“Whatever you want,” Grace says, as if she’s opposed to everything Leeann wants. She stands, elbowing Tiffany as she passes. “Come on. Let’s go shop for possible maid of honor dresses.”
“For me, right?” Tiffany grabs her purse.
“Sure thing, sweetie,” Grace replies tightly.
Leeann saunters over to the armchairs. She carefully sits on the edge of the empty one and presses down the tulle skirt.
Tulle. Another word Wes had no definition for before today.
Leeann bends toward him. “We’re thinking of asking your dad to help with the catering,” she whispers, as if it’s not just the two of them in the room now.
“Dad would love that.” A small, weird lump crawls into Wes’s throat.
His parents have never chosen favorites. But there are days when Wes’s mind plays this wicked game with him. He was born at an odd time for his parents. His dad was opening his first restaurant on a negative bank account and a giant hope. His mom’s first book was being published. And along came Wes, interrupting the chaotic flow they were living in.
Leo established his independence at a young age. But Wes still hasn’t. Maybe that’s why his parents butt in even when he doesn’t ask them to. Maybe that’s why his dad suggests possible majors and his mom deposits extra money into his bank account without him asking for any of it. He feels like a child, but maybe they do it because he’s never shown them he could be an adult.
Leeann’s small hand covers his on the chair’s arm. “Leo hasn’t picked a best man yet.”
“Does he even have any friends?”
“Yes.” Leeann giggles. “He has a lot of friends.” When Wes puckers his lips, she adds, “Okay, a handful. Like three. Including me.”
“Shouldn’t be hard then.”
Leeann squints at him, nose wrinkled. “Wes.”
“What?”
“I think he wants you to—”
“Yeah, no,” Wes interrupts her. “He doesn’t want me as his—”
Leeann holds up a finger. “Leo’s stubborn and petty and an awful loser.”
“Are you reciting your vows? Because I think you nailed it.”
Leeann rolls her pale brown eyes. “What I’m saying is, he’s difficult, but he loves you.”
“You have a pretty interesting definition of love.”
“I do!” Leeann’s hand slides away from his to cover her snort-giggle. “But I have to! I’m marrying a Hudson, duh.”
“Good point.”
Leeann wipes at her eyes, then shakes out her hands. She struggles to maintain a serious expression as she stares at him. “Consider it, please.”
Being Leo’s best man would be… Wes shudders. One, it’d be against all Wes’s principles. Two, Leo would be even more annoying. His parents would be delighted, and Wes certainly enjoys seeing Leeann happy, but it’s Leo.
“Fine. If he asks,” Wes’s lips go numb, but he manages to stammer, “I will.”
“He will.” Leeann’s confidence is shatterproof. Wes learned a long time ago not to bet against her, but that was because she kicked his ass in a marathon of Monopoly that stretched through three days and two different locations. She’s ruthless about two things: board games and Leo Hudson.
“Now,” Leeann reaches forward, patting Wes’s curls, “I have one more dress to try on…”
Wes groans.
“… then I promised you Mexican food and smoothies.”
“Sounds rad.” Wes checks his phone. Three hours until his shift starts. “Can we be quick? Not that I don’t love spending time with you and all of this.” He twirls his index finger around the room. “I have to meet someone before work.”
“A boy?”
“None of your business,” Wes counters, voice cracking.
“Could it possibly be a very single, extremely funny, stupidly handsome boy that you’ve known forever?” Leeann teases.
Wes inhales, but doesn’t reply. It’s official: His future sister-in-law has topped Mr. X-Files.
* * *
The first time Wes came out was a complete accident.
Being sixteen on a Thursday evening in the summer meant Wes and Nico had three options: video games, going to a movie, or staying in to stuff their pieholes with pizza while watching Netflix films about being a sixteen-year-old in the summer. Wes voted option two. Nico hopped on Wes’s laptop to Google start times. But, per usual, Wes forgot to close out a few of his last tabs. It wasn’t porn, thankfully. He’d been researching LGBTQIA+ youth support groups in the area because, yeah, Wes planned on coming out.
