Chapter Five
“Can I talk to you for a minute? Like . . . not through this window?” Weston was pleading with his big emerald eyes. He’d been looking at me that way off and on for a week, in the hallway and in the classes we shared. I knew he wanted to say something to me, but things had been awkward between us since he dropped me off at my house several nights before.
I looked to Frankie. She pursed her lips and motioned for me to go to the back door.
“Yeah . . . yeah, you can uh . . . meet me in the back.”
I turned on my heels and made my way to the back, every muscle in my body tense from my face to my toes. I pushed open the door, and Weston stepped inside. We stood alone in the storage room, with harsh fluorescent lighting making me look as horrible as possible, surrounded by boxes of syrup and toppings, and the weird smell from the drain wafting in the air. He didn’t say anything at first, and my eyes drifted, targeting everything in the room except him, while I waited for him to speak.
“I’m a dick,” he said, his eyebrows pulling in.
“What?”
“I’m worse than a dick. I’m a coward. I should have said something a long time ago. When you stood up to Erin, it just … gave me my balls back I guess. They’re so damn mean, and I didn’t want any of that directed at me, but . . . they’re girls. They’re teenage girls, and I’m ashamed that I’ve been too intimidated to say anything. Especially to Brady. What kind of a*shole lets an a*shole like that speak to a woman the way he speaks to you? I hated it. I’ve hated it for years, and I just tried to ignore it.”
I shook my head. Brady, Brendan, and the Erins had said a few things to me that week, but nothing out of the ordinary. I wasn’t sure what had Weston so riled up. “It’s okay. I don’t expect you to . . .”
“I know you don’t. I’ve been thinking about this all week. All month. I’m not going to let them, or anyone else, treat you like that anymore.” I wasn’t sure what look I had on my face, but Weston suddenly seemed nervous. “What?”
“I don’t know . . . I mean . . . you still haven’t said why?”
He sighed. “I know. We’re two months away from grad, and they’ve been torturing you since grade school. I can’t go back, but I can make it up to you.”
“That’s it? That’s your reason? You suddenly grew a conscience?”
He winced. “Ouch.”
I crossed my arms. “Frankie has a long line out there, so let’s get to the point. You’re like a different person. You’ve turned against all of your friends and are hanging out with me, who you’ve barely spoken to since kindergarten. I think it’s fair for me to ask why.”
“I’ve talked to you as much as I could.”
“As you could?”
He coughed into the crook of his arm. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t need you to save me, Weston. I’ve handled things on my own for a long time. I’m not a charity case.”
He frowned. “I never said you were.”
“We’d both probably be better off if you just returned to life as normal, and left me alone.”
He winced, like my words had physically hurt him. “That’s bullshit. You don’t really feel that way, do you?”
“I don’t know how I feel!”
“Neither do I!” he said, wheezing. He pulled his inhaler from his pocket and took a puff. After a few moments, he began again, this time calmer. “I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. And I feel like . . . I feel like you’re the only person in the world that doesn’t expect me to. What I do know is that I wasn’t happy about the direction my life was going until you got into my truck that first night. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Erin. I’m just . . . I’m winging it. I was kinda hoping you would wing it with me.”
Despite every negative thought running through my head, my lips curved up.
He slowly pulled me against his chest and hugged me. His muscles were both soft and hard. My head fit perfectly beneath his chin. We stood like that for what seemed like a long while. He smelled like sweat, but the good kind of sweat. He could have smelled like the weird stuff that was fermenting in the floor drain, and I still would have liked it.
“I better get back up there,” I said, my cheek still against his chest. He was a whole head taller than my five foot three inches, and I was glaringly aware of his fingers on my back, wrapping around to the side of my ribs. We had never been this close, even though I’d imagined what it must have felt like many times before.
He pulled away. “I’ll see you later?”
“I have homework.”
“Bring it with you.”
I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I guess I can do that. If you leave me alone and let me finish.”
“You won’t even know I’m there.”
He pushed through the door, and when it slammed behind him, I ran to the front, nearly smacking Frankie in the face with the swinging door.
