Wesley James Ruined My Life

“Can you wait for me when your shift ends?” he whispers. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

I know he’s probably only offering to give me a lift because he wants to continue our conversation, to talk more about Gran and try to convince me to go see her with him, and not because he’s actually into me. But while my head understands this, my heart can’t seem to tell the difference; it’s beating double time, so quickly I feel light-headed.

Spending more time with Wesley is the last thing I should be doing. And yet I find myself telling him yes.

*

It’s weird being in Caleb’s truck without Caleb. Nothing’s changed, really, except for the rabbit-popping-out-of-a-top-hat thingy hanging from the rearview mirror. But it feels different in here. Smaller, somehow. Wesley fills up the space more. Or maybe I’m just more aware of him than I ever was of Caleb.

I move closer to the door to put as much room between us as possible. But the distance doesn’t really help. I’m still way too aware of him.

“I can’t tell you how nice it is to drive something that’s not covered in Goldfish crackers,” Wesley says, backing out of the parking space.

“Hm.” I fiddle with the radio until I find a country station. I hide a smile as he glances over at me, one eyebrow raised.

“Really?” he says. “You like country music?”

“Shows what you know. I’ve always liked country music.”

He’s clearly not convinced, but he doesn’t switch the station. At a stoplight, he lifts his pirate shirt and sniffs the hem, exposing a swath of his tight, flat stomach and a fine trail of golden hair that makes me warm all over. He makes a face. “God, I stink,” he says.

He smells, it’s true, but underneath the fried turkey there’s something else, something distinctly Wesley that makes my knees start to shake.

It’s only pheromones, I tell myself. Just a simple chemical reaction. It doesn’t mean anything.

But Wesley chooses that moment to smile at me—a real smile, not his usual irritating smirk—and my stomach does a slow cartwheel.

He’s always been pretty easy to read—at least, the Wesley I used to know was—but I can’t tell what that smile means, or what’s going through his mind right now. Or maybe I’ve just lost the ability to read him.

We drive the rest of the way to my house in silence. Even though I tell myself not to, I keep stealing glances at him. His window is rolled down and the wind is ruffling his blond hair. I like his profile. His nose isn’t perfect, it’s a little too big for his face, and his ears stick out, which is why he wears his hair long. But put all together, he is devastating.

The scale is seriously beginning to tip in his favor. All because he’s good-looking! I am so shallow.

Wesley must feel me watching him because he takes his eyes off the road for a second and looks over at me.

“So I have an idea,” he says. “Maybe when we’re in London, we can check out your gran’s old house. Remember all those stories she used to tell us?”

My smile falters. London. Right.

When I don’t answer him right away, he glances at me again. “You don’t seem excited. I was expecting excitement.”

“Well … I definitely want to see where Gran grew up.”

Someday.

“I sense a but…”

But I’m not going to London.

I don’t say it, though. I don’t want to tell him. Not yet. We’ve done enough deep diving in my emotions today.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks.

So I may not be able to read Wesley anymore, but it appears that he can still read me.

I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”

I don’t think he believes me, but he’s run out of time for questions because we’re now in my driveway. He glances at our house.

“The place looks pretty much the same,” he says.

Maybe it’s the same on the outside, but the inside has definitely changed.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, climbing out of the truck.

“Hey, Q?” Wesley calls out the window. “I meant what I said. I’ll go visit her with you, if you like.” He sounds so sincere, so willing to help, that it further disarms me.

Hating Wesley James is becoming increasingly difficult. My judgment is being clouded by his hot looks and his general niceness.

“Thanks,” I say. But there’s no way I’m taking him up on that.





thirteen.

Dad waits until I’ve almost finished my breakfast before dropping his bombshell.

“I don’t understand,” I say, blinking at him. I set my fork on the plate, my appetite obliterated. “You said you needed that money to pay off your bookie.”

“Yes, well, that was the plan.” The smile hasn’t slipped from his face, but he won’t meet my eyes. “But then I got a tip on a horse. A sure thing.”

I do not like where this story is going. Not at all. “There’s no such thing.”

Dad rips open a packet of sugar and dumps it into his coffee cup. He picks up a spoon and starts to methodically stir, using the distraction to gather his thoughts. “The thing is, ladybug, I really believed that I could double our investment,” he says. “I was sure I’d make enough to pay him off and send you on your trip.”

There is a small corner of my heart that is hoping—praying—that he’s going to tell me he came through this time. That he’s not going to say he lost all my money on a stupid bet. “And?”

He grimaces. “And … well. Turns out Irish Whiskey wasn’t such a sure thing after all.” He finally meets my eyes and, with that, the last bit of hope I had of getting to London is gone.

How could I be so stupid? I gave him all of my money. I gave him my dream. And for what? So he could gamble it away on a horse?

The worst part is, I should have known better. I’ve seen what he’s done to my mom, to Celia. Even to my gran. I just didn’t think he’d ever do it to me.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Ladybug, I know you’re upset,” he says, reaching for my hand. “But I will pay you back. This is a minor setback. I’ve had a streak of bad luck, that’s all. Gambling is all about odds—it’ll turn around. I just need to catch a break.”

I’m going to throw up. Right in the middle of this restaurant.

“I’ll make it back. I always do,” he says.

Not true. Not even close to being true.

“So what now?” I shake his hand off. “What about your bookie? How are you going to pay him? He doesn’t exactly look like a patient person.”

“Keep your voice down.” Dad glances at the couple at the table next to us. They’re staring at their menus, pointedly trying not to eavesdrop. “I told you, I’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “Trust me.”

Trust him? That’s all I’ve ever done. And look where it’s gotten me.

“What about your job interview?” If he got the job, maybe he could make enough to pay me back. Please God.

He flinches. “Yeah, that didn’t work out, unfortunately.”

Of course it didn’t.

I push my chair back and grab my messenger bag from underneath the table. “I have to go.”

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