Wesley James Ruined My Life

by Jennifer Honeybourn

  “You spent fifteen hundred dollars? On what?”

  Quick! Quick, brain, what did I spend it on??

  “Just … stuff. I don’t know. Clothes.”

  She narrows her eyes, taking in my ratty old T-shirt with a map of the London Underground on it that I wear almost every other day.

  “And other stuff, too. I don’t know. I wasted it.” God, this is the worst. From the way Erin’s looking at me, it’s clear she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

  “You must have some money left, right?”

  I shake my head. I feel terrible about lying to her. I really do. But I can’t tell her the truth. I just can’t.

  “Okay … well. The whole reason we’re doing this car wash is to help us all get there, right?”

  “We’ve only made a hundred dollars so far,” I say. “It’s nowhere near enough. Besides, that’s supposed to be split between everyone.”

  “You can have my share.”

  That lump is back in my throat. I smile weakly at her, feeling like the worst friend ever. “Thanks. But it still wouldn’t be enough.”

  “You have some time before we go. Maybe you can make it up,” she says.

  “There’s no way I can save that much. Even if I worked night and day.” I would do it, too, if it meant I could still go. “It’s not possible.”

  “What if my mom fronted you the money? I could ask her.”

  “Erin, it’s okay,” I say. “Really. I’ve made peace with it.” This is not even remotely true, of course. I will probably never get over not going to London.

  “There has to be a way.” Her face suddenly sags. “Oh my God. You know this means that I’ll have to bunk with Ashley and Jasmine.”

  “Maybe it won’t be that bad. You’ll probably all end up best friends.” It’s my feeble attempt at a joke, to lighten the mood, but Erin doesn’t laugh.

  “At least tell me you blew your money on some fabulous designer bag or something,” she says.

  “Or something.” The lie is a weight in my stomach.

  “This trip will be zero fun without you.”

  “You’ll still have Travis,” I remind her.

  “It’s not the same. You think Travis is going to hit Oxford Street with me?”

  He probably would, if she asked him. But she’s right—it’s not the same. I can’t feel sorry for her, though, because I’m way too busy feeling sorry for myself. After all, at the end of the day, Erin is still going to England. I’m the one being left behind.

  “Have you told Mr. Aioki?”

  I shake my head. “I’m going to tell him soon.” I haven’t told him yet because there’s a small part of me that’s still holding out hope for a miracle.

  “Maybe he’ll have some ideas. I mean, you can’t be the only band member who doesn’t go. We’re a team. Maybe they have a reserve fund for—”

  “Poor people?” I say bitterly.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I know it’s not what she meant. I shouldn’t take my bad mood out on Erin. It’s not her fault I can’t go.

  It’s Wesley’s.

  This downward spiral my dad’s been on, he wouldn’t be on it if my parents were still married. And my parents would still be married if Wesley hadn’t blabbed to my mom that my dad had lost his job. True, he’d lied to us and pretended to be going to work for weeks after he was fired, but still. I know we would have been able to help him with his gambling problem. Instead, everyone just gave up on him.

  Fast-forward five years, and here I am standing on the side of a road, shaking a sign in front of a gas station. Not going to London.

  All because of Wesley James.

  So whatever delusions Erin’s having about Wesley and me, that’s never going to happen.

  “Come on,” she says, lowering her sign as the light changes and a convertible speeds past us. “It’s someone else’s turn to stand here and make a fool of themselves.”

  A few of our bandmates are gathered around a blue station wagon. The rest are standing around or sitting on overturned buckets, eating snacks from the tiny convenience store attached to the gas station. Erin hands her sign to Alisha and we head over to help finish washing the car.

  Erin hands me an orange sponge she pulled out of a bucket of sketchy-looking water. “Hey, isn’t that Wesley?” she says as a black Ford pickup pulls into the parking lot.

