West

by Michele G Miller

  Before I know it I’m dumping my third trashcan full of broken glass into a dumpster when a familiar voice speaks behind me.

  “Since when did West Rutledge become such a productive member of society?”

  Wiping the sweat from my forehead with my arm, I turn and smile at the tall blonde watching me.

  “Well you know me, I prefer to keep everyone on their toes.”

  She throws her head back and laughs before she steps closer and tugs on my shirt, pulling me in for a hug without balking at my sweat or odor. “I heard about Grier. That must have been crazy. You okay?”

  “Hi, Lauren,” I breathe, hugging Austin’s ex with one arm. “I’m surviving.” Barely.

  “Melody said she ran into you at the vigil the other night. She said Austin was with you too.” Her eyes scan behind me as we pull apart, and I shake my head.

  “He went back to school Tuesday,” I tell her. She merely turns her head, as though she doesn’t know who I’m talking about. Any time Austin comes up, her face falls; she’s living with the brunt of breaking his heart years ago.

  “So what are you doing?” She kicks at the trash can I set down. “I mean besides the obvious.”

  “Honestly? Working off steam.”

  “Uh oh, who pissed you off?”

  My arms lift to encompass all around us and I raise my brows.

  Lauren sighs. “This is crazy, huh? I never thought I would see something like this with my own eyes, you know.”

  I laugh bitterly. “Try being in it.”

  She flinches and looks away, combing her hair back with her fingers and pulling it into a ponytail as we stand there. “You don’t really want to talk about it, do you?” she asks.

  I’ve always enjoyed her bluntness. “No more than you do. Do you want to come help clean up? I’m sweeping up over at Kat’s Salon right now.”

  “Um, actually I was heading down to the barn. I saw the bike and was hoping to find a Rutledge boy.” She winks. “Why don’t you come?”

  To the barn. The party hut. With school delayed for a week or more, I should have known everyone would be hanging there. I think about the last few days, about today with Jules and everything she makes me wish for. The idea of hanging out with my people, the friends I made after my mom died, sounds like the best way to clear my head.

  “Let me take this back to store.” I motion to the trash can between us. A few drinks, a girl, and some chilling might be all I need to get back to being me.

  Fourteen

  Note to self: Jules Blacklin cannot be washed away with alcohol.

  It’s past midnight and no matter what I do I can’t stop thinking about her. It doesn’t take me long at the barn to realize I’m hopeless. Two beers and several offers of companionship be damned, my brooding soul wants what it wants and right now my soul wants Jules. I stay long enough to ensure the beer is out of my system before I head for the door.

  I call Austin as I climb onto my bike, not surprised when I get his voicemail. “I didn’t miss it until her. She makes me miss everything. It pisses me off.”

  Hitting the end button, I shove the phone into my pocket and rev the engine, heading home where I can wallow in peace.

  I can’t figure myself out. How could a few hours with Jules change me so much? We survived. Sure it was scary as hell and there were a few times I wasn’t so sure we’d get out, but we did. I should have shaken her dad’s hand in the hospital when he thanked me for keeping his daughter safe and I should have walked away unscathed. Why didn’t I?

  Mom.

  Being with Jules made me think of my mom. More than I have in a few years. I’m not saying I don’t think about her at all. My brothers, Dad, and I talk about her often, but it’s always the good memories. The ski trips for winter breaks, the late night video game tournaments, and movie nights. The way she’d force us guys to watch black and white classics, telling us someday we’d thank her for it. With Jules though, I was reminded of Mom being sick and how the sicker she became the more she pushed us to be better men.

  Climbing the stairs when I get home, I stop in the hallway where a collage of pictures hangs. There’s an old one, from when Dad played ball, in the center with my parents smiling and looking at each other. They were romantics. Madly in love and never afraid to show their affection around my brothers and I. Dad brought her fresh flowers weekly, and he showered her with cards and presents all the time.

  The practice rubbed off on Carson whose relationship with his girlfriend Mindy makes Austin and I green with nausea every time we’re around them. For a while I thought Austin would be the same way, but his breakup with Lauren changed him. He became a player, different girls all the time, no relationships, all fun.

  Then there’s me. Sharing a kiss with the girl I was crushing on only a couple weeks before my mom made a turn for the worse and passed away. Afterwards I didn’t express interest in anyone until Carley during my sophomore year. Carley showed me what I’d been missing, but it was all for fun, there weren’t any true feelings involved between us. It’s why we ended. When we did, I became like Austin, fun loving and free. No one tempted me to change my ways. No one, until Jules.

  Her face enters my mind and I pull out my cell. Finding the text I sent myself from her phone earlier, I save her info and start a new text, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” My finger lingers over send before I close it as a draft with a curse.

  I quickly open another, “You’re with Stuart. I need to stop thinking about you” I type, closing it as well before tossing my phone onto the bed. I laugh at myself. Finally, my head has won a battle.

  Heart: 3 ~ Head: 1.

  I fall back against my pillows. I can feel the way Jules felt wrapped around me on the motorcycle today, the way her arms held me tight, the way her legs . . . shit. I sigh because I’ve already lost it. I’ve lost the battle to pretend I don’t want her. I pick up my phone again.

