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A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(40)

By:Ginger Scott


"Leave me alone, Wes," I say, my breathing hard, my heart pounding.

"Let me clean the glass-"

"I got it," I shout, interrupting him, jerking my arm loose. I drop the  hammer on the counter, then turn to the small pantry and pull out the  broom and dustpan. With my back still to him, I beg him once more to  leave. "This is my problem, Wes. And I don't want you here. I don't … I  don't want you seeing this-any of it. Please."

My voice cracks by the end, and my cheeks are stained with tears. I  count as I inhale; closing my eyes and begging silently for Wes to be  gone by the time I finally turn around. I need him to be gone. I don't  know that I can ask him to leave again. And if he stays … if he helps-I  will need him.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The sound of the door closing hits my ears. It isn't loud. It's gentle. It's reluctant. But Wes is gone.





Ten





It took me an hour to clean up the mess left behind from my breakdown. I  scooped everything into a bucket and took it outside to the trash by  the curb. I woke early this morning and heard the garbage truck come and  take it all away, and I cried-that picture is really gone now.

I let myself feel the weight of that for exactly fifteen minutes. No  more. And when time was up, I got out of bed, put on my running pants, a  T-shirt and shoes, and grabbed my newly repaired iPod, leaving the  house for three hours. I ran for miles. They were slow, and they hurt.  But I pushed. I ran up the bleachers. I sprinted around the track. I  hopped the fence and ran the bases on the softball field. I pushed  myself until I finally collapsed on the outfield grass.

For the next thirty minutes, I looked at the sky, and I thought about my  mom. I thought about every single good memory-the chocolate Kisses she  slipped into my lunch bag, the way she always made sure to sit up front  for school performances, how she kept score for my T-ball games.

The times she kissed my father after a game, when we'd all go out for ice cream.

So much love. Suddenly gone. I would never understand.

I got home in time for Taryn to pick me up for the mall, and for two  hours, I smiled and clapped and turned my thumbs up or down for nearly  thirty dresses until she found the perfect one. The dress she ended up  buying is blue, and it sways right above her knees. It wasn't my  favorite. But I could tell it was hers, and that was all that mattered,  so I told her to get it.

On our way out, we passed a white dress with a string tie weaving down  the back. The sleeves were long and draped, and the dress looked like  something a girl would wear to a country-dance. It wasn't frilly or body  hugging like the dresses Taryn tried on. It was simple.

It was pretty.

She begged me to try it on, but I refused. I haven't worn a dress in  years. I'm not even sure I quite know how. And trying one on today would  be like admitting that I have fantasies-the kind where Wes shows up at  my front door next Friday and takes me to some stupid school dance.         

     



 

I have these fantasies, and I do not need to feed them. I need them to go away.

Taryn brought me home in time for me to grab my things and catch a ride  with her to Jungle Gym. My father's door was still closed when I went  inside to change, and his car was still in the garage where I'd parked. I  was relieved, but also a little scared, so before I left, I cracked  open his door to make sure I saw his body rise and fall with at least  one breath. When I did, I left for work.

The first part of work today was harder-longer. It was also louder. I  finally got a set of earplugs from a pizza chef in the back named  Marcos. He took me to his locker and showed me a full box, saying I was  welcome to them anytime. I plan on taking him up on his offer, because  the last few hours have been bearable thanks to the muffling of the  screams and crying.

Now that the lights are going off, and the gym is officially closed, I feel the tension leaving my shoulders.

Just like yesterday, the night wait staff cleans their own tables,  refilling napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, and ketchup bottles.  Before they all leave, I ask one of the taller guys to help me reach a  few of the cleaning supplies up high in the storage room. The schedule  says I'm supposed to mop tonight, so I need the bleach.

I follow him back out to the main lobby, wheeling the mop cart in front  of me, pausing while they begin to lock up the front door. The same guy  from last night reminds me to go out the back, not to call the boss, and  the implied do not call him. I turn and begin to roll the mop cart to  the kitchen, but I'm stopped when he calls my name.

