A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(41)

So much stronger than me then.

So much stronger than me now.

His arms were the same a few weeks ago when he held me in my own house, when I cried into him over my broken life.

I knew. I always knew.

He's telling me.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I swipe to the next text. The shock from  what I see rushes my system-my head feels light, and I fall forward,  laying my phone in my lap as my head cradles into my hands.

The image is of two fingers-Wes's fingers-pinching the edge of a small  gray ticket: ADMIT ONE TO TARYN AND JOSS'S RACE. The words are worn, the  pencil markings smeared. Wes's face is behind the hand, his image  blurred, but not so much that I can't see his expression. His mouth is a  hard line. His eyes are penetrating me through this captured  moment-through a lens.

Clutching my phone in my hand, I pull my legs in and push up to stand. I  step through the door, closing it behind me quietly, and I move to the  steps of the tree house. The music is low, and I listen for him-hoping  he'll call me to him. As one song ends, I hold my breath before a new  one starts; all I hear is the rustling of the air-conditioning ducts  woven through the ceiling above us.

I step into the tree house, then climb the rope ladder, lifting myself  to the wooden attic floor above. My eyes find Wes in the dark. He's  sitting against the opposite wall, his phone in his hands just as mine  was moments before. He watches me pull myself up into the same space as  him, my fingers gripping at the wood floor while I slide to the opposite  end. His head falls back against the wall behind him, but his eyes  never leave mine. And for minutes, we stare at one another. We rarely  blink. We barely breathe.

We remember.

We hurt.

"On the first day of school, Mrs. Grandel read everyone's full names.  That's how I knew … Grace. I memorized your entire name the moment she  said it. I waited for her to say it, for you to raise your hand and  claim it as your name. I waited. Josselyn Grace Winters," he says, his  eyes on mine, his body still-mine captured with every last word he's  said.

I swallow hard and slowly pull my phone out and click to open the photo  of the ticket, looking down at it in my hands. My lips part to ask  questions, but I don't even know what's left to ask. This unraveling is  so deep, so many threads.

"Christopher was my middle name. The Woodmansees already had a Wes, so  they used my middle name. I remember pieces. I don't remember  everything. My brain was injured, from where the car hit me," he says.  My body shudders. His hand moves to the back of his head. "I had a small  surgery. But I was okay. I wasn't hurt like I should have been, and I  kept it a secret. I told them I hit my head on the driveway when I ran  to get out of the way."

"But that … that isn't true," I say. I don't have to ask. I knew then.

He shakes his head.

"Your dad's car hit me when I reached you. I got there just in time," he  says, his words stopping as he brings his hand to his mouth. He holds  his fist against his lips, and I know he's thinking about what would  have happened if he failed.

I would have died.

"My memory was slow to return at first, and it was too much for the  Woodmansees to take on. I had some rehab. I had to learn how to do  certain things again. I couldn't remember a lot of words. So the state  took care of me. I had a caseworker, Shawn Stokes. He always treated me  like family. But he wasn't well-a degenerative nerve disorder that  eventually took his life. But before he passed away, he convinced his  brother to adopt three boys instead of the two my parents were planning  on."         

     



 

"I didn't remember you. Nobody knows about you. I've never talked about  you. But then I saw you. The day we were hitting balls at the school. It  was like so many missing things fell into place," he says, his eyes  leaving mine for the first time, his head falling forward to the phone  in his hands, to the same photo I'm looking at. "I kept this ticket. I  knew enough to know it meant something … that it was important. And I … " he  pauses, chuckling lightly … sadly. "I remembered there were these twins.  When I was a kid, they weren't very nice to me."

His mouth twists as he peers up at me, but his lips slowly slide into a  soft bend. His gaze lingers and long seconds pass as we stare into one  another.

"I didn't remember you being so beautiful," he whispers.

His eyes fall to his hands again, and I move my palms to my face to dry  the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I shift my weight, bringing  my legs up in front of me, and fold my arms around my knees. Wes tilts  his head to the side, not fully looking at me. He watches just enough to  catch my movement. His muscles are rigid, and his jaw is flexing as he  lays his phone in his lap and lets his hands squeeze into fists at his  sides before relaxing.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, my voice low, my courage lower. His movement stops, and his eyes find me again.

My heart breaks once more.

"The case, with your dad … it's still open."

I breathe in deep and pull my legs in tighter.

"The state has a lot of questions, but I've never been able to remember  things. The story was always that he lost control of the car, that it  was a terrible accident. But there are a few things that don't add up.  There wasn't a sobriety test done. But a few of the kids said they  thought maybe-"

"My dad was drinking," I whisper, my gaze falling away from him. I tuck  my chin into my body and bring my hands to my mouth, my thumb between my  teeth.

"I get questioned every few years about the accident, and I never  remember. Nobody really cares anymore. The case, it's just on a list-and  it's probably just considered dead. But it's on some numerical radar in  some filing system, and they have to check. They're going to call my  parents again one day. They're going to want to talk to me. And they're  going to know I'm back here-near you. Playing for him. And I will lie.  You can't let them know I remember anything."

"Why would it matter? Maybe it would be good for him, Wes. Maybe that's  what needs to happen-something that sobers him up," I say, my voice  coming out angrier-stronger.

"And what would happen to you?"

Me. This isn't about my father at all. This is about me.

"You're not eighteen. Yeah, maybe they would let you stay with a family  friend. Or maybe they'd send you to live with a relative. Or maybe  they'd place you with a family you don't know. I've lived with a lot of  families, Joss. I've had good families, but I've had bad families too."

"I want your dad to clean up. I want that for you more than anything on  this earth. I've been working on it. And I know … " he turns his head to  the side, his lips tight, his smile sweet, but short. "I know you don't  want me to help. But I refuse not to. I won't stand by and watch you go  through this alone. I didn't want your father to get taken away then,  and I don't now. As bad as he is, Joss, you still don't need to become a  ward of the state. He's not as bad as playing parent lottery-I can  promise you that."

I stare into his eyes for several minutes, and he lets me. My stomach  aches over the reality of what he just said, but even so, my emotions  swing on this pendulum from fear to freedom.

"Christopher," I whisper, resting my cheek on my hands over my knees as I  look at him. My eyes have adjusted, and I can now see him clearly in  the dark.

"It's Wes, Joss. Just Wes," he sighs.

I move slowly, pulling my legs under me, crawling on my knees closer to  him as I shake my head. "No, it's not," I say. I stop at his side, and  my breath halts along with his. I place one hand on his shoulder and  move my leg over his lap, so I'm straddling his thighs, and I sit my  weight on him. My other hand finds his cheek, and I press my palm  against his familiar, matured face. "It's not just Wes. It's both.  It's … it's you," I say, my chest heaving as I start to cry.

Both of my hands move to his face, holding it and looking him in the eyes, my thumbs stroking slowly along his cheeks.         

     



 

"My god how I've needed you," I swallow, sucking my bottom lip in and smiling for him.

His hands are slow as they move from the floor to my thighs, and with a  cautious drag, he brings them up my body, along my sides and to my arms,  until he's cupping my face too. His head falls forward, and he rests it  on mine, his lips parting with a breath.

"I love how you look at me. I love how you see me, Joss. I love that you  think I'm invincible. You've always looked at me like … like I was  something better than the way everyone else saw me, but … " He stops, his  thumbs moving to my chin, and he tilts my head up enough so I'm meeting  his eyes. His eyes move from one of mine to the other, and he breathes  in slowly, his chest filling under me, his touch on me the only thing  that's felt right in years.