A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(55)

Wes pauses at the entrance to my room while I walk inside, leaning on  the side of the door. "You," he says. I stop and turn to look him in the  eyes. "Someone could want you."

I suck in my bottom lip and nod. This is why I need him here today, for this.

"Come inside," I say, patting the top of my mattress. I crouch down and  slide out a plastic bin where I keep my secrets, and I take my place  next to Wes on the bed, pulling the lid free and tossing it to the side.

The first thing I pull out are the few letters I have paper-clipped  together. I unfold the one on top because it's the most recently  written. I penned this one when I was fourteen. I hand it to Wes and  watch his eyes while he reads over the pathetic, desperate words of a  naïve young girl.

"You wrote this," he says.

I nod.

"To your mom," he continues.

I nod again.

All of the letters are the same. I only wrote maybe five or six of them  over the years, always late at night, always when I was at my lowest,  when I wanted answers. I poured my anger and hurt into each one, asking  her why she left, why she didn't love me, where she went, and if she had  a family she liked better. I never signed the letters, because I never  really intended on sending them. I'd write them until I slipped into  slumber, or worse-until I was high.

I pull the small wooden box out from the bin next, twisting the tiny  lock with the three-number combination. I stole the box from Taryn's  sister-she used to hide her weed in it. I used it to hide pills.

I hand the box to Wes, the lid now open, and he pulls a few bottles out  with names that aren't mine. There's a bag with a few blue pills inside  too-oxy or some other prescription pill strong enough to make me sleep  heavily and float in numbness for hours. The Ritalin bottles are almost  empty. Those were my favorite. He shakes the few tiny pills left and  twists the bottle in his hand so the label faces me. He doesn't ask, but  he looks at me.

That look-it's heartbreaking.

"That's what I was at the elementary school for that day-the day I met  you and your brothers. I was hoping this guy would show up who sells.  He's always at the school," I say, taking the bottle from his hand and  running my thumb over the rough edge of the lid. "I know you saw some of  these-that one night, in our bathroom cabinet. There were more, I … I did  more than just take a few pills to sleep. I took lots of pills. I hid  them. And I was almost out, so I went to find more."

His silence burns in my chest, but I keep speaking. I want him to know all of me-even the ugly parts.

"I wrote my last letter that night. It was the most honest letter I'd  written, so I burned it when I was done. I hate my mother for leaving  us. And now she's dead."

His movement is slow and careful. Wes lays out the rest of the things in  the small box-a photo of my father and me, the stack of letters and the  pen I'd used to write, the ink now dry. Then he dumps the few remaining  pills out on the mattress, gliding his hand over them as if he's  spreading out ingredients. I've done this too-so many times-spread out  my options to leave the pain. I've come so close to pushing the limits.

"I haven't taken anything in months. But I could never get myself to  throw it away. I wanted the safety net of the escape," I say, my eyes  coming up to meet his, my raw and most embarrassing secrets spread out  between us. "But now I have you. I come to you, Wes. I went to Kyle  because I thought he would let me fall into this … my old comfort, for  just a while. But then I saw you-you showed up at his house. And you  were all I wanted and needed."         

     



 

"Kyle wouldn't have let you," Wes says, his head falling to the side. "He … " Wes swallows hard. "He loves you too much."

I suck in a breath hearing him say something I already know. My eyes stay on his.

"He told me," Wes says, his attention looking back to the bedspread, to my addictions.

"I'm sorry," I say, guilt that I've broken Kyle's heart hitting me like a  bullet in the gut. "I'm not sure why he told you that."

"Because he asked me if I loved you just as much. He wanted to make sure  I was for real, that I was in this for real," Wes says, his hand  gathering my things and stuffing them back inside the small box. He  closes the lid and holds the box tightly in both palms.

"What … what did you say?" My body is pounding nervously, my heartbeat felt in my fingers, toes, and head-the rhythm wild.