But not at that moment. Not on the green sofa with a bag of spicy cheese puffs between them and Leo FaceTiming his girlfriend down the hall.
There it was. A Google listing of nearby support groups for queer youth. On the screen, in a smaller window, was Wes’s newest list:
The Five Best Ways to Come Out!
Nico peeked at Wes through his eyelashes. Wes didn’t breathe for a solid minute. The articles and the few movies he’d watched in the dark when everyone else was asleep warned Wes that coming out was a big deal. It didn’t matter if it was planned or came up unexpectedly in a conversation. They also warned Wes that, no matter what, he’d always be coming out. It never happens just once. But most of the webpages promised, when the time was right, it’d be worth it.
So, he finally said it: “I’m gay.”
He didn’t cry—not immediately. He also didn’t look Nico in the eyes when he said it.
Nico’s response?
He plucked the bag of cheese puffs from between them, scooted closer, and then curled both arms around Wes. Even at sixteen, Wes was substantially taller and wider than Nico, but he felt so small in those arms. He buried his face in Nico’s shoulder. The dry kiss Nico pressed to his forehead did trigger tears. But Wes was okay with that.
“Thank you, Wes,” Nico whispered into his curls.
Wes can’t remember what he mumbled back as his tears soaked Nico’s T-shirt.
He remembers the street tacos Nico bought them on the way to the cinema. He remembers Nico clumsily dancing around questions during movie trailers. He remembers Nico’s warm fingers squeezing his sweaty palm when Wes stumbled through the answers.
Most of all, Wes remembers those three words— “Thank you, Wes”—sounding a lot like, “I love you,” when he truly needed it.
* * *
When it comes to adjectives that describe himself, smooth is a stretch for Wes.
Stealth. Incognito. Wes loves that word. For the little time he’s been here, he’s managed to blend in with the crowd surrounding Venice Skatepark. No one’s noticed him, not that Wes is a big deal here. He’s just some curly-haired biracial kid in a swelling group of people from different racial backgrounds and ages and bad hairstyles watching the local crews hit tricks, nail ollies, and sail over props as if it’s any other day.
His hands are clammy. He’s sweating as though he’s the one risking permanent spine damage. And he’s rehearsed what he’s going to say so frequently that it’s become forced.
“Wes? Are you, like, hiding?”
And there goes “incognito,” devoured like fresh, bloody limbs in shark-infested waters.
Wes blinks hard against the bright sun haloing over the skatepark. Next to him, Autumn lifts both eyebrows. She’s a kickass skater girl with a sick dragon tattoo snaking up one arm, straight penny-brown hair that hangs down her back, and a labret piercing. Her usually pale white skin is sunburnt. Wes maintains that she’s hella cool despite totally blowing his cover.
“I’m not hiding,” he hisses.
Autumn’s arms are propped against the railing surrounding the main bowl. “You sure?”
“Positive.” Wes isn’t hiding. He’s being covert. There’s a theoretical difference. “I’m chilling.”
“Yup.” Wes turns back to the action.
“He’s getting good air today,” Autumn comments.
“Who?”
In his peripheral vision, Wes can see the cut your bullshit sideways glare Autumn gives him. All around the main bowl, phones are all trained on one skater. The sun is high, beating down on them. Wes cups a hand over his brow to get a better view. Effortlessly, the skater hits a flip lipside. He drops back in for a frontside air. Then, just to show off, he nails a heelflip.
The audience roars.
Behind his ribs, Wes’s heart rumbles like the center of a thunderstorm. It repeats one word in its cage: Nico. Nico. Nico.
“He’s been here for hours,” Autumn adds.
Wes knows. The Instagram photo was his giveaway.
“Ugh. I hate him,” Autumn says with no heat behind her voice. “He makes the rest of us look like such posers.”
“Nah,” Wes says, only half serious. Unintentionally, Nico does make the rest of these goons look pathetic. But he can’t help that he’s gifted. And being skilled at anything shouldn’t be hidden away. No one should lessen who they are for anyone. That’s how the world stays balanced—everyone has at least one gift and at least one flaw.