Weston jogged to his truck, climbed in, and sped off, pausing for only a moment before pulling out onto Main Street.
Frankie watched me expectantly.
I shrugged.
“So he’s your knight in shining armor, now?” she asked.
My face screwed up into disgust. “No. I told him I don’t need to be saved. And you should already know that about me by now.”
She smirked. “But it’s kinda nice to be defended.”
I tried not to smile, but lately it was impossible not to.
“I like him,” Frankie said. “And so do you. But in a completely different way.”
I made a face. “You have a vivid imagination.”
“You’re different since he started hangin’ around.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, rolling my eyes and reaching for the closest rag.
“Well, you don’t hate him.”
I scrubbed the sink without actually paying attention to what I was doing. “Not today.”
~*~
When we closed the Dairy Queen and walked out the back door, the red pickup wasn’t parked in the back. It wasn’t anywhere.
“I thought y’all had plans?” Frankie asked.
I shrugged.
“Ride?”
I shook my head and walked home. My hand touched the handle on our dirty screen door. I waited for the sound of his engine, but heard nothing. Soul Asylum drifted through the walls, and I was glad. If I was going to be stood up by Weston, I didn’t want to have to deal with Gina, too.
I pushed through the door and headed straight back to my room. It felt lonelier than usual. A loud knocking came from the front door, and I rolled my eyes, assuming it was one of Gina’s friends or her dealer, coming over to party. A few seconds later, Gina appeared in my doorway, her heavy mascara was smeared, the whites of her eyes bright red and glassy. She was still in her supermarket apron and her name badge was hanging crooked from her white polo shirt.
“It’s for you.” Her face mirrored my confusion.
I nodded and stood up, walking into the front room. I stopped in the middle of the carpet. Weston was standing in the front doorway, his hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket. The body of the coat was maroon-dyed wool, and a big Chenille B was stitched to the left side, outlined in white. Weston’s jacket was almost too busy with everything he’d lettered in during his high school career, especially with the numerous patches on his leather sleeves. I’d never wanted a letterman, and it was weird to see someone wearing one in my living room.
Gina stood next to me, gawking at him. She scratched her arm and nodded toward him. “Who is he?”
Weston held out his hand. “Weston Gates, ma’am. I’m a friend of Erin’s.”
Gina hesitated, but she finally shook his hand then looked to me. “Are you going somewhere?”
I nodded.
“Erin was going to help me with my homework.” He lied seamlessly, as if he’d done it a thousand times before.
“Oh,” Gina said, satisfied. That probably made sense to her, because she couldn’t fathom someone like Weston Gates wanting anything else from me.
I rushed to my room to change and gathered my things. A minute later, I was behind Weston, hurrying him outside. Once we got into his truck, I sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t have done that. I didn’t want you to see my house.”
“Why not?”
“It’s filthy. It smells.”
“All I smelled was weed. Your mom is baked,” he said, amused. When he realized I wasn’t, he reached over for my forearm. “Hey. It’s a house, Erin. It’s not a big deal. I don’t care where you live.”
“It’s just humiliating,” I said, wiping a tear away. “I didn’t want you to see that.”
Weston pulled away from the curb, his jaw working under his skin. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, Erin, I’m sorry. I thought it was nicer than picking you up from the DQ. I thought I’d introduce myself to your mom.”
“She’s not my mom,” I said staring out the window.
“Huh?”
“Her name is Gina.”
“Are you adopted?”
“No. But,” I looked over at him, “do you ever get the feeling that you belong somewhere else?”
“All the time,” he said, sounding exhausted.
“I’ve never felt like her daughter. Not even when I was little.”
“Maybe it’s because she’s the way she is? She doesn’t seem like the mom type.”
“She’s not.”
“Then it makes sense that you would feel that way.”
We weren’t driving out of town like we usually did. Instead, we were driving to the south side, where many of the doctors and attorneys lived. Weston’s parents built a huge house on a lot there when we were in middle school. He pulled into his driveway and under the arch that attached the house to one of the garages. The spot was enclosed by garage doors, the side of the house, and a gate to the backyard.
