A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(19)

"Suit yourself," I shrug, taking one more, smaller drink before putting my bottle away.

"You're going to have to tell one of those boys the truth tonight, you  know?" I don't respond, but only stare at her as if I have no clue what  she means. "You like Wes, and you don't feel that way about Kyle."

"I've been through this with Kyle. He knows we're just friends," I say.

"Doesn't mean he's not going to put up a fight," she says back quickly.  Her words stress me out. I don't want to deal with them. "And Wes … "

Before she gets a chance to finish, the door opens and everyone spills  into the kitchen. Taryn keeps her eyes on me for a few seconds, leaning  her head toward Wes as he walks by, letting her eyes follow him before  coming back to me.

He could not possibly look any more perfect. Dark, loose jeans, a white  T-shirt and a gray Y&R hat, always low on his brow. Every detail  about him is simple, but in the perfect place: his hair poking from the  back of his hat, the brown leather band of his watch on his bronzed arm,  his Vans shoes, and damn, whatever the hell it is he wears for a  cologne. I'm sporting my two-year-old state championship sweatshirt with  torn cuffs and the smell of Jim Beam. My hair is pulled back tight, but  when I run my fingers through the ends, they're knotted from not drying  my hair after my shower.

He and I-we don't match.

"So, you threw with my dad this morning," I say, sliding into the stool  at the end of the counter. Wes looks up at me surprised, and I notice my  words get Kyle's attention too. I know this will make him jealous, that  my father's giving Wes extra time. I guess I want Kyle to be just a  jealous as I am.         

     



 

"Yeah, uh … he offered after practice. Said he'd be there, if I wanted to  show," Wes says, taking short looks to Kyle. This isn't fair; I'm  putting him in an awkward spot. "Did he say something about it?"

His eyes catch mine under the shadow of the brim of his hat, and they  practically glow, they're so crystal clear. I get lost in them for a  second, but shake the trance off quickly, breathing out a short laugh  through my nose and shaking my head, giving my attention to Kyle. This  makes Kyle's day.

I feel Wes watching me though. And I feel bad. It's not his fault he's  gifted. It's not his fault that he was able to get my dad to do  something I haven't been able to for years. None of this is his  fault-but damn if I don't blame him anyway.

The theater grounds don't open for a few more hours; to kill time, Kyle  spreads out a few of his movies for us to pick from. Taryn is always the  most vocal, so we end up going with Jaws, which isn't really a slasher  movie, but we all love it anyhow. We spend the next two hours mocking  the naïve swimmers on the beach, and Taryn and I overdo our screams in  reaction to the shark. TK finds her girly scream adorable, and before  the end of the movie, she's nestled between his legs, her back against  his chest and his arms wrapped around her body while his mouth plays  along her neck.

I envy Taryn now too. Not that she's with TK, but that she's with  someone, gets to feel something like that. I've never had that. I've  never really wanted it. But lately …

I've found my way to the middle cushion of the sofa, right between Kyle  and Wes, and the three of us don't move an inch for the last thirty  minutes of the movie. The tension is suffocating, and the second the  credits roll, I step over the coffee table in front of me in lieu of  choosing a side to walk in front of, leaving the two of them alone as I  retreat to the kitchen to sneak another shot of my whiskey.

"Kinda early for that, isn't it?" Wes startles me, and I hold his stare,  the lip of the bottle resting against my mouth. He leans against the  wall opposite me, and loops his thumbs in his pockets, waiting me out.  My lip curls up on one side, and I tip the bottle back, letting it coat  my throat and chest again. I keep looking at him, and make slow  deliberate steps in his direction until I'm close enough to touch him if  I wanted to. I hold the bottle up and raise an eyebrow. He only pushes  my hand away and steps to the side.

"I'm good. Not big on whiskey, especially at four thirty, before a drive-in movie," he says, every word rife with disdain.

"You're not my parent," I say, running my arm along my nose. I choose  those words purposely, keeping them trite and clipped. I point at him  with one finger, the rest still wrapped around the bottle, and I hold  the hard line on my mouth. I think about taking one more drink right now  just to spite him. I don't, and that's because his reprimand worked on  me. A little. A lot.

