“You have some time before we go. Maybe you can make it up,” she says.
“There’s no way I can save that much. Even if I worked night and day.” I would do it, too, if it meant I could still go. “It’s not possible.”
“What if my mom fronted you the money? I could ask her.”
“Erin, it’s okay,” I say. “Really. I’ve made peace with it.” This is not even remotely true, of course. I will probably never get over not going to London.
“There has to be a way.” Her face suddenly sags. “Oh my God. You know this means that I’ll have to bunk with Ashley and Jasmine.”
“Maybe it won’t be that bad. You’ll probably all end up best friends.” It’s my feeble attempt at a joke, to lighten the mood, but Erin doesn’t laugh.
“At least tell me you blew your money on some fabulous designer bag or something,” she says.
“Or something.” The lie is a weight in my stomach.
“This trip will be zero fun without you.”
“You’ll still have Travis,” I remind her.
“It’s not the same. You think Travis is going to hit Oxford Street with me?”
He probably would, if she asked him. But she’s right—it’s not the same. I can’t feel sorry for her, though, because I’m way too busy feeling sorry for myself. After all, at the end of the day, Erin is still going to England. I’m the one being left behind.
“Have you told Mr. Aioki?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to tell him soon.” I haven’t told him yet because there’s a small part of me that’s still holding out hope for a miracle.
“Maybe he’ll have some ideas. I mean, you can’t be the only band member who doesn’t go. We’re a team. Maybe they have a reserve fund for—”
“Poor people?” I say bitterly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I know it’s not what she meant. I shouldn’t take my bad mood out on Erin. It’s not her fault I can’t go.
It’s Wesley’s.
This downward spiral my dad’s been on, he wouldn’t be on it if my parents were still married. And my parents would still be married if Wesley hadn’t blabbed to my mom that my dad had lost his job. True, he’d lied to us and pretended to be going to work for weeks after he was fired, but still. I know we would have been able to help him with his gambling problem. Instead, everyone just gave up on him.
Fast-forward five years, and here I am standing on the side of a road, shaking a sign in front of a gas station. Not going to London.
All because of Wesley James.
So whatever delusions Erin’s having about Wesley and me, that’s never going to happen.
“Come on,” she says, lowering her sign as the light changes and a convertible speeds past us. “It’s someone else’s turn to stand here and make a fool of themselves.”
A few of our bandmates are gathered around a blue station wagon. The rest are standing around or sitting on overturned buckets, eating snacks from the tiny convenience store attached to the gas station. Erin hands her sign to Alisha and we head over to help finish washing the car.
Erin hands me an orange sponge she pulled out of a bucket of sketchy-looking water. “Hey, isn’t that Wesley?” she says as a black Ford pickup pulls into the parking lot.
Yup, it’s him. I can see his blond head through the tinted glass. He slides out and my heart picks up speed. His head is turned my way, but the lenses of his sunglasses are so dark I can’t tell if he’s actually looking at me. I’m pretty sure he’s about to walk over when Jasmine intercepts him. Jasmine, with her cheerleader body and long red hair and ridiculous fake eyelashes. She says something and Wesley smiles. This smile is not meant for me, but it still lights up my entire body, hitting every nerve ending and throwing my insides into a tailspin.
This is not good. In fact, it’s terrible. I shouldn’t be feeling anything other than deep hatred for Wesley James. But instead, I am stupidly, insanely, tremendously jealous, all because he’s talking to Jasmine.
Worst joke ever, universe.
I busy myself with scrubbing the hood of the car so I don’t have to watch them. Erin pats my back. I know it means she’s noticed them talking, too, and that she knows it’s bothering me, and that makes this whole situation infinitely worse.
A few minutes later, Wesley extricates himself from Jasmine and wanders over. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “My mom had to work. I was trapped at home with two cranky three-year-olds.”
I concentrate on washing the car. I’m afraid my emotions are written all over my face, and I don’t want Wesley to figure out I’m weakening. Plus, it’s much easier to remember why I hate him when I don’t have to look at his ridiculously handsome face.
“How’s business?” he asks.
“Not great,” Erin says. “It’s been slow.”
I let her rattle on to him about other fund-raising ideas—a movie night, a silent auction, a kissing booth (ew, no way!). Erin’s never been the slightest bit interested in fund-raising before, so I know that she’s holding out hope for a miracle for me, too.
As she talks, Wesley keeps shooting glances at me, but I ignore him and keep scrubbing at a speck of dirt on the wheel well.
“Need some help, Q?”
“No,” I say grumpily.
He crouches down beside me anyway. “Come on,” he says. “Let me do it. I feel guilty for not getting here earlier.”
My hands are shaking as he takes the sponge from me. I stand up, mostly so I can put a bit of space between us. If he was on the moon, it wouldn’t be enough space.
Erin elbows me. I know she’s convinced that Wesley’s offer to help is further evidence that he likes me, but she is mistaken. I’m not sure what is motivating him to be nice to me, especially when I’ve made it clear that I’m not going to reciprocate, but I’m positive it’s not because he likes me. If he did, he wouldn’t have been so interested in what Jasmine had to say.
He can do what he likes with her. Or anyone else for that matter. I don’t care.
All right, fine. Maybe I care a little.
I hate that I care. I hate everything right now.
And okay, I know that I just decided looking at him was a bad idea, but it’s hard to turn away from the sight of the muscles in his shoulders rippling as he gently rubs the wheel well. Erin catches me staring at him and gives me a smug smile.
Stupid Wesley and his stupid muscles.
Someone turns up the music—classical, as Mr. Aioki insisted on being in charge of the playlist. Another car drives in. I don’t love washing cars, but I love standing next to Wesley James even less, so I walk over.
“Hey, Quinn,” Caleb says, smiling as I approach. His khaki shorts and T-shirt are damp with suds and his normally perfectly coiffed brown hair is messy. I’m not used to seeing Caleb anything other than put together. I like this ruffled side of him.
“Is it weird seeing Wesley driving around in your truck?” I ask him.
“A little bit, yeah,” he says. “But it’s all right. He’s a good dude.”