When he turned off the engine, I shook my head. “I’m not going in there.”
“Oh, quit it,” Weston said, pressing the garage door opener. Hopping down, he slammed his door and then jogged around to my side, opening my door with a wide grin. When I didn’t budge, his face fell. “Don’t be such a baby.”
I slowly climbed down and followed him into the garage and through a door. The house was dark, but a television was on somewhere. The dim blue light grew brighter as we approached the kitchen.
“Weston?” a woman called.
“I’m home, Mom!” he called back. He slipped my backpack off my shoulders and set it on the counter.
“Weston, what are you doing?” I said through my teeth, getting angrier by the second.
His mother walked into the kitchen, her highlighted hair and oval face accentuating her amazing green eyes. It was clear who Weston favored. She stopped, surprised to see me. I wanted to crawl under the counter.
“Who’s this?” she said, with fake cheerfulness in her voice.
“Erin Easter.” He looked at me. “This is my mom, Veronica.”
“Nice to meet you,” I choked out.
She gave me a once over, visibly unimpressed with my appearance. Her eyes critically assessed me like I was a parasite that had infiltrated her home and needed to be exterminated. Weston didn’t seem to notice. He opened the pantry, grabbed a bag of chips, a jar of salsa, and two bananas then pulled a couple of cold cans of Cherry Coke from the fridge.
“We’re going downstairs,” he said.
“Weston Allen,” Veronica began.
“Night, Mom,” he said, guiding me in front of him toward a door down the hall. I grabbed my backpack and walked slowly, unsure of where to go.
“This one,” Weston said.
I opened it, and he walked past, using his elbow to flip on the light, revealing a flight of stairs leading to a lower level. When we reached the bottom, we walked into a vast room with couches, a couple of televisions, a gaming system, a wet bar, exercise equipment, a pool table, and an air hockey table.
That one room was bigger than my entire house.
“Whoa,” I said quietly, letting Weston lead me to the couch.
“This is my space. They won’t bug us down here.” He unscrewed the lid of the salsa, and the bag of tortilla chips crackled as he unrolled it. “You hungry?”
“I’ll take that banana,” I said, pointing.
He tossed it to me. “I’ll wait.”
“For what?”
“Until you finish your homework. I’m going to find us a movie to watch.”
I watched him while he pushed buttons on the remote without looking at them, turning on the DVR and browsing the movies on demand. I pulled out my textbook. A piece of notebook paper stuck out from the page I needed, and I worked on the nine questions I had left to answer. It took only about fifteen minutes to finish, and Weston remained quiet, keeping his word.
Once I closed my book and packed away my things, he excitedly returned his focus to me. “Do you want to watch Triple Thunder, or The Dark House on the Hill?”
“Both sound equally . . . entertaining.”
“Triple Thunder it is.” He pushed a button on the remote, and the screen turned black for a moment. He chose a few more options; then the movie began, opening with a sweaty guy running for his life in a desert.
Halfway through the movie, Weston leaned back against the couch cushion, his size twelves crossed at the ankle on top of the ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. I had a more difficult time relaxing.
Weston looked over at me, back at the television, and then back at me.
“What?”
“You’re so uptight. Do you want me to take you home?”
“I just . . . I don’t think your mom likes that I’m here. And I . . .”
Weston’s phone chirped. Alder’s name lit up the display. He read the text in less than a second, then shot one back.
“What if your mom mentions to Alder that I was here?”
“She won’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“She doesn’t want Alder to be mad at me. She’s already envisioning Gates-Alderman grandchildren.”
My face screwed into disgust. “You should probably take me home.”
He sat up. “Why? You don’t like the movie?”
“It’s not okay for me to be here. You have a girlfriend, and we’re . . .”
“Sneaking around?” Weston said with a sweet grin. “Fine.” He picked up his phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked while he tapped out a message.
“Breaking up with Alder.”