What happened to telling him you’re Amish?
I shield my phone so Caleb can’t see the screen then type a quick message back to her.
Change of plans.
I don’t have time to tell her about those plans, however, because Mr. Aioki steps up to the podium.
*
Wesley bolted out of the room as soon as practice ended, before I even started packing up my clarinet. He left without a word to any of us.
Seeing him miserable should make me happy—that’s been my goal since the day he came back, after all. But it doesn’t. Instead, I’m sad that he’s upset, and also hugely guilty for dragging Caleb into this. I didn’t consider his feelings at all.
I’m the worst.
On top of that, I promised myself that after practice today I’d tell Mr. Aioki I can’t go to London, but I chickened out. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. The longer I wait, the harder it will be.
I nestle my clarinet inside my case, half listening as Caleb and Erin chat about some indie movie they both want to see. I know she’s dying to talk to me alone, but Caleb follows us out to the parking lot. Since he no longer has a vehicle, Erin offers him a ride home.
I’m surprised to see Wesley’s truck still parked beside Erin’s car. And I’m even more surprised to see him and Jolie standing beside it, talking. Or, rather, not talking. Wesley’s staring at the ground. Jolie’s scowling, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
We have to walk past them to get to Erin’s car. The closer we get, the harder my heart starts to pound. It’s like walking into the middle of an electrical storm.
Wesley nods curtly at us, but he doesn’t meet our eyes. Erin unlocks her car and we silently climb inside. Caleb gets into the backseat with Erin’s saxophone.
“Woo, boy. Wouldn’t want to be in James’s shoes right now,” he says as we pull away.
“What does that mean?” Erin says.
Caleb laughs. “Let’s just say that he has a lot of explaining to do.”
I catch a glimpse of Wesley in the side-view mirror, getting smaller and smaller as we drive away, and my stomach clenches as it occurs to me that his bad mood during practice might have had less to do with me and Caleb, and more to do with fighting with his girlfriend.
eighteen.
The tips of my fingers are orange. I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes chopping a whole mess of carrots into matchsticks so we can sprinkle them in the salad. I am sweaty and gross—the food truck still has no air-conditioning and there’s no sign of that fan Joe promised. So the turkey legs aren’t the only thing cooking in here today.
Also, Carter’s hovering and, as I’ve discovered, he’s a total perv. He keeps “accidentally” bumping into me, brushing parts of himself against me that I really don’t want to have any contact with.
I’m about to “accidentally” chop off his fingers when the door swings open and Wesley enters.
The temperature suddenly goes up a few degrees. I’m stupidly happy to see him, until I remember that I’m not supposed to be happy to see him. I’m supposed to be avoiding him.
Carter’s buggy eyes shift to the schedule tacked on the corkboard. “You’re not Amy.”
“That is true,” Wesley says. “Amy needed the afternoon off. We switched shifts.”
“You can’t do that. We have a schedule,” Carter says, shaking his head. “There are rules.”
“I owed her a favor. And I didn’t think it would be a problem. I mean, what does it matter as long as someone is here to cover the shift?”
What does it matter? It’s a rule, clearly highlighted on page 19 in the staff orientation manual—no switching shifts unless approved by a supervisor. Seriously, has no one read the manual?
But we’re twenty minutes from opening so there’s not much Carter can do at this point. We won’t get through the lunch rush without Wesley’s help.
“You’re also late,” Carter says gruffly, handing him an apron.
“I had a bit of trouble finding you guys.” Wesley ties the apron over his billowy white pirate shirt. He’s wearing cargo shorts instead of the bottom half of his pirate costume, which, I have to admit, is kind of genius. All anyone can see of us from outside the truck is the top half anyway.
Carter barks at Wesley to help me finish the carrots. I push the huge, still half-full plastic bin toward him, mad that it didn’t occur to me to wear shorts.
“Nice hairnet,” Wesley says, grinning. Clearly, his good mood has returned.
“You’re not going to think it’s so funny in a minute.” I smile back at him as Carter tosses a hairnet in his direction. Wesley acts like he’s been passed a grenade.
“You’re not serious,” he says.
“You don’t want to wear one, shave your head,” Carter replies.
With a resigned sigh, Wesley pulls it on. It traps his messy blond hair, dips in a V across his forehead. It’s almost impossible to look hot in a hairnet, but somehow Wesley James pulls it off. Damn him. Why does he have to be so good-looking?
“So why do you owe Amy a favor?”
“Oh. She found my swipe card.” Wesley plucks a knife out of the knife block and studies my chopping technique, expecting, I guess, that I’ll slow down and show him how it’s done. I don’t. I just keep chopping. “I guess I left it in the staff room. And I know I don’t need to tell you about the rules.”
He certainly doesn’t. But the way he says it, it sounds like an insult.
Carter barks at us to hurry up, we’re opening in five minutes. Helping us would be, well, helpful, but I guess that’s not in his job description. He decides to step outside for a last-minute cigarette instead.
“What a douche.” Wesley slows down on the chopping until I nudge him. We still have about a million carrots left and, like, no time.
“You’re really not supposed to switch shifts,” I say. “And anyway, he’s just doing his job.” Ugh. Why am I defending Carter, of all people?
An awkward silence descends. I’ve had some time to think about what happened at band practice—both the idiotic way I acted and Wesley’s reaction. And I’ve reached the following conclusion: Making him jealous is stupid and a waste of time. If Wesley liked me—and I’m no longer convinced that he does—he is taken. And, really, even if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Because I cannot be with Wesley James. Not after what he did to break up my family.
We finish chopping the carrots, and Carter comes back inside and unlocks the take-out window. When he rolls up the steel door, all I can see for miles are people. An endlessly long line of people, all staring at us with hungry eyes.
“Yikes,” Wesley says.
Yup. That about sums it up.
*
An hour later, the line looks like it’s barely moved. More people keep coming. I guess Joe was right about having a corner on the medieval-food market. Maybe turkey legs are the next big thing.