“For who? You or your parents?”
Wesley smiles. “Mostly for me. I knew my parents wanted more kids, but I didn’t know how badly until my mom started fertility treatments.”
I guess that explains why he wants to buy Caleb’s truck. And why he’s working at the restaurant. My mom used to work in a fertility clinic so I know the treatment is expensive. Add in the cost of raising two more kids … well, it probably means his mother doesn’t just hand him money.
He glances at me. “I’m not complaining. It all worked out. My sisters are great.”
I shouldn’t ask him personal questions. I shouldn’t be asking him any questions. I don’t want to know about Wesley’s life. I don’t want him to give me any reason not to stay mad.
We drive for a few minutes in silence—through the university district and onto the freeway, over the bridge, the lights of downtown Seattle laid out before us. I can see the Space Needle in the distance. Safeco Field.
“So … your gran. Is she still in that big house on Queen Anne?” he asks.
“Nope.” I don’t elaborate. Just as I don’t want to know anything about his life, I don’t want him to know anything about mine.
But Wesley James doesn’t give up easily.
“Like I said before, I’d love to visit her,” he says. “Thank her for all the packages she sent us in Portland.”
I stare at him. “What packages?”
Okay, I know I just made a pact with myself not to ask him any more questions, but this is different. I didn’t know Gran kept in touch with the Jameses. Why would she keep in touch with them? Especially when she knew how I felt about Wesley. About what he did.
“She’d send me stuff, sometimes. Chocolate, comic books. That kind of thing,” he says. “I guess she knew how upset I was about moving.”
I can’t help it. I feel totally betrayed. And the worst part is, I can’t even ask Gran about this, because she won’t remember. She doesn’t remember anything anymore. Not even me.
Wesley turns the van onto my street. When we pass his old house, a blue Cape Cod six houses down from my own, he stops and rolls down the window.
“So who lives there now?” he asks.
“The Middlesteins.” I slide open the passenger-side door and hop out. “Thanks for the ride.”
“I can drive you the rest of the way, Q,” he says.
But I pretend not to hear him. I just close the door and take off down the street.
six.
My dad’s new apartment is in a supershady part of town. The kind of neighborhood where no one ventures outside after night falls, unless they are up to no good. I’m standing in front of his sad-looking building, holding the potted cactus I bought at a Korean market a few blocks away, wondering if surprising him is a good idea after all.
But I’m here. And I don’t want to carry this cactus all the way to the crumpet place, where we’re supposed to meet later, and I really do want to see his apartment. So I walk up the crumbling cement path to the front door.
Bloomfield Manor is spelled out in peeling gold cursive on the glass. A board with the tenants’ names is mounted on the yellow-y white stucco wall beside the door. Dad is simply listed as “occupied.” When I push the grimy button next to 218, nothing happens.
I take a step back, trying to decide what to do. I’m about to give up on the element of surprise and just call him when a lady with a Maltese puppy comes out. I catch the door before it swings shut. She dumps her dog on a small patch of brown grass, not at all bothered that she’s just let a complete stranger into the building.
I take the stairs to the second floor. The hallway stinks of cooking oil and foreign spices. The carpets are almost worn through and the floor creaks like it’s going to give out under my feet. And honestly? From what I’ve seen so far, I wouldn’t be surprised if I fell right through to the lobby.
I can’t believe my dad actually lives here. That anyone lives here.
I’m halfway down the hall when a man comes out of Dad’s apartment. He’s tall and burly, with curly black hair that touches his shoulders. He’s wearing jeans and a white shirt, unbuttoned to show more chest hair than is ever necessary. I know he’s bad news because my stomach lurches when our eyes meet.
He leers at me and when he passes by, I almost choke on his foul-smelling aftershave. When I reach Dad’s door, I glance back at him. He’s staring over his shoulder at me, too, and he gives me another sleazy little smile before thundering down the stairs.
Hands shaking, I knock. The door flies open immediately.
“I told you, I’ll get the rest of it to you in a few—” Dad blinks at me, shocked. “Quinn,” he says, sticking his head out and peering down the hall. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at the restaurant.”
“Uh, yeah. I thought … Well, I wanted to see your new place.” I hand him the cactus. “Happy housewarming,” I mutter.
Dad stares at the plant like he’s never seen one before. Then he grabs my arm, yanks me inside, and locks the door.
First glance: bare white walls, a towering stack of newspapers, a bookshelf made of cinder blocks, a futon. It’s like he’s a struggling college student, one who can’t even afford an IKEA bookshelf. The only bit of personality at all comes from the baseball autographed by Derek Jeter that my mom gave him for his birthday one year. His most prized possession.
I feel sick. His situation is even worse than I thought. And I didn’t have high expectations to begin with.
“Who was that guy?” I try to keep my voice steady.
“Just an old friend,” Dad says, smiling thinly. He swipes a hand across his forehead. “Is it hot in here?”
It’s not, but he goes over to the window and pops it open anyway. He sets the cactus on one of Gran’s old TV trays and then sinks down onto the futon. The thought of him sitting there alone, night after night, makes my heart hurt.
I sit down beside him. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about, ladybug.” He pats my knee, but I don’t feel reassured. At all.
“Was he your bookie or something?”
“Quinn, honey, this really isn’t something you need to concern yourself with.”
I sigh. “How much do you owe him?”
He stands up, wipes his palms on his shorts. “We are not having this conversation. Please don’t worry about it, okay? I’m handling it.”
Right. Like he’s handled it before.
I kind of want to kick him. Hard. Because he never learns. He’s lost nearly everything—his job, his house, his family—but he still keeps gambling. I know it’s an addiction, a sickness, but I have a hard time believing that he can’t stop.
And now he’s put himself in danger. That guy looked like he could easily break my dad’s legs—or worse—if he doesn’t get paid.