Wesley James Ruined My Life

“If you say so,” I say. I just walked away from Wesley so I didn’t have to be near him and now here I am, bringing him up.

Caleb’s eyes widen. “You don’t like Wes?” He says this like he can’t imagine anyone not liking Wesley James. Which just proves that Wesley’s grossly fake personality has fooled everyone in the world except for me.

But given that Caleb is friends with Wesley, I’m not entirely sure how he’ll take me disparaging him, so I just shrug and say, “He’s all right.”

Caleb studies me for a moment. Then he leans over and brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. The gesture is so unexpected that the smile freezes on my face. I’m simultaneously worried that he’s going to try to kiss me, right here in front of everyone, or that he won’t try at all and I’ve somehow read him completely wrong.

And here’s the problem: I don’t know if I want Caleb to kiss me. I thought I did, but then Wesley came back to town and my focus shifted from deciding whether or not to go for Caleb to getting revenge on Wesley James.

“I guess we should finish up,” Caleb says.

I nod.

An hour later, I’m no closer to figuring anything out. I’m exhausted and my clothes are completely soaked. We’ve raised another sixty dollars, including the wrinkled twenty that Wesley pulls from behind Erin’s ear.

“I guess that’s a wrap,” he says, stuffing the money into the converted Kleenex box we’re using as a cash register.

“I guess so,” Erin says. “Hey, a bunch of us are going back to my place—”

I whip my head around and give her an evil glare. I cannot believe she’s about to invite him back to her house. What is wrong with her?

“Uh,” she says, faltering.

An awkward silence descends. Wesley looks back and forth between us, but he clearly gets the message because he says, “Thanks, but I’ve got some errands I need to run.” He holds up the box. “I’ll just take this over to Mr. Aioki.”

Erin waits until he’s out of earshot before she says, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You could have let him come.”

“I don’t want him to come.”

“Yeah, that was obvious,” she says. “You’re being insane, you know that, right? This vendetta or whatever it is, it’s just so silly.”

“It’s not, actually,” I say coldly. There’s nothing silly about it.

“Quinn, I know you think he’s responsible for your parents’ divorce, but—”

“No but. He is responsible.”

“Okay, fine. But hating on him … it kinda makes things difficult for the rest of us.” She hesitates, and I can see she’s weighing her words. “You know Travis is having a party on Saturday.”

I cross my arms. “Please tell me you didn’t invite Wesley.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think it was such a big deal,” she says. “And don’t say you’re not coming, because you are.”

Three weeks ago, no one in Seattle remembered Wesley James even existed, aside from me. And now he’s completely infiltrated my life and somehow managed to brainwash my friends.

“Oh, I’ll be there,” I say. I have to go so I can reverse the damage and show them what a tool bag he really is.





twelve.

“Notice anything different?” Rachel asks, leaning close so I can see the small gold stud in her nose.

“Shut up! You got your nose pierced? Has Joe seen it yet?”

Rachel shakes her head.

“He’s going to freak.” Joe’s always harping about authenticity. Girls in the fifteen hundreds did not pierce their noses. Or any other body parts, except for maybe their ears, and I’m not even sure they did that.

She shrugs. “What’s he going to do? Fire me? There are laws against that.” But she checks over her shoulder to make sure he’s not lurking behind her.

She’s right: There are laws against unjustly firing someone. Which means I have to make sure that my plan to get Wesley canned is airtight.

Not that I have a plan. It’s been two days since the car wash and I still haven’t thought of a way to get him fired. And I have to do it soon, because my resolve is weakening. Every time I see him, he chips away a little more at my defenses, and I’m afraid if I spend much more time with him, they’ll crumble completely. That can’t happen.

The restaurant doesn’t open for another half an hour, so Rachel’s showing me a photo of the exact shade of blue she wants to dye her hair when Wesley comes charging through the front door.

What is he doing here? His shift doesn’t start for another hour. I may have checked his schedule, but only so he wouldn’t catch me off guard. Like he’s doing right now.

He’s dressed in his pirate costume—billowy white shirt, black leather vest, big black boots with the laces undone. His skull and crossbones hat is clenched in his fist and there’s a distinctly un-Wesley-like scowl on his face—an expression that only darkens when his eyes land on me.

Uh-oh.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice is tight. He glances at Rachel leaning on the hostess desk, watching us with interest. “In private,” he says.

I do not want to talk to him in private, now or ever, but he turns on his heel and stalks down the hall. I’m not sure what he could be so worked up about, but unless I want him to air his issue in front of Rachel—the gossipiest person ever—then I have no choice but to follow him.

My heart hammers as I walk toward the little alcove I just saw him disappear into. Wesley rarely gets mad. At least, the Wesley I knew five years ago never did. But I’ve done a few things lately that might make him angry, so it’s difficult to know exactly what set him off.

I guess I’m about to find out.

I find him sitting on a stone bench underneath a portrait of a glowering King Henry VIII. Henry looks a lot happier to see me than Wesley does. Wesley’s arms are crossed over his chest. His posture isn’t superinviting, but I sit beside him because there isn’t anywhere else to sit and I’d feel even more awkward standing in front of him. The bench is cold and hard, but it’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as the lengthening silence between us.

“When were you going to tell me about Gran?” he finally says.

My breath catches. Of all the things I expected he might say, this wasn’t one of them.

Wesley stares at me and his eyes are so full of anger and hurt, I have to look away. “You knew I wanted to see her,” he says. “You didn’t think you should tell me that she has Alzheimer’s?”

“How…?”

“I wasn’t getting anywhere with you, so I called your house. Your aunt filled me in.”

Thanks, Celia.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” he says.

A spark of anger ignites inside me. Who does he think he is? “I didn’t realize I had to,” I say. “She’s my grandmother. Not yours.”

It’s a mean thing to say, and I regret it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. I know Wesley loves Gran and I know she loves him, too. I also know she wouldn’t be at all happy about the way I’m treating him. No matter what my reasons.

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