“It’s all good,” says Autumn. She tugs down the brim of her snapback before flipping her own board up. On the underside, it’s decorated in skulls with a Sailor Moon sticker slapped in the center. “One day, I’m gonna show all these dudes up.”
Wes watches her hop the rail, dropping in for her own round of applause. She’s not lying. One day, Autumn’s going to be famous.
On the opposite side of the bowl, Nico goofs around, hitting lazy tricks while chatting with the other skaters. His green board shorts contrast nicely with his denim shirt. The shirt’s first four buttons are undone.
Absently, Wes licks his lips, which, of course, is when another skater yells, “Yo, Alvarez! Yo’ boy is here!”
Trey, with his cornrows and arms inked in fading tattoos, shoots Wes a slick smile. Wes squints back. He hopes the implied you’re a dick in his glare is well-received.
“Wesley,” Nico says, breathless after he crosses the bowl, board in one hand, the other stretched to ruffle Wes’s curls. Nico’s not wearing glasses today, only clear contacts that lighten his irises to a nice shade of copper. “I’ve got this vibe today.”
Wes does too. Today’s the day. He’s already decided on which of his date ideas he’s going with—the beach one.
Nico’s extra bouncy as he sidles up to Wes. “I’m just… I’m vibin’.”
“Maybe you’re high?”
“High on life.” Nico exhales slowly. “And this.”
“This?”
Nico shrugs, refusing to explain.
They lean against the railing together. Their bare forearms brush as they breathe. Wes watches Nico staring at the swaying palm trees in the distance. The words bubble up, but he swallows them down with a wince.
Not yet.
He wants to wait until there are fewer distractions.
Across the bowl, a guy with wavy blond hair and owlish brown eyes steals glances at Nico. He’s got that classic Californian glow, with a scattering of freckles and moles across his nose and long neck. It’s Colton.
“Looks like someone’s digging your vibe.” Wes knows he’s breaking all kinds of crushing-on-your-best-friend rules. But he can’t shut his mouth.
Colton doesn’t try to hide it. He nods his chin upward in that what’s up motion.
Nico shrugs nonchalantly. “I noticed.”
Wes cranes his neck. “And?” What the hell is wrong with him? This is where Wes should be executing his plan. Why is he trying to encourage this instead? Nico clearly isn’t reciprocating Colton’s weak flirting. He’s too busy studying the other skaters hit their aerials and ollies.
“So…?” Wes exhales softly.
“He’s cool, I guess.” Nico shrugs again. “We’ve hung out.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.”
Something cold and uncomfortable moves through Wes’s chest. In his back pocket, his phone is heavy. It taunts him with the list he created in Once Upon a Page’s bathroom:
Signs Your Crush Isn’t Into You!!!
2. If your crush shows signs of being into someone else, ABORT!
“I’m not really into playing games though,” Nico adds. “I want more than a trip to In-N-Out Burger and a little hand action in the back of his mom’s minivan.”
“Oh.” Wes’s shoulders loosen. Wrong again, Reddit. But his mind shifts into a new thought. “So, you’ve…” Why are his cheeks so hot at the prospect of using the word sex with Nico? He clears his throat. “Is Colton, like, the only one you’ve done stuff with?”
“No.” Nico’s eyebrows droop. “Two others before him. It was all pretty low-key.”
“So not, like.” The golf ball-sized lump in Wes’s throat expands. “All the way stuff.”
Nico tips his head back, laughing.
Wes fakes a laugh too.
“Nah. Nothing like that,” says Nico, still chuckling.
“Cool, cool.”
Nico stares at Wes for a long moment with scrunched eyes. “Want me to walk with you to the bookstore for your shift?”
“That’d be nice.”
Nico shouts farewells to most of the skaters. He waves at Colton, something Wes wishes he didn’t notice, but then Nico’s arm drapes around Wes’s shoulders as they walk through the sand toward The Strand.
