Today, we get to check the cameras out for the weekend, and I won't be working with Courtney. Our assignment is to shoot a series of stills of something intimate-an item that tells our story. My story is short, and it's sad, and while Wes looks over at me, I'm filled with the sense that in many ways he's my item. But I can't shoot a photo of him. It would be misconstrued. People would laugh. They would gossip. They wouldn't understand.
He wouldn't understand.
He'd tell me to stop.
When the final bell rings, I linger, letting everyone else check cameras out first. Wes leaves in the middle of the group, and he doesn't look back in my direction. I'm not relieved; I'm disappointed.
My camera in my hands, I tuck it into my heavy school bag and move the straps over my shoulders, pulling my phone from my pocket to let Taryn know I don't need a ride. If I'm also working Saturday and Sunday, I'll need to shoot my assignment today before I go to my first shift.
Don't forget-dress shopping Saturday, she writes.
I tell her it has to be before two, so I can work, and she sends me a photo of her lips kissing at me. I smile to myself as I step outside, happy that at least my friend is happy.
A line of cars streams by me, and I notice McKenna's Jeep pass, Levi hanging out the back. He waves at me, but as McKenna turns the corner quickly, his weight pulls his hand inside. I wait for a few more cars to pass as my finger pushes the crosswalk button, and when the light switches to red, Wes's truck pulls up next to me.
"Are we done?" he says, his window down, his arm hanging out the side, and his eyes forward. I've never wanted a WALK sign to flash more in my life.
"Did we start something?" I respond, eyes forward, my expression aloof.
The crosswalk signal changes, and I step into the street, his motor revving as his truck idles into the intersection beside me. I turn quickly to look behind him, a line of cars waiting, held up by the red light.
"Excuse me, but you need to yield to pedestrians," I say loudly.
"Just making sure you get across safely," he shouts. "I can't count on you making smart decisions, you know."
I stop in the middle of the road and slam my fist on the hood of his truck, and when I look at him through his front windshield, his damn smirk is waiting for me. "Fuck you, Wesley Stokes," I yell back, my eyes low and my temper full-on flaring.
My tantrum only makes his smirk tick up on one side, so I take two steps away, ignoring the flashing signal that will soon send traffic through the intersection. I step to the driver's side door, and without pause, kick it twice with every bit of strength I have, pointing at him when I finish.
"Fuck. You!"
The light turns green, and the car right behind Wes honks. I don't know the driver. Some guy I think might be a senior. I flip him off too, and he calls me a bitch.
I kick Wes's door one more time before pulling my bag tight against my shoulders and walking to the other side of the street.
"So are we done now?" he asks, pulling into the bike lane and driving slowly next to me, cars honking at him as they pass. He doesn't even flinch. He's leaning into the middle of the truck seat while he drives so he can shout at me through the passenger window.
"I don't know what it is you have to do, Wes. I'm doing my own thing, so how about you just go join your girlfriend at the beach and let her make you feel like big man on campus," I say, my cheeks burning at the sound of myself. That last part slipped out-the buried shit coming out for him to hear. I'm mortified. But I'm also still pissed.
"Big man on campus," he chuckles, repeating my last words.
"Whatever!" I yell, picking up my pace. I hate this feeling-I hate how I'm acting. I just want him to drive away, yet the moment he does, my heart sinks.
"Whatever," I whisper to myself, shaking my head. My hands feel my back pockets out of habit, looking for the release of a cigarette. But I threw everything away again after last weekend's smokes. I'm on a five-day smoke-free streak. Yay me.
I look up and notice Wes's truck is parked a block ahead. Pulled around the corner, the passenger door is open, framing the view of him sitting with his arm slung over the wheel, his hat pulled backward so I get a full look at his cocky smile-which I can't quite make out from this distance, but am sure is there anyway.
