“Quinn, please,” he says. “I know you’re disappointed you’re not going to London, but—”
“Yeah, I am. Of course I am. But that is nothing compared to how disappointed I am in you.” I don’t stay to see if my words have any impact—why would they? He’s heard the same thing from the rest of my family, many, many times before—I push through the door and out onto First Street.
I cross the street and head to Pike Place Market, where I can easily get lost. The market is especially busy on Saturdays, and I know a spot that Dad would never think to look for me. I slip past a knot of tourists who are watching the guys behind the famous fish counter toss fish at one another. Down the stairs, until I’m standing in a crowded alley that smells like watermelon and fruit punch, thanks to the million pieces of gum covering the red brick walls and hanging from the grimy windows like stalactites.
The Gum Wall is a local landmark, started in the early nineties, who knows why. It’s totally gross, but strangely fascinating. For reasons I can’t even explain, I find myself dropping by whenever I’m in the neighborhood. I can’t leave without contributing to the wall—I feel like it’s bad luck or something, and God knows I don’t need any more of that—so I dig a piece of Juicy Fruit out of my bag.
While I’m chewing the flavor out of the gum, a couple in matching fanny packs and visors asks me to take their photo. After months working at a theme restaurant, I’m so conditioned to snapping photos for strangers that I automatically take their camera when the woman shoves it at me, when all I really want is to be left alone.
“Oh, are you from England, honey?” the woman asks, pointing at my Union Jack T-shirt.
Note to self: Get rid of all British souvenir T-shirts. Of course, this will mean dumping a hefty chunk of my wardrobe as well as my personal style, but it will be worth it if I don’t have to answer such painful questions.
“Nope. I grew up here.” In Seattle, obviously. Not right here at the Gum Wall. But I’m sure she gets that.
“Well, it’s a lovely city,” the woman says as I pose her and her husband underneath a huge pink gum heart. “We’re so excited to be here. We came all the way from Cleveland.”
It’s weird to think of Seattle as someone’s dream, the same way that London is mine. The Gum Wall could totally be this lady’s Buckingham Palace.
So, after I hand her back her camera, I muster up a smile and give her a list of places to visit. Less touristy places, the kind of inside scoop you can really only get from a local. The type of places I’d want someone to tell me about if I was visiting the city for the first time.
Hopefully, someone will do the same thing for me when I finally get to London one day.
*
Travis and Ewen’s apartment is near the beach. And that’s about the only good thing I can say about a place that belongs to two boys with no interest in domestic chores. I would wager that neither of them has cleaned the bathroom since they moved in six months ago. It’s so bad that I refuse to use their toilet. If the situation gets dire tonight—and it might, considering that I’m already on my second beer—I’ll use the gas station down the street. Where I have less chance of catching something.
I’m sitting on the lumpy futon Travis rescued from a thrift shop, hoping the alcohol will make me feel better. I don’t even really like beer, but I need something to help me relax. I’m a total ball of tension. So far, it’s not really helping, but maybe I just need to drink more.
Wesley isn’t here yet. Every time the door opens, I expect it’s going to be him. Every time it’s not, I take another swig of beer. The waiting is killing me. I don’t want him to come, but at the same time I’ve been waiting for him to arrive all night.
Ewen sets down an ice cream bucket filled with Doritos on the overturned plastic crate that functions as their coffee table.
“Haur ye gang,” he says, then walks away.
I’m about to reach for a handful of chips when Erin stops me with a shake of her head. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she says. “Trust me. The things I’ve seen them do with food…”
I pull my hand back. She doesn’t need to elaborate. I probably should have known better. See: unholy state of their bathroom.
Travis is across the room, fiddling with the dial on his enormous stereo system. It makes zero sense that two guys living in virtual poverty should own such an elaborate and obviously expensive piece of audio equipment. Clearly, music is higher up on the list of priorities than decent furniture.
“Is anybody else coming?” I ask, picking at the label on my beer bottle. I don’t look at Erin. I don’t want her to know that I’m asking about anyone in particular, but she figures it out anyway.
“If you’re referring to Wesley, he’s coming with Caleb.”
A flush creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “Actually, I was wondering about Caleb.”
It’s better if she thinks I’m into Caleb. I don’t want her thinking I like Wesley. If I admit I might be having non-hate-y feelings for Wesley, then she’ll pressure me to do something about it. Or, at the very least, try again to talk me out of my quest to get him fired.
By the time he finally shows up an hour—and two more beers—later, I’m pretty buzzed. Enough not to be too bothered when he’s quickly surrounded by my friends, people he hasn’t seen since grade school but with whom he seems to fit right in.
I’m trying for cool indifference by pretending that I haven’t seen him, that I haven’t been watching the door all night, but Erin swiftly shatters my cool with an elbow to my ribs.
“Wesley’s totally sneaking looks at you,” she whispers.
“You’re drunk.”
“Okay, yes. But that doesn’t change the fact that he keeps staring at you.”
“Maybe he’s staring at you,” I say, but my heart seizes.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” she says. “He’s coming over.”
I glance up and, sure enough, Wesley’s making his way toward us. Erin shoots me a look—see?—as she makes room for him on the couch. He plunks down, squeezing between us.
I slide my eyes at him. He’s sitting uncomfortably close, his leg brushing against mine. The zing that goes through me, well, I’ll just ignore that.
“We were wondering where you guys were,” Erin says.
I scowl at her. I don’t want Wesley to know we were discussing him.
“Oh yeah?” Wesley smiles at me and there’s that zing again. Stupid zing.
“I wasn’t wondering where you were,” I say. Which, of course, makes me sound like a complete maniac. Even more so because I’m slurring my words.
He takes in the beer bottle in my hands, the bits of shredded label littering my lap. “Q … are you drunk?”
For some reason, I find this funny, so I start to laugh. And I can’t seem to stop.