  “I can’t believe you remembered that kiss. I bribed Karen to pick us. Convinced Wes Gruber to make out with her in exchange for seven minutes with you. I’m not even sorry.” I smile at the memories. I recall Wes telling me he got to second base during their make out session, so his end of the bargain worked out well. As for mine?

  New text. “You smelled like strawberry shampoo. To this day I love the smell of strawberries. It’s because of you”

  Damn, I’m going crazy. New text. “Why am I texting and saving messages I’m not going to send?”

  I roll my eyes at my question and open another text to answer the previous one. “I’m crazy, that’s why. Whatever. Where was I? Oh, so strawberries and spearmint. You’d eaten a mint. I saw you pop it into your mouth the minute your name was called.”

  My fingers hover over the screen as I recall the tentative touch of her tongue against my lips as our mouths moved together. She didn’t attack me the way Jenn Ribicheck did when she accosted me by the lockers earlier in the school year. No, Jules was timid and shy, her mouth testing out its new power over mine. I should have known it was her first kiss, except a first kiss should never take your breath away. “Best damn mint I’ve ever tasted.” I finish the text.

  “I was going to ask you out . . .”

  “My mom died two weeks later, Jules”

  For almost an hour I lay in my bed thinking and typing each thought I have into a new text. I don’t know why. I think about what I’ve revealed. My fingers type thoughts without my head considering what I’m saying. It’s freeing in a strange sort of way—cathartic—so I type another.

  “So, yeah. Life changed after that. I dropped out of football. I was stupid. I miss football.”

  Mom died, I dropped football, I dropped Jules, I dropped my friends . . .

  “This is crazy.”

  Yes, this is crazy. Admitting these things in a strain of texts. I should delete them and yet—

  “Anyway, Stuart moved to town that same summer and took my spot on the team like it was nothing and you were a goner. I don’t care
what you say everyone knew you had it bad for him.”

  Funny how his arrival to Tyler continues to aggravate me four years later. Stuart Daniels, surfer Cali boy, shows up to school and takes my spot on the football team without a second thought. I hated him for it, but I didn’t want it. I’m the one who quit.

  “Whatever, past is past. Then you sat on that bench Friday night and you were alone for a change. Do you know how often you’re alone? Not very. I couldn’t help speaking to you”

  “Side note: I think it was that sweet little skirt. Whose idea was it to make cheerleading skirts so short? I need to thank them. Your legs look so sexy in that skirt”

  “So there you were, alone and sexy, and I spoke. Then . . . well you know”

  Sirens went off, a storm blew in and I grabbed her hand.

  “This is like a confessional. Maybe I need to write in a journal or something.” I laugh. “Wow. Did I just think about writing in a journal? Grief Counseling 101.”

  Maybe I should go to therapy. Dad’s asked me every day if I want him to set an appointment. Maybe I need it. Sitting in the dark at 2 A.M. typing texts to the girl I like while never intending to send them is most likely an indicator of someone who needs help. Keeping track of how many points my head scores versus my heart is also an indicator of my being a crazy freak.

  I stop typing and close my eyes. I’m not crazy, I make good grades, I have a great relationship with my dad and brothers, teachers like me, I’m a damn fine upstanding citizen. I’m okay, I’m normal. This is my one thing, my one quirk. Jules Blacklin.

  Okay, and the lingering issues I harbor over my mom’s death.

  This thing with Jules will go away. It will, we need to let some more time go by. When the town gets some sort of normalcy back, so will we. Until then . . .

  “So, I miss you.” Admitting it, even in an unsent text, makes me feel better.

  “I swear my hand tingles waiting to touch yours again.” Typing this admission makes me want to drink shots and punch someone so I can prove I haven’t lost my man card. I tell myself getting these feelings and words out of my head is better than swallowing them down. No harm, no foul this way.

  I release a drawn out exhale. “What did you do to me, Buffy? I’m not that guy.”

  I type the words and sink lower, covering my head with a pillow. Several words come to mind for the way I’m acting. None of them are kind. My brothers, especially Austin, would have a field day with this.

  The unexpected vibration of my phone in my hand startles the crap out of me and I jump, swiping the screen unlock and clicking on my text messages.

  Jules: My hand misses your hand

  “Oh, shit.” Sitting up, I fumble with the buttons, reassuring myself that I didn’t send any of the texts I’d written. I see that they’re all sitting in the draft box right where I left them and I release a relieved sigh. What the hell? She sent me a text about my hand at 2 A.M. while I was creating a string of texts to her. Shit. Before I have time to consider what I’m doing I’m calling her. I can’t plot this shit out; I can’t ignore the signs.

  For once I’m not sure if it’s my heart or my head making my decisions. I want to hear her voice—that’s all heart. We’re thinking the exact same thoughts at the same time—that’s my head knowing this is fate. I’ll call it a draw.

  The call connects and Jules picks up almost immediately. “Hi.”

  “My hand misses yours more.” I slap my forehead, groaning inwardly at the admission. So smooth.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Nah, I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me either,” she replies.