  Yup, it’s him. I can see his blond head through the tinted glass. He slides out and my heart picks up speed. His head is turned my way, but the lenses of his sunglasses are so dark I can’t tell if he’s actually looking at me. I’m pretty sure he’s about to walk over when Jasmine intercepts him. Jasmine, with her cheerleader body and long red hair and ridiculous fake eyelashes. She says something and Wesley smiles. This smile is not meant for me, but it still lights up my entire body, hitting every nerve ending and throwing my insides into a tailspin.

  This is not good. In fact, it’s terrible. I shouldn’t be feeling anything other than deep hatred for Wesley James. But instead, I am stupidly, insanely, tremendously jealous, all because he’s talking to Jasmine.

  Worst joke ever, universe.

  I busy myself with scrubbing the hood of the car so I don’t have to watch them. Erin pats my back. I know it means she’s noticed them talking, too, and that she knows it’s bothering me, and that makes this whole situation infinitely worse.

  A few minutes later, Wesley extricates himself from Jasmine and wanders over. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “My mom had to work. I was trapped at home with two cranky three-year-olds.”

  I concentrate on washing the car. I’m afraid my emotions are written all over my face, and I don’t want Wesley to figure out I’m weakening. Plus, it’s much easier to remember why I hate him when I don’t have to look at his ridiculously handsome face.

  “How’s business?” he asks.

  “Not great,” Erin says. “It’s been slow.”

  I let her rattle on to him about other fund-raising ideas—a movie night, a silent auction, a kissing booth (ew, no way!). Erin’s never been the slightest bit interested in fund-raising before, so I know that she’s holding out hope for a miracle for me, too.

  As she talks, Wesley keeps shooting glances at me, but I ignore him and keep scrubbing at a speck of dirt on the wheel well.

  “Need some help, Q?”

  “No,” I say grumpily.

  He crouches down beside me anyway. “Come on,” he says. “Let me do it. I feel guilty for not getting here earlier.”

  My hands are shaking as he takes the sponge from me. I stand up, mostly so I can put a bit of space between us. If he was on the moon, it wouldn’t be enough space.

  Erin elbows me. I know she’s convinced that Wesley’s offer to help is further evidence that he likes me, but she is mistaken. I’m not sure what is motivating him to be nice to me, especially when I’ve made it clear that I’m not going to reciprocate, but I’m positive it’s not because he likes me. If he did, he wouldn’t have been so interested in what Jasmine had to say.

  He can do what he likes with her. Or anyone else for that matter. I don’t care.

  All right, fine. Maybe I care a little.

  I hate that I care. I hate everything right now.

  And okay, I know that I just decided looking at him was a bad idea, but it’s hard to turn away from the sight of the muscles in his shoulders rippling as he gently rubs the wheel well. Erin catches me staring at him and gives me a smug smile.

  Stupid Wesley and his stupid muscles.

  Someone turns up the music—classical, as Mr. Aioki insisted on being in charge of the playlist. Another car drives in. I don’t love washing cars, but I love standing next to Wesley James even less, so I walk over.

  “Hey, Quinn,” Caleb says, smiling as I approach. His khaki shorts and T-shirt are damp with suds and his normally perfectly coiffed brown hair is messy. I’m not used to seeing Caleb anything other than put together. I like this ruffled side of him.
r />   “Is it weird seeing Wesley driving around in your truck?” I ask him.

  “A little bit, yeah,” he says. “But it’s all right. He’s a good dude.”

  “If you say so,” I say. I just walked away from Wesley so I didn’t have to be near him and now here I am, bringing him up.

  Caleb’s eyes widen. “You don’t like Wes?” He says this like he can’t imagine anyone not liking Wesley James. Which just proves that Wesley’s grossly fake personality has fooled everyone in the world except for me.

  But given that Caleb is friends with Wesley, I’m not entirely sure how he’ll take me disparaging him, so I just shrug and say, “He’s all right.”

  Caleb studies me for a moment. Then he leans over and brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. The gesture is so unexpected that the smile freezes on my face. I’m simultaneously worried that he’s going to try to kiss me, right here in front of everyone, or that he won’t try at all and I’ve somehow read him completely wrong.

  And here’s the problem: I don’t know if I want Caleb to kiss me. I thought I did, but then Wesley came back to town and my focus shifted from deciding whether or not to go for Caleb to getting revenge on Wesley James.

