A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(39)

"That's the price you pay to be in the presence of greatness," I yell  over my shoulder, my hand holding my bag in the air and my other hand  pointing a finger forward, as if I'm leading an army charging into  battle.

"A'right. Which one?" he finally gives in, stepping up to the tree-house  entrance behind me. I point to the winding blue slide cascading above  us. Wes sighs, but passes me, climbing the steps to the very top.

He gives me commentary, telling me about the various pieces of gum, the  color, his guess at their flavor. He even jokes about eating some of it  just to confirm he's right. But after a few minutes, his banter grows  less, and for the last half an hour, we've been working together in  silence.

"You know, you don't really have to stay the whole time. I'm almost done  in here, and I'm gonna lock up soon, so … " I stop talking when I walk  out from the back office area and spot Wes standing in the middle of the  main lobby, chewing at his lip and an iPod in his hand. I push the  button on the cordless vacuum, ceasing the buzzing in my hand.

"My dad's really good at repairing things, and he's good at finding  parts, and well … " he says, unwinding the ear bud cord wrapped around my  iPod and unplugging it to hand the device to me.

"Your dad fixed this? For me?" I say, pushing the power button and  running my thumb over the smooth screen, then the small dent left behind  on the metal casing.

"He couldn't really fix that part, but he got a new screen. I always  told him he should open up a side business for this kinda stuff," he  says, his fingers nervously twisting the cord of my earphones. I reach  for them, and he starts.

"Mind if I test it?" I ask, my eyes barely reaching his. He looks away the moment I meet his gaze. He's being bashful.

"Oh, yeah … yeah. Sorry," he says, handing the cord to me.

I thumb through my playlists and press one of my favorite Foo Fighters  songs, smiling when the music drums into my ears. Wes smiles back at me,  and I look at him for a second or two with my soundtrack drowning out  everything else.

"Thanks," I say. He laughs, and I pull my headphones out of my ears, winding them around the device. "Sorry. Was I loud?"

"You're always loud," he says. I glower at him, and he holds his hands up. "Kidding. You're a delicate, quiet flower."

"Oh, now I know you're full of shit," I say, punching him in his arm.  It's a stupid touch, and I choreographed the entire thing just so I  could feel him. I take a few steps back, a little embarrassed. I reach  for the vacuum again and push the iPod into my pocket opposite my phone.  "Seriously, though. Thanks," I smile.         

     



 

"It was important to you," he shrugs.

You're important to me.

"I'm almost done, really … " I begin my out for him again, giving him permission to leave. He interrupts quickly.

"I'm driving you home. It's late, and I'm driving you home," he says,  his serious voice coming out. I hold his eyes with mine for a few  seconds, my tongue poking in the side of my cheek as I consider. I  finally give up.

"A'right," I nod. "I'll be a few minutes."

I move to the back and finish my passes along the floor until the carpet  is completely clean. When I'm done, I tuck the vacuum and other  supplies into the metal closet, shut off the lights, and close up the  office area. Wes stands from the small bench by the front door, and  steps toward me.

"Do you want to just pull around?" I ask. "I can lock it from the inside after you leave."

"Nope. I'll walk with you," he says, mouth in a tight smile.

"Okay," I submit, looking away and leading him through the darkened gym  area, shutting every light off along the way. The more darkness there  is, the more I feel his presence, until I catch myself holding my breath  and draw in a silent gasp of air.

I hold the door for him and test the door behind us. Locked, just as the  guy warned. Our arms both swing near one another as we walk slowly  around the side of the building to his truck parked near the front under  the lone light. My fingers flex, wanting to be reckless, wanting to  grasp onto his as they pass, just once … to feel them.

Wes holds the truck door open for me, and I climb inside, letting him  shut the door for me. I pull both my phone and iPod out and hold them in  my hands, and I stare at them as he starts the engine and pulls out of  the lot.

"Thanks," I whisper.