"Hey … Joss?" I spin around, and his brow is pinched, someone standing behind him. "This dude's out here. He says he's your ride?"

My heart thumps. It pounds. I feel it in every inch of my body.

He pushes the door open just enough, and Wes slides to the side, taking  one hand from his pocket with a cautious wave. I stare at him without a  word, and his eyes apologize even though they don't need to. They  shouldn't. He should never be sorry. I should always be sorry.

My co-worker clears his throat.

"I'm sorry. Yeah, he's my ride. It's okay. Thanks for checking, though," I say, my eyes darting from him to Wes and back again.

"Sure thing. Always want to make sure you're safe," he says, opening the  door a little wider to let Wes step through. He locks it behind Wes,  and I keep my eyes on the window instead of the boy who has somehow  become more important to me than breathing.

"As long as I don't have to call you," I mutter under my breath,  chuckling to myself as my colleague stuffs his set of work keys in his  pocket.

Wes's back is to me when I turn, and I allow myself a second or two to  take him in. He's wearing gray jeans, a black T-shirt and his usual hat  is gone. His hair in soft waves, combed back with his fingers.

My eyes go to my cleaning cart, and I step over to it, grabbing the  putty knife. I move around him, not fully looking him in the eyes still,  and hold out the knife. "Same slide. Different gum," I say. I move back  to my cart and begin to roll it through the lobby. "I'll be in the  kitchen."

I move past him, never once glancing his direction. My heart pounds in  my chest so hard that it hurts, and when the kitchen door swings closed  behind me, I step around the wall out of his sight, and fall against it.

One. Two. Three. Four …

I make it to twenty, then slip the door open to see if Wes is still  standing there. Seeing he's gone, I exhale and turn back to my work.  Moving to the sink and pulling the hose faucet over the edge, I place  the end in the bucket to fill it. I turn the water on high and wait,  feeling a buzz in my pocket while I do. I pull the phone out, expecting a  text from Taryn or some nacho-cheese joke from Kyle. But it's Wes.

I'm having a hard time deciding what photo to use for my assignment. Can I show them to you?

I chuckle to myself lightly, shaking my head.

Sure. Mine's still going to be better.

I smirk to myself, then reach over to turn the water flow off, drying my  hands and picking up my phone again. I wait for almost an entire minute  for a response, then figure he must mean he'll show me later. I pull  the mop from the holster, dip it in the bleach water, and begin to push  it around the floor-weaving in figure eights from one corner to the  other for the next ten minutes, moving myself toward the lobby door as I  back away.

My phone buzzes just as I'm finishing the kitchen, and I prop the mop up  inside the bucket and wipe my hands dry on my unbelievably ugly pants  before swiping open a text from Wes. It isn't words … exactly. It's a  photo of a letter, the handwriting sloppy, and several things  misspelled. It takes me a few minutes to understand what the words say,  what it is I'm looking at.         

     



 

And then my heart breaks.

Deer dear Josselyn:



Nobody reely ever talks to me. I hope I did not get you in trubble with  your friend for coming to your house. I herd you talking about the races  last week and they sounded like so much fun. You are always reely nice  to me. You do not have to sit at my lunch table but sometimes you do. I  like when you do. It makes me nervuss. That is why I hum. Thank you for  liking my new shoes. My casewerker got them for me. The Woodmansees were  not happy he did that. It made their reel kids angry. I wanted to tell  you that because I like you. I hope it is okay that I like you. You can  keep it a seecret. You do not have to like me back. Do you? If you do  like me you can tell me. I would be so happy if you like me. If I win  the race today I want you to have my trowfy.



Your frend,



Christopher



My body rests against the kitchen door, my back braced by it as I slide  to the floor and zoom in again, to every letter of his name. The letters  are lopsided and jagged and everything about this letter is imperfect,  yet perfect.

"Christopher," I whisper to myself, my finger running over the zoomed-in  name. My heart clenches at the memory of his arms around me, at how he  felt then, a small boy-so strong and brave.