  “I guess we should finish up,” Caleb says.

  I nod.

  An hour later, I’m no closer to figuring anything out. I’m exhausted and my clothes are completely soaked. We’ve raised another sixty dollars, including the wrinkled twenty that Wesley pulls from behind Erin’s ear.

  “I guess that’s a wrap,” he says, stuffing the money into the converted Kleenex box we’re using as a cash register.

  “I guess so,” Erin says. “Hey, a bunch of us are going back to my place—”

  I whip my head around and give her an evil glare. I cannot believe she’s about to invite him back to her house. What is wrong with her?

  “Uh,” she says, faltering.

  An awkward silence descends. Wesley looks back and forth between us, but he clearly gets the message because he says, “Thanks, but I’ve got some errands I need to run.” He holds up the box. “I’ll just take this over to Mr. Aioki.”

  Erin waits until he’s out of earshot before she says, “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “You could have let him come.”

  “I don’t want him to come.”

  “Yeah, that was obvious,” she says. “You’re being insane, you know that, right? This vendetta or whatever it is, it’s just so silly.”

  “It’s not, actually,” I say coldly. There’s nothing silly about it.

  “Quinn, I know you think he’s responsible for your parents’ divorce, but—”

  “No but. He is responsible.”

  “Okay, fine. But hating on him … it kinda makes things difficult for the rest of us.” She hesitates, and I can see she’s weighing her words. “You know Travis is having a party on Saturday.”

  I cross my arms. “Please tell me you didn’t invite Wesley.”

  “Honestly, I didn’t think it was such a big deal,” she says. “And don’t say you’re not coming, because you are.”

  Three weeks ago, no one in Seattle remembered Wesley James even existed, aside from me. And now he’s completely infiltrated my life and somehow managed to brainwash my friends.

  “Oh, I’ll be there,” I say. I have to go so I can reverse the damage and show them what a tool bag he really is.

  twelve.

  “Notice anything different?” Rachel asks, leaning close so I can see the small gold stud in her nose.

  “Shut up! You got your nose pierced? Has Joe seen it yet?”

  Rachel shakes her head.

  “He’s going to freak.” Joe’s always harping about authenticity. Girls in the fifteen hundreds did not pierce their noses. Or any other body parts, except for maybe their ears, and I’m not even sure they did that.

  She shrugs. “What’s he going to do? Fire me? There are laws against that.” But she checks over her shoulder to make sure he’s not lurking behind her.

  She’s right: There are laws against unjustly firing someone. Which means I have to make sure that my plan to get Wesley canned is airtight.

  Not that I have a plan. It’s been two days since the car wash and I still haven’t thought of a way to get him fired. And I have to do it soon, because my resolve is weakening. Every time I see him, he chips away a little more at my defenses, and I’m afraid if I spend much more time with him, they’ll crumble completely. That can’t happen.

  The restaurant doesn’t open for another half an hour, so Rachel’s showing me a photo of the exact shade of blue she wants to dye her hair when Wesley comes charging through the front door.

  What is he doing here? His shift doesn’t start for another hour. I may have checked his schedule, but only so he wouldn’t catch me off guard. Like he’s doing right now.

  He’s dressed in his pirate costume—billowy white shirt, black leather vest, big black boots with the laces undone. His skull and crossbones hat is clenched in his fist and there’s a distinctly un-Wesley-like scowl on his face—an expression that only darkens when his eyes land on me.

  Uh-oh.

  “Can I talk to you?” His voice is tight. He glances at Rachel leaning on the hostess desk, watching us with interest. “In private,” he says.

  I do not want to talk to him in private, now or ever, but he turns on his heel and stalks down the hall. I’m not sure what he could be so worked up about, but unless I want him to air his issue in front of Rachel—the gossipiest person ever—then I have no choice but to follow him.

  My heart hammers as I walk toward the little alcove I just saw him disappear into. Wesley rarely gets mad. At least, the Wesley I knew five years ago never did. But I’ve done a few things lately that might make