  I grin because she was thinking of me. She texted me.

  “So, your hand just wanted to text me? Let me know she missed my big, tough grip?” I ask playfully, feeling infinitely better than I did only moments ago.

  “My hand’s a little whack these days.” She sounds a little disgusted with herself. I know the feeling well; I have twenty or so texts hiding in my phone to prove how “whack” I am.

  I don’t admit to my crazy, though. “Why’s that, Buffy?”

  “Two A.M. texts to your hand? C’mon, that’s whack.”

  “First, stop saying ‘whack.’ You sound like Ruben, and it’s strange. Second, you can call me at any hour. You, or your hand,” I offer.

  “Yeah?” she asks uncertainly.

  “Yeah.” If she’s whack, then I’m whack too. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes telling myself I was normal, only to hear Jules’ voice and go back to thinking I’m crazy. Yet, speaking to her brings clarity to the events of the last few days. “I think going through a near-death experience together has earned us the right to be a little needy,” I admit, perhaps more for myself than for her.

  She’s silent for a moment. “I think you’re right. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I only said it so I’d feel better about the twenty or so text messages I’ve typed up but didn’t send.”

  As Jules gasps at my admission, I suppress a groan at my big mouth.

  “Twenty? What did they say and why didn’t you send them?”

  “Jules—”

  “Send them now and I’ll reply back.” Her tone conveys her excitement. I close my eyes and picture her face, her blue eyes bright—

  “Come on,” she begs, her voice crashing through my picture of her. “We’re both up, anyway. You chicken, Spike?”

  I can’t, I tell myself again and again. She’s got Stuart. Get over yourself, Rutledge. End this now.

  “I don’t think we should go there right now, Jules.” My frustration is clear in my voice and my chest ache.

  “Go where? Come on . . . I’m hanging up and I want a text in one minute, or my hand will be very mad at yours,” she says smartly.

  How could she not guess what types of things I’ve been thinking? Does she not see the trouble this conversation could cause? She ends the call before I can stop her. Apparently not. My fingers fly over the screen as I type her a new text and send it.

  West: I can’t send you the texts, Jules. It’s not right

  Jules: I want to know what you were thinking. How can your feelings not be right? They’re yours

  Well okay, thank you, Dr. Phil. Propping my pillows against my headboard, I lean back and pull the texts up. What if this changes everything? What if I admit how I feel? I could tell her and then I could remind her of what she’s forgotten—remind her of our conversations from when we were trapped. How she told me she didn’t truly love Stuart anymore. How she told me she would let me kiss her, how she said she wanted to live. Isn’t going after what you want living?

  Live, West—I swear I hear my mother’s voice in those two words. Screw it. I send the first text.

  West: I can’t stop thinking about you

  Jules: Is this one of the 20? I had a dream about you. Well about us and being stuck that night

  West: Hey Buffy, don’t reply. Just let me send them okay? And yes, that was the first one

  One by one I send her each text. As I requested, she doesn’t reply and every time I press send I wish I hadn’t told her to keep quiet. I want to know what she’s thinking right now. Is she laughing her ass off at me? Is she angry I’ve admitted these things? I send her twenty thoughts, and when I’m done and my draft box is empty, I inhale sharply and I wait.

  Jules: You’re not what guy??

  That’s her first question? Pick a trait and I’m not him. I’m not the type of guy who types his thoughts out for a girl, the guy with regrets, the guy who falls hard, the guy who falls at all, and most of all I’m not—

  West: The guy who makes a play for someone else’s girl

  Jules: Oh

  Jules: What if I wasn’t someone’s girl?

  West: You’ll always be someone’s girl

  Jules: ?

  Say it, what the hell. I type the words out without allowing myself to think about the repercussions. I grin. This is an easy question to answer; I know I want her, b
ut I shouldn’t want her.

  West: If you’re not his girl then you’ll be mine!

  Jules: . . .

  No reply. Is this a good or bad thing? I re-read my words and explain.

  West: Like I said you’ll always be someone’s girl. I’d prefer you were mine but I won’t steal you from him

  Jules: I need time

  West: Remember Buffy and Spike?

  Jules: Yeah, enemies. At first

  West: Exactly

  There’s a pause in her replies. I can’t say I regret what I’ve told her. She needs know I want to be with her and she needs know I won’t sneak around behind her boyfriend’s back. I won’t cause her to cheat. I ignore the guilty voice telling me we’ve already pushed the boundaries of cheating. Our circumstances aren’t normal.

  Jules and I didn’t ask for this; we were put in a spot we never expected. The ending result is a mixed bag of emotions neither one of us seems to be handling well. My phone lights up with another text.

  Jules: Never in my life have I read twenty text messages that made me feel the way those do

  West: I feel like a girl

  West: No offense

  Jules: Ha, none taken. West . . .

  West: Yeah?

  Jules: I miss you too

  My mind races. How can we miss something we didn’t have a week ago? It’s been bugging me all week so I ask her about it.

  West: How can we spend four years barely speaking and it doesn’t matter but we spend one night in hell and suddenly I want to be with you every moment?