I don't slow down, but I don't walk quickly either. I walk like I would have if Wes hadn't interrupted my journey. But my heart races-it speeds like the goddamn Daytona 500. I reach his truck and move beyond the open passenger door to cross in front of him. I think I knew he'd get out. I wanted him to. I'm testing him like a foolish girl with a crush.
I am a foolish girl with a crush.
"Are you stubborn about everything in your life? Or just with me?" he questions as he meets me halfway around his truck, his arms out, as if he's ready to tackle me if I attempt to run by him. The idea of testing him on this amuses me.
"No," I say, my lips in a hard line. "I'm stubborn about going dress shopping with Taryn too. But I already gave into her, so I've spent my weakness for the day if you don't mind. Nothing left for you."
"Where are you going?" he asks, ignoring my response, walking backward in slow steps and moving in front of me every time I try to pass him.
"Well … " I say, sighing hard, and pulling my heavy bag from my shoulders, dropping it to my feet to give my arms a break. I put my hands on my hips and squint as I look at him, the sun hot and bright behind him. "It seems my dad thought it would be a good idea for me to get a job. I do have expenses-you might recall a broken iPod?"
He grimaces.
"And since our photo assignment is due Monday, and I have about three hours of sunlight left, I'm going to do my homework," I say, shaking my arms out at my sides and bending down to pick my bag up again. Wes reaches for it before I do, though, and lifts it easily, stepping around me and setting it in the cab of his truck.
"Josselyn Winters, the girl who doesn't care about school, cares about her grade in some elective," he says, turning and blocking the door so I can't reach in and retrieve my bag. His taunting pisses me off.
"Yeah, well, I give a shit about things I like. And I like taking pictures, so get the hell out of my way, because I don't really give a shit about you," I say. My lips twitch as soon as the words leave my mouth. Wes's twitch too, frowning, and he looks down at his feet, moving his hands to the pockets of his faded blue jeans.
"I see," he says, sucking in his top lip as his eyes remain on the ground between us. "Well then … how about I help you get where you need to go. Something you dislike so much shouldn't stand in the way of something you love."
My chest hurts over the lie I told. But it's better to act this way with him. It keeps me from getting crazy ideas. It keeps me from falling. It keeps me from believing.
"It's fine, Wes. I planned on walking. I have enough time, but I need to get going," I say, reaching forward for my bag. His hand finds my wrist, and his touch is fast, but tender.
"Joss, it's just a ride," he says. I glance at him, his lips lopsided with an innocent expression.
Walking away would be smarter. But I give in to easier. I give in to weaker. I give in to him.
"Fine," I sigh.
He steps out of my way and waits while I buckle, I think a little unsure if I'm really going to stay or bolt the moment he leaves the door. The thought did cross my mind.
Wes climbs into his seat, shutting the door and shifting the truck into drive. He makes a U-turn and stops at the corner, his head falling to the side as he talks. I love when he looks at me like this. Just once, I'd love him to do this and say something sweet-something just for me.
"Where to?" he asks, and I laugh lightly to myself, because his question-it's sweet enough.
"Just pull out on Main. Take it to the flower farms. There's one in particular, but I forget what road it's on. I'll know it when I see it," I say.
Wes nods and makes the turn, driving us through the outskirts of town, past rows of combed dirt ready to grow the next season's crops, until we hit the messier farms, the ones with clusters of green jutting from the ground in haphazard patterns, with splashes of color and splinters.
"It's a few more ahead," I say, leaning forward and propping my elbows on his dashboard. I catch his smile on me as I do.
"You like the flower farms, I take it," he says.
"I love them," I answer without looking at him. My response is instant and from my heart.
When I was a little girl, my dad would come home from road games with a cluster of flowers. He'd always make a bouquet for my mom, but he'd be sure to make a smaller version just for me. One day, he picked me a little cluster of peonies, and those quickly became my favorite. He couldn't find them all the time. Peonies only grow for a short season in California. They're rare here, which somehow I understood. It made them more special. It made the fact that my father would force the team to stop at this rickety stand in the middle of nowhere that much more important.