“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I can’t believe I’m apologizing to Wesley James. But Gran would want me to be kind, and it’s the least I can do for her. And also because he’s right: I should have told him. Despite everything, he deserved to know.
Wesley’s breathing changes. Slows down. His face softens, the lines in his forehead smooth out. He lets out a long breath and leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. I’m relieved he’s no longer mad, even though he has every right to be.
“This sucks,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“How long has she been sick?”
“Awhile.”
He fiddles with his hat, pulling at a loose thread at the top of the embroidered skull. “I figured something was up. The last package I got from her was about six months ago.”
I still can’t believe Gran kept in touch with him and never said a word to me about it. I didn’t keep secrets from her. But she sure kept a big one from me.
“What was in it?”
“The usual stuff,” he says. “A couple of comic books, some of her shortbread cookies. A letter.”
I swallow. Now is the time to tell him that I have a bundle of letters he wrote to her. I found them the other day in one of the boxes of Gran’s stuff that Celia and I packed. Not gonna lie, I was tempted to read them. So very tempted. But in the end I decided not to because I know Gran would have been seriously disappointed in me. And I have enough guilt when it comes to her.
I should tell Wesley I have his letters. I should, but for whatever reason, I don’t.
“I wrote her to tell her that we were moving back to Seattle,” he says. “I was a bit nervous about coming back here.” He glances at me. “I didn’t know what to expect, if anyone would be happy to see me.”
By anyone, he obviously means me. And that makes me wonder what Gran told him about my life. How much of what’s happened in the past few years does Wesley know about?
“I guess that’s why she didn’t answer my last letter,” he says.
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach as I think about him waiting for an answer, waiting for Gran to respond.
“She didn’t want anyone to know she was sick,” I say.
She was diagnosed a couple of years ago, but it was only about six months ago, right around the time she must have sent Wesley her last letter, that she finally told me.
I’d seen a change in her over the past couple of years, of course—she’d forget simple things, like the name of the street she lived on or where she’d put her keys—but I didn’t think anything was really wrong with her. I just thought it was a normal part of growing older.
My gran seemed indestructible. She’d always been there and I assumed she would be for a long, long time. Until I no longer needed her, anyway. Not that I could imagine not ever needing her.
The worst part? I would have noticed she was sick a lot sooner if I wasn’t so wrapped up in my own life. That last year, I didn’t see her nearly as much as I should have. I was too busy, I always had something else—something better—to do.
I can never get that time back. I can’t make it up to her. And knowing that, having to live with that, hurts more than anything.
Wesley leans back against the fake stone wall. He clears his throat. “Maybe we can visit her together.”
I’ve heard when an animal, like a fox or a wolf, is caught in a steel trap, that it will do anything to get away, even chew off its own leg. That’s how I feel right now. Like I would chew off my own leg to get away from this conversation.
“There’s really no point,” I say. “She won’t remember you.”
He shakes his head. “That doesn’t mean there’s no point, Q.”
Easy for him to say. He hasn’t seen her. He doesn’t know what it’s like to sit across from someone you love and have them look at you like you’re a stranger.
Wesley must see the fear on my face because he says, “If you want me to, I’ll go with you.”
And just like that, another piece of the wall I’ve built up between us crumbles. It suddenly occurs to me that no matter what happened between us in the past, like it or not, Wesley and I are connected by our love for Gran. By our memories of her. And right now, it feels like he might just be the only person who understands what I’m going through. Because he’s going through it, too. Maybe not to quite the same degree as I am, but he is.
Wesley’s hand is resting near mine, close enough that if I just moved an inch or two, we’d be touching. A sense of longing suddenly sweeps through me, so strong that it scares me. My feelings for him are all over the place. They shouldn’t be, but they are, and I don’t know what to do about them.
I know what Erin would say: Take his hand. Take his hand and let go of everything. He can help you through this. You can get through it together.
I’m so close to doing that when I hear the solid tread of boots slowly coming down the hall. Heavy breathing. The tap of a cane against the stone floor.
Wesley and I exchange an uneasy glance. By unspoken agreement, neither of us says anything as the footsteps draw closer. Maybe if we’re quiet, if we’re really lucky, Alan will pass right by us.
I hold my breath as he lumbers past. But just when I think we’re in the clear and we’ve escaped his notice, Alan stops and turns around.
“Well, well, well,” he says, stepping into the alcove. He’s so large, he blocks the entrance. “What have we here?”
“Hi, Alan,” Wesley says. “Can you give us a minute?”
I elbow him. Clearly, he’s forgotten what happens when you provoke the king. I do not want to end up in the stocks again.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” I say. I would curtsey, but with Alan towering over us, there’s not enough room to stand up.
Alan strokes his beard, studying us. He’s dressed in a black tunic and a long purple cape, a brassy gold crown with fake rubies perched on his head.
“Lovers’ quarrel?” he asks.
Wesley flushes a deep red. I feel my own cheeks burning.
Alan clearly doesn’t pick up on our utter mortification. Because if he did, I’m sure he wouldn’t do what he does next: close his eyes and start to sing, low and deep and slightly off-key. “Pastime with good company. I love and shall, until I die. Grudge who list, but none deny! So God be pleased, thus live will I.”
I have no idea what the lyrics mean, but I’m guessing from the wide smile he gives us when he’s finished that it’s some sort of love song.
“I wrote that in 1513 for my beloved Catherine,” he says.
“Didn’t you behead her?” Wesley says.
I elbow him again.
“I did not,” Alan says indignantly. “I had our marriage annulled. I needed a male heir, you see.” He suddenly straightens, a signal that he’s gearing up to give us a full report on King Henry VIII’s extremely colorful love life.
“Apologies, Your Majesty, but I must finish preparing for the royal banquet,” I say. “Your guests are set to arrive forthwith.”
Alan rubs his hands together eagerly. “I hear we are having quite the feast!”
Really, it’s the same old turkey legs we serve every night, but I can’t help but admire his enthusiasm.
Before I can stand up, Wesley lightly grabs my elbow.