"Besides, it makes the movie way better," I say instead of drinking,  closing the cap while I drown in my own cocktail of liquor and shame.

I put the bottle away again, turning my back to him, hoping he'll  leave-hoping he'll come closer. He doesn't move at all, but I hear his  breath shift, ready to speak. I no longer intimidate him, which is  exactly what I wanted, but it also makes me vulnerable.

"You saw us," he says. My mouth grows tight and my jaw clenches in an  automatic reaction, but I don't turn to face him. Instead, I shift my  things in my backpack, feeling for his shirt, and I clutch it in my  hand. "I can tell by the way you reacted when I asked if your dad told  you. He didn't tell you, and that's why you're mad. You should have  come, if you saw us. I bet your dad would have liked that."

Ha! That statement gets me. Not wanting to play psychoanalysis with him  anymore, I pull his shirt from my bag, spin on my heels and grab his  hand in mine, stuffing his shirt in his palm, closing his fingers around  it. The feel of him is instant, and my knuckles become stiff and rigid,  fighting against letting go of my hold. It's the whiskey making me feel  that, which means I've had enough-for now. I take a big step back to  force distance between us, but I keep my eyes trained on his, and I keep  my voice calm.

"I'm not mad that he didn't tell me, Wes. I'm mad that he picked you  instead of me. And no … he wouldn't have liked it if I joined you two.  That's the real problem. My father … he doesn't really like me much at  all," I confess, my throat finding it hard to swallow as I breathe.  Wes's eyes flash with the slightest realization and quickly wash over  with sympathy, which is too close to pity, and I don't want that.         

     



 

"Thanks for the shirt," I say, grabbing my bag from the counter and  reaching in for one last thing. "And you owe me a new iPod. I broke  mine, trying to keep up with how great you are, so … here."

I lay my busted device in his other palm, the cracked screen facing him,  and then I walk back into the living room and convince the rest of our  group to leave for the movie festival a little early so we can get a  good spot.

Taryn rides with the Stokes boys, and I hop into Kyle's backseat, which  throws off Conner's plan to sit next to his girlfriend. I'm sort of done  with boys for the night, though, so when I refuse to make eye contact  with him, Conner finally relents and takes the front seat so I can pout  in the back next to Layla.

I like Layla. She's quiet and shy. She likes to be in the room with us,  but never really participates. And she never asks questions. I'm done  with questions. In fact, I'm pretty done with talking for the rest of  the night if I can manage.

The gates are open when we arrive at the drive-in, and because we're so  early, we get a prime spot. I ditch everyone and hit the snack bar,  wasting time walking from screen to screen, munching on full bites of  buttery popcorn until my stomach hurts. No matter how far I roam,  though, my eyes are always quick to find Wes sitting on the top of his  truck, his legs hanging against the back window.

The sun is finally starting to set, and it paints the sky with strokes  of purple and orange. The colors make me sleepy, and they also give me  peace. Not quite ready to return to chaos, I pull myself up on top of a  wooden fence that divides the car spaces from rows of plastic chairs.  Two little girls are playing in the sandpit in front of me. What starts  as a castle they work on together-quickly turns into a war over who gets  to decide how their kingdom is built. They remind me of Taryn and me,  though I never argued. I just let her have her way, and when I really  wasn't up for it, I went and played by myself. That doesn't seem to be  the pattern for these two, though, as within seconds sand is flying in  the air as they kick towers of dirt at one another and start a screaming  match.

"Hey, girls," I say, not even garnering as much as a head turn. I'm hit  with some of the sand from their fight, so I pull my fingers to my mouth  and blow a loud whistle that gets them both to stop. The one on the  right lets the grains of sand trickle through her fingers, and I grin at  the thought of her dropping her weapon.

"Come here," I say, urging them closer. They're timid at first, but when  one starts to come closer, the other one shoves her in the arm, and  they both suddenly sprint until they're touching the fence post next to  me. "You two are friends, yeah?"