It's quiet for a few seconds, and I look to the side and catch his hand  along his chin, his arm resting on the small rest pulled out from the  center seat between us.

"You're welcome, Joss," he says, glancing at me with a tight smile, but looking back to the road quickly.

My mind races with all of the things I want to say-with questions, with  gratefulness, with hope and stupid flirtatious stuff. I want him to tell  me more things my dad says about me. I want him to tell me more things  about him. But this is always where things go wrong. So instead, I keep  my mouth shut-all the way to my house.

"Shit," I hum finally. My dad's car is in the lawn.

"I got it," he says, stopping abruptly and leaping from the truck ahead of me.

I'm ashamed. This shouldn't be Wes's problem. This shouldn't be my problem. But it is. It's mine.

"Just go," I say, closing my eyes as I step up next to him. He's already  reached into the car and unbuckled my father's seatbelt. He stands  straight from leaning into the car and meets my eyes. I feel his breath,  and I get lost in the blue of his irises. "Just … "

The tears are swift. I cup my mouth and beg my body and nerves to obey-hold it in, Joss. Hold it in.

"I got it," he says again, his voice firm. He leans forward just enough,  bowing his head to look me in the eyes. He knows how embarrassed I am,  so he looks away quickly. He knows.

I don't hate my father.

I hate that I love my father still.

Wes lifts him from the seat enough that my father startles. He mumbles a  few things that are incoherent, and for a moment, I think his eyes  focus on me. "I'm fine to drive," he spits out. His tone is full of  defiance, anger, and all of the self-righteous bullshit that has  consumed his soul over the last decade.

"You are not fine!" I yell.

That wakes him. It's enough that his gaze flies to me, and all of the  resentment behind his eyes comes surging my direction. And just as  quickly, his body goes limp against Wes.

"Just … just take him inside. I'll move the car to the driveway so the  neighbors don't see it," I say, stepping into my dad's car, the motor  still humming. I wonder how long he sat here with it idling. No wonder  our grass won't grow.

I back out over our lawn, into the street, and pull forward again into  the driveway. I shut the engine off and walk through the lawn, kicking  the dirt in various directions to erase the tracks. I don't want anyone  to ever know this happened.

It's happened before.

When I walk into the house, I hear Wes down the hallway. I follow the  sound to my father's room, and I watch as my father crawls on his knees  up into his bed then flattens against the quilt and pillow. Wes pulls  his shoes from his feet, laying them on the floor beneath him, and  before he turns and steps from the room, he speaks.         

     



 

"You have to stop this. You promised you would stop," he says.

"What do you mean he promised?" I ask.

Wes freezes, his back to me.

"Wes?"

He turns the small lamp off, then walks from my father's room, closing  the door behind him. He doesn't look at me until his toes are nearly  touching mine, and the shock of being so close to him chokes me.

"Did you do this for him before? Last week. After the beach. I came home  and found him like this. Lying in his bed, his shoes … they were off.  You … was that you? Are you helping him … what … behind my back?" My body  quakes, and I'm not sure if it's out of humiliation or anger.

"You shouldn't have to do this by yourself," he says. My eyes are locked  on his. His body hovers over me, his chin tucked in his chest as he  looks down on me. I feel small. I feel weak.

"I think you need to go," I say, my eyes burning.

Turning my head to the side, my focus lands on the family photo that  still hangs on our hallway wall in a golden frame-the paint chipping off  the edges and showing the cheap wood underneath. I've pulled the  picture down a million times. My father always hangs it up again. It  doesn't matter where I hide it. He always finds it. I grab it from the  wall and carry it with me into the kitchen. I set the frame on the  center of the counter and begin pulling open drawers, spilling out bins,  tossing papers and old brochures and menus to the floor until I finally  find one filled with tools. I pull the hammer out and spin around with  one swift movement, my arm raising and falling fast, the metal head  crashing through the glass over and over. I pound the photo until the  image is unrecognizable, and the glass shards have scattered around me  on the floor. I lift to swing again, and Wes grabs my arm.