Wes sets my past to the side and moves closer to me, his hand sweeping  my hair behind my ear and his head coming to rest against mine.

"I told him the truth. You had me the first time I saw you, and I'll be in love with Josselyn Grace Winters until I die."

I draw in a long, deep breath, and the pain that I've felt in the middle  of my chest since the moment my father told me about my mom subsides  just a little-relief comes for this moment, and I consume it. My eyes  close as Wes traces his thumb over my cheek in a slow pattern.

"You said you memorized my name. In class, when we were young. My full  name. Why? Why were you waiting to hear my name? What was it about me?"

I feel Wes breathe in, the weight of his body balanced where our heads touch. His head rolls slightly back and forth.

"You sat at my table the first day I started at that school. Do you  remember?" His voice is low. I shake my head because I don't. I remember  slices of time with him-small interactions and things I wish I could  take back-and then I remember how he took care of me when I needed  someone most. That's when Wesley Christopher became the ruler of my  heart. I regret it hadn't happened sooner.

He chuckles softly.

"I get it," he says. "I was a freak. I know. Weird kid who didn't talk. I  wore the same clothes every day. My life then … it was pretty awful."

"I'm so sorry," I say, but his thumb finds my mouth, the pad running over my bottom lip as he quiets me.

"No, it's … don't be," he says, lifting his head up from mine, his hands  cupping my face as he looks over me, adoringly. His mouth shifts into a  soft smile. "That first lunch, when you sat next to me, I wanted to talk  to you so badly. Introduce myself, or something. I don't know. I didn't  know how, though. I was wearing these clothes that didn't fit, stuff  the Woodmansees gave me that didn't fit their real kids anymore. The  shirt had a stain on it, and I was embarrassed. So I sat there quietly."

"You hummed," I smirk. His eyes widen, and I feel bad instantly. "It was cute. Don't be embarrassed."

He rubs his hand over his face.

"It was weird, but you're sweet to call it cute," he says. He lays back  and twists to his side, propping his head up on his elbow. I do the  same.

"The next day at school, I had to wear the same clothes. I didn't have a  choice. I wore whatever the Woodmansees put out for me. And they pulled  my clothes from the dirty pile and flattened them on the floor next to  my sleeping bag, said they'd be fine to wear one more day," he says, his  eyes blinking as he looks down to my bedspread, his hand sliding the  distance between us along the cloth. His lip ticks up on one side as his  eyes meet mine again. "Kids are mean. I showed up in the same clothes,  and some of the boys picked up on it right away. I had to walk to school  because there wasn't enough room in the car for us all. And when I  started walking through the bike-rack area, a few of the boys pushed me  over the rack, tripping me and pulling on my clothes."

"They ripped your shirt," I say, my own voice surprising me.

I remember. When he tells the story, the vision in my head fills in the  rest. For me, it was just a regular morning-only a few boys were  starting to pick on some kid, knocking my bike over in their quest to be  mean. I screamed at them, and kicked the main boy in the knee, telling  him he broke my bike. He didn't, but the fact that he knocked it over  pissed me off. My bike was new-my dad had just bought it for me. When  they knocked it over, the paint chipped. The boys started laughing at  me, and Christopher shoved one of them, telling them to stop. That's  when they started hurting him for real. That's when they ripped his  shirt. And that's when I got sent home early from school for fighting  because I leapt on the main assaulter, my fists pounding at his head and  back until he got off Christopher and left him alone.         

     



 

When it began, it was about my bike. But then it became about the boy being hurt and my need to save him.

"You fought for me," he says, the faint smile drawing me close. I move  toward him, my head nestling into his chest, his arms circling me. "This  scrappy, scratchy, tough-as-hell girl was fighting for me! Nobody had  ever done that."

"I should have fought more," I say, thinking of how Taryn and I made fun  of him sometimes, how we dared each other to sit near him for a full  minute. All he wanted was my attention, and I toyed with him. "I'm sorry  if I ever … "