“There’s something I need to give you. Something I should have given you a long time ago, actually.”
Clearly, he’s curious because he turns off his truck and follows me into the house. Mom’s at work and Celia is out with friends, so we have the place to ourselves. Under other circumstances, this would be a great thing, but being home alone with a boy I’m really into, who isn’t into me, just feels sad.
“Been a while since I’ve been here,” Wesley says, poking his head into the living room. “Looks so different.”
I nod. Mom redecorated after the divorce. New paint, new couch. New life. Took me a while to get used to it, but now I can barely remember how it was before.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it as I lead Wesley down the hall to my room. I push open my door and flick on the light.
“Well, well. Your room is still the same,” he says. He walks over to the sepia-colored poster of Big Ben hanging over my bed, while I go into my closet and pull his letters out of the shoe box I brought home from Gran’s.
I hold my breath as I hand him the stack, neatly tied together with a grosgrain ribbon. “I should have given these back to you a long time ago. I don’t know why I didn’t.”
Wesley looks down at the letters. He runs a finger gently over the ribbon.
“I didn’t read them,” I say.
“It would have been okay if you had.” He clears his throat. “I can’t believe she kept them.”
“Yeah, well. Gran’s sentimental. She also never threw anything out. Ever,” I say. “She had so much crap, Wes, you wouldn’t believe—”
But I can tell he’s not listening to me. His attention has suddenly shifted to something over my shoulder.
I freeze, quickly running through a mental list of all the embarrassing things I could have left out for him to discover. Granny underwear? Tampons? But when I turn around, all I see is the Gruffalo balloon on my desk, slowly deflating.
Wesley brushes past me. He sets the letters on my desk and picks up the balloon, a strange expression crossing his features. “You saved it?” he says.
My face is on fire. Saving that balloon, well, it’s basically a declaration of my feelings for him. And I’m pretty sure he knows it. “Oh, um. Yeah. I did.”
Wesley’s staring at me intently. The air between us is so charged, the hair on my arms is standing up. “Why?” he asks softly.
I swallow. This is it. The moment. I can continue to run. Or I can go for it.
But here’s the thing: I’m tired of running. And really, I’ve got nothing left to lose. So I take a deep breath, and then I take the leap.
“Because you made it for me,” I say.
Wesley covers the length of the room in less than a second. He pulls me toward him and kisses me, and he’s such a crazy, blow-my-socks-right-off amazingly good kisser that I practically melt into the floor.
I can’t even believe this is happening.
I am kissing Wesley James.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The balloon falls to the floor and my hands find their way to his shaggy blond hair, which is even softer than I imagined it would be. Wesley’s hands are sliding up my back, bringing me closer, until there’s no space left between us. We are all over each other and there is nothing “nice” about it, no wondering if this is right or if I like him. There is no thinking at all, just fireworks.
Everything—everything—about this moment is perfect. And, like all the best things in life, absolutely worth waiting for.
*
“I knew you’d come around eventually,” Wesley says with a goofy grin. We’re standing at the front door and I’m trying to coax him out of the house before Mom or Celia get home. But he’s making it very hard.
“Of course you did,” I say, halfheartedly trying to untangle myself from his arms. “Really, Wes, you have to go.”
He tightens his embrace and buries his face in my neck. “I like it when you call me Wes,” he murmurs. Then he starts kissing my neck and all the resolve drains out of me. We start making out against the door and we don’t stop until a pair of headlights shines through the window.
We quickly straighten our clothing and I run my fingers through my hair, hoping it’s not totally obvious that we’ve been pawing each other.
Wesley sneaks in one last kiss, then takes a deep, calming breath and opens the door. Aunt Celia is standing on the other side, keys in one hand, a white bakery box in the other.
If she’s surprised to see us, it doesn’t register on her face. “You must be Wesley,” she says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Wes shakes her hand. “All good things, I hope,” he says.
She smiles. “All good things.”
Not strictly true—unlike Mom, Celia knows I disliked Wesley for a very long time—but I’m glad she doesn’t tell him that. No need to rehash the past.
“See you tomorrow, Q,” he says.
I nod and close the door behind him. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
I want to go to my room, where I can comb over every detail of the past hour in privacy, but Celia holds up the box and says, “I’ve got cannoli,” so I follow her into the kitchen. Because who turns down cannoli?
“Your young man is very handsome,” she says, cutting the string off the box.
My face flushes with happiness. My young man! “What are we celebrating?” I say, watching as she lifts out two perfect pastries and sets them onto the fancy floral plates we usually only use for special occasions.
She hands me one of the plates. “We sold Gran’s house this afternoon,” she says. “And your dad called me.”
I pause, the cannoli halfway to my mouth. This is the first time Dad and Celia have spoken in months—it must have gone well if she’s bringing home baked goods. Still, I’m stunned. “Why?”
“Well, he’s been trying to reach me for a couple of days, but I’ve been avoiding him because I thought he wanted to talk about the house,” she says. “I thought he was looking for money. And, as it turns out, he was. Just not for himself.”
“I don’t understand.” Hope flickers inside me, but I’m afraid to get too excited, in case this conversation isn’t going in the direction I think it is.
“Your dad told me that you gave him money and he gambled it away.” She grimaces and closes her eyes briefly, but when she opens them again, she’s smiling. “Quinn, honey, your gran would never want you to miss that trip,” she says. “And neither do I.”
And then Celia tells me that she’s put aside some money from the sale of the house for my trip.
I squeal and grab her in a hug, getting cannoli cream in her hair. She doesn’t seem to care, though, she just squeals and jumps along with me.
I’m going to London. I AM GOING TO LONDON!
epilogue.
LONDON, TWO MONTHS LATER
London, as it turns out, is everything that I expected it to be. And nothing like I expected it to be.