His lips were a mere millimeter from mine. “It doesn’t matter now. My feelings weren’t real.”
The tip of his nose traced my jaw. As he worked his way past my earlobe, I struggled to breathe.
“Oh, I think they were very real . . . are very real.”
I shuddered as his hands cradled my face.
“You were never my dirty little secret, Georgia.” He studied me, unblinking. “I knew then what I know now. You’re special, unique, and as beautiful on the inside as you’ve always been on the outside. Maybe I never wanted to share you with anyone . . . maybe I still don’t.”
As Weston’s lips feathered against my forehead, all the anger, frustration, and bitter resentment departed from me with a single exhalation.
“You’ve always been more than just a friend to me, Georgia Cole. I only wish it hadn’t taken seven years of silence for you to believe that.”
Weston pulled me into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me as my fantasy fused with reality.
I snuggled deep into his thermal shirt like it was the shelter I’d spent a lifetime trying to find. “I do, too . . . I’m sorry.”
He stroked my hair softly. “I was a stupid boy to let you walk out of my life so easily, Georgia, but I won’t be a stupid man.” He kissed the top of my head. “I won’t be a stupid man.”