Once they’ve cleared most of Venice, Nico drops his board and hops on. He rolls slowly next to Wes, only kick-pushing every few feet. Comfortable silence floats between them. The sun is against their backs; the waves crash and sing to their left.
“I’ve been thinking of some cool ideas for the bookstore,” Nico says once they’re closer to Santa Monica.
“Yeah?” Wes tries not to sound too eager. “Are you gonna share?”
“Nope. Waiting to hear everyone else’s ideas first.”
“Just in case yours are inferior?”
Nico gasps, faking offense, before flipping Wes off. A nice sheen of sweat shines on his brow. Wind catches under his shirt and billows it outward.
“Nice shirt,” Wes comments.
“Ha. Better than the one I wore to prom?”
Wes grins sheepishly.
“Do you remember that night?”
Wes will never forget anything about prom. Not a single detail.
The second time Wes came out, it was voluntary. It was all thanks to Nico’s undeniable persuasion.
They didn’t go to junior prom. Nico’s mom caught the flu, so they chose to crash on his couch with Nico’s sisters for movies, orange soda, and cheese on crackers. Senior prom was a big deal to Nico. Wes, on the other hand, didn’t feel as though he’d miss much if they skipped it again. He had zero interest in poorly posed photos in rented tuxes. He hates dancing to generic rock ballads or hip-hop songs that require profuse amounts of dry humping. And there weren’t many out guys at their school. If they were out, they had older partners or straight friends who wanted to be their dates.
Nico glides down the boardwalk. He’s coordinated enough to skate and grin cockily at Wes. “Admit it—I killed that promposal.”
He did. Not at any point, in any world did Wes think Nico would ask him to be his prom date. At first, Wes thought it was a cruel joke.
Three weeks before prom, in the middle of the senior hallway, most of Santa Monica High’s marching band came stomping through before the start of homeroom. They were performing, of all songs, Jason Mraz’s sickeningly sweet “I’m Yours.” And there was Nico in a white T-shirt with Wes’s fifth-grade class photo on it, in front of the band, holding five shiny gold mylar balloons spelling:
P-R-O-M-?
It was mortifying and hysterical and every level of epic.
“Your family was really cool about you coming out,” Nico continues.
“My dad baked a cake with rainbow sprinkles!” But that wasn’t as bad as Savannah crying for a solid ten minutes after Wes came out. He knows he didn’t have to. He could’ve easily gone to prom with Nico as friends. They did go as friends, but Wes knew it was time. Nico had built this bridge that finally allowed Wes to meet his family in the middle.
“Leo’s reaction was the best,” Nico reminds him.
“Because everybody wants to come out to their older brother and get a punch in the shoulder as a welcome.”
Nico almost falls off his board laughing.
Wes pulls at his earlobe. “You looked great that night.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Wes’s has never said it, but standing in his pre-cranberry-juice-stained tux next to Nico, who looked like a twenty-first century Richie Valens with his white jacket, blood red tuxedo shirt, and a few locks of curly hair falling from his perfectly styled pompadour, was major.
“Ugh.” Nico scrunches his face. “But Chainsmokers, man.”
“Chainsmokers,” Wes repeats, groaning.
When the DJ called for the last dance, Nico took Wes’s hand, spun him around and then they shuffled under the spotlight to a forgettable Chainsmokers song.
It never seemed to bother Nico that, shortly after prom, students thought he was gay too. Those rumors quickly died when Nico kissed Tabby Gomez at a graduation party, but still. He never let the jokes embarrass him. It was as if he’d been happy to be called Wes’s boyfriend.
Wes likes to hold on to that delusional dream.
They’re less than a mile from Once Upon a Page when Nico says, “¡Tienes una sonrisa muy bonita!”
After all these years around the Alvarez family, Wes’s Spanish is still very limited. He has no clue what Nico said, but he loves the way Nico looks at him afterward.
A shrill beep rings from Wes’s back pocket. He tugs out his phone. His alarm is going off with a reminder: TELL HIM!!!
The Summer of Everything Page 13