“Hi, Gran.” Wesley walks over and removes the dying flowers from the vase on her bedside table, replacing them with the tulips in the bouquet he brought with him. “How are you today?”
Gran doesn’t answer him, but she doesn’t look afraid or confused. And as Wesley chats with her about last night’s baseball game, I feel ashamed for ever trying to keep the two of them apart. It’s going to take a while to forgive myself for that.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” I say.
Wesley glances over at me. “You don’t have to go.”
Yes, I do. I’ve already cost them time together. And maybe there are things that he wants to tell her that he can’t say in front of anyone. Even me. Especially me.
“I need to get going,” I say. “See you around?”
He smiles. “Seems you can’t get rid of me.”
Thank goodness.
I realize, as I’m walking down the hall, that being friends with Wesley is going to be hard—really hard. But not having him in my life at all? So much harder.
*
Later that afternoon, I’m wheeling my bike out of the garage when Dad walks up the driveway.
“I remember the first time you rode a bike,” he says. “You were seven.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not in any mood to take a trip down memory lane with him. I’m not in the mood for him at all, actually. I haven’t seen him since our fateful breakfast when he told me he’d gambled away my money.
I stuff my bag into the white wicker basket attached to the handlebars, then put up the kickstand and get onto my bike, prepared to ride right past him.
“Quinn, wait,” he says. “Please.”
I sigh. “What do you want, Dad?”
His hands are buried in his pockets and he’s jingling his change, a nervous habit that used to drive my mom crazy. He glances uncertainly at the front door.
“No one’s home,” I say.
The jingling stops. “Okay, well, I just wanted to stop by to see how you are. And to bring you this.” He pulls a check out of his pocket. I stare at it until he says, “Take it.”
I reach for the check, my heart thumping. I don’t give up hope easily, so when I unfold it and realize it’s his child support payment and not the money he owes me, I’m disappointed all over again.
“It’s not the full amount,” he says. “Tell your mom I’ll try to get the rest to her next week.”
“Where did you get the money from?”
He shrugs. “I sold my baseball.”
I blink at him. “Your Derek Jeter baseball? I can’t believe you did that.”
“It was just a ball,” he says. “I didn’t get much for it—not enough to give your mom what I owe her or to pay you back, unfortunately.”
But it was all he had. And that counts for something.
“I’m sorry, ladybug. I was really hoping I could give you your money back in time for London,” he says, his eyes getting misty. “I never should have taken it in the first place.” He clears his throat. “I’m going to start going to meetings again. Today, in fact.”
Right after my mom left him, Dad started going to Gamblers Anonymous, hoping it would win her back. But it was way too late. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Once he realized that she was done, he gave up trying.
“Okay.” I dig my keys out of my bag. I want to leave the check inside on the coffee table, where Mom will see it as soon as she gets back. “Do you want to come in?”
He hesitates. I can tell he’s tempted to see the inside of the house where he once lived, probably hoping it hasn’t changed, that something of him is still in there, but he says, “No. I’m good.”
It’s probably for the best. Because there’s nothing left of him in our house. My mom made sure of that.
“Where are you off to?” he asks after I come back outside.
“I’m going over to Erin’s,” I say. I need to get her take on what happened with Wesley this morning.
There’s no sign of Dad’s car anywhere. He could have used the money from his baseball to get his car out of the impound. But he didn’t. He used it to pay my mom what he owed her.
Maybe I’m letting him off the hook too easily, but that’s the thing I’m learning about forgiveness; it’s not something you just do for the other person, it’s something you do for yourself.
“How about I walk you there?” he says.
“Sure,” I reply.
We have a lot of ground to cover, far more than we can manage in the short walk to Erin’s place, but it’s a start.
twenty-three.
It’s been six days since Alan sent anyone to the stocks. Wesley’s convinced it’s because Alan’s grown bored with it, but I know the truth: He’s in love. The proof is in the way he can’t stop smiling at Justine, the pretty brunette actress Joe recently hired to play Anne Boleyn. Alan’s also been wearing his nicest royal clothes and he’s trimmed his scraggly beard. I think he’s even lost a few pounds.
The best part? Justine always smiles when he’s around, too.
Wesley’s been back at work for a week. Things are better between us. We’re friendly. Friendly friends. It’s fine.
Okay, it’s not fine. It sucks, but there doesn’t seem to be much I can do about it. And while spending time with Wesley is its own brand of torture, I can’t seem to stop myself. We’ve somehow fallen into the habit of carpooling to work together. He’s giving me a ride home tonight, in fact, and my nerves are frayed because I’ve decided I’m finally going to give him Gran’s letters. Hopefully, he won’t be upset that I’ve hung on to them for so long.
The restaurant has just closed and I’m hurrying to clear my table before my shift ends when Wesley comes up behind me and pokes me in the lower back with a foam sword he borrowed from the gift shop.
“En garde!” he says.
I sigh. “That never gets old?”
“Nope.”
“You’re finished with your tables already?”
“Nope,” he says with a grin. “But I could be done in ten minutes. Faster, if I had some help.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll be right over.”
I watch him head off to the other side of the restaurant, passing Rachel on his way.
“When are you guys just going to get it on already?” she says, plopping down in a chair and resting her elbows on the table. She’s wearing thick tortoiseshell glasses, even though she has perfect vision. Fairly certain she bought them just to annoy Joe.
“It’s not like that,” I say, and I almost sound convincing. “We’re just friends.”
“Yeah, I don’t buy it. I’ve seen the goo-goo eyes you two make at each other.”
Maybe she thinks Wesley prodding me with a foam sword is flirting, when really, it’s just Wesley being Wesley. He’s like that with everyone.
“Rach, there’s nothing going on between us,” I say. My heart squeezes, because it’s the truth and it’s painful. And I guess Rachel can see that, because she reaches across the table and takes my hand.
*
“You want to come in?” I say as Wesley pulls his truck into my driveway.
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re inviting me inside?”
He’s surprised, I guess, because I haven’t asked him in before. Usually, he just drops me off out front.