A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(27)

"Ah damn. I'm sorry. I was guessing," Bruce says.

Wes is standing by the front door with the truck keys in his hands, so I stand and move toward him, my eyes meeting his.

"I should go too," I say, offering a hand to Bruce. "Thanks again for the sandwich. And company."

"Anytime," he says, patting the top of my hand before letting it go and sinking deeper into his seat.

I turn to Wes, who is still at the door with the keys in his hands.  "Mind if I grab my things?" I ask, tugging on the shirt that isn't mine  and looking down at the rest of my borrowed wardrobe.

"Yeah, here. I'll give you a ride," he says, shutting the door, jogging  past me and dashing into the laundry room. I hear him inside, pulling  things from the dryer as I step to the doorway. He walks out just as I'm  about to enter, and we press into each other, the hot clothes in his  arms between us.

"Sorry," I mumble.

"It's … it's okay," he says, not moving. His fingers are grasping my  clothes, and I blush at seeing my bra in his hands, my mind immediately  imagining him touching me. "Your shoes aren't very dry. More … hot really.  Sorry."

"It's okay," I say, sucking my top lip in, not falling fully into his  eyes. I move my hands slowly around my things, and we brush over each  other on the exchange.

"I'll get you a bag," Wes says, stepping into the garage. I follow him  out the door, and he quickly shakes out a plastic grocery bag, holding  it open for me to drop my things inside. I do it quickly, tucking my bra  and panties in the bottom. I tie the handles in a knot, then hold my  warm, damp things to my chest.

"I read the card," Wes says, looking down at my feet, the right side of  his mouth tugging upward before he peers at me, one eyebrow raised. My  mental state is instantly shot to the level of humiliated. I was feeling  sappy and spontaneous when I bought the card. I wrote that I thought he  was my hero, and that I'm not sure how he was able to save me, but that  I'm glad he did, and I'm glad it was him. I gushed, and went on and on  to the point that I even had to write the rest of my note about how  amazing I think he is on the back, drawing an arrow for him to flip the  card over as if he would think that I actually stopped mid-sentence.

Stupid girl. Gah!

"I'm not that special, Joss," he says, his head to the side. I can't  bring myself to look up into his eyes for long, so I just give him short  glances while I shrug my shoulders to my ears.

"You kinda are," I say. His dad was right about what he said inside-Wes  is kind. But he's more, and I just wish I could see his full story. To  do that, though, I'd have to ask things of him. I'd have to share pieces  of me.

I feel him step closer to me, and my heart picks up its pace until it's  almost doing nothing but squeezing inside my chest. His fingers touch my  chin, and he tilts it higher, forcing me to look at him, and despite  how tiny my movement right now, it's the scariest, most honest gesture  of my life when my eyes finally hit his.

"I love the way you see me. I do," he says, his breath held until the  last second when he painfully exhales, and his shoulders fall along with  his hand from my face. His expression is soft, but serious. "You make  me want to live up to your expectations. I'm afraid I'll disappoint  them, though."

"I don't have any expectations, Wes. I learned about disappointment a  long time ago. I just wanted you to know I appreciate what you did.  That's all," I say, lying. It's a lie, because I used to not expect  anything. I didn't have hope or wishes or dreams or plans-none of it. I  had the next day. And then the next. And I filled the in-between with  whatever distraction I could find in the moment to get me through.

And then Wes Stokes showed up and changed everything.

If I could, I would fold into myself. I don't like this feeling-the one I  get talking about feelings. Not that we're talking about feelings, but  we're dancing around talking about feelings. I'd rather go back to  making fun of his pitching, or to water fights and trash talk over the  basketball game. This … this is uncomfortable.         

     



 

"I should get home. I can walk … really," I say, my hands working to untie  the bag and fish out my wet shoes. I don't get far in my quest as Wes's  hand moves over mine.

"Your shoes are so wet you'll get blisters. Get in the truck, stubborn  girl," he says, winking and not waiting for my answer as he walks to the  driver's side and gets in, starting the engine.

I move to the passenger door and climb inside, instantly feeling the  pressure of less space around us. I tuck my wet bag between my feet and  wait, until after a few seconds I look up at him and shrug.

"Why aren't you going?"

He laughs and turns to face the front window for a second, shaking his  head before twisting his body to the side to look at me, his arm resting  over the steering wheel. "I have a rule with you. It's a new rule, and  it's sorta your fault," he says.

"Okay … " I swallow, not really sure where this is going.

"Whenever I'm responsible for you, like, say … when I'm driving you home  in my truck, you will follow every single safety precaution ever  suggested. That means buckle up, and lock your door, because I don't  want that thing mysteriously flying open in the middle of a tight turn,"  he says, pausing as if he's waiting for me to agree with him. I hold  his gaze for a second and think about arguing for the sake of feeling  more comfortable in my combative skin, but there's something about the  way he tells me to be safe, and the way he's looking at me right now,  that makes me just smile, pull my belt on, and click the door locked.

"Was agreeing with me so bad?" he laughs out his question, shifting the truck and pulling out of the driveway.

"You have no idea," I sigh, earning a short laugh from him. He bites his  lip when he shakes his head. It's the slightest thing, but it's sweet  and vulnerable too.

Wes flips the button on the stereo, bouncing between a few stations and  settling on classic rock. It makes me smile when I notice his lips  moving along with the Journey song. I love Journey. My dad used to play  it in the garage when he'd throw me whiffle balls and let me hit them  into the net. It's a good memory, and somehow I've kept it pure. Steve  Perry's voice still makes me smile, and I lean back comfortably into my  seat and add the memory of Wes lip syncing to the list of happy thoughts  associated with this sound.

Whatever part he's returning is in the box between us. I pull it closer  to me with two fingers and look inside, not really sure what it is,  until Wes explains.

"It's a main drive gear and a pilot bearing … it's … just parts for a  transmission," he says, glancing at me quickly, then moving his eyes  back to the road. I notice his hands are quite literally at ten and two.  He's being serious about by-the-book safety. I smile at that too.

"Is yours broken?" I ask. I know nothing about cars. I haven't bothered  to learn, because I have yet to drive anywhere. I got my license, but my  father allowed that only so I could drive my grandmother around when  she came to visit. He knew he wouldn't be able to most of the time. I'm  covered under the minimum of family insurance plans, so unless I get a  job, I'll be hitching rides and running most places I go.

"It's just acting funny," he says, glancing at me again with a tight smile.

I look down at the part, not really sure how it works. The truck seems  to have been fine the last time I rode in it, though I can hear the  engine more today-like everything under the hood is working just a  little harder. I listen to the hum of his motor, to the way everything  sounds like its playing catch up when he accelerates after pulling to  the stop sign near my street. I look over to Wes and watch him, and even  though I know he can sense my eyes on him, he keeps his forward, his  lips pursed-he's holding the truth in.

"It was from last night, wasn't it? When you had to drive so fast to catch Kyle?"

He doesn't answer, but after several long seconds, he pulls up to my  house and exhales a heavy breath before looking at me. He doesn't have  to answer. With that one look, I know.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"Don't be sorry. It's an old truck, and it was going to need some work soon anyway," he says.

The good feeling I had listening to Journey is gone. Now I just feel  guilty. I step from the car and pull my bag of bandages and damp clothes  out with me, rounding the truck and pepping myself up to turn and wave  thanks. I'm not expecting Wes to be waiting outside his door when I get  to him-but he is.

The motor is still running, the grind coming in waves. I understand why  he's going to exchange the part today. The transmission isn't going to  last much longer, and I know enough to understand that part is probably  fairly important in the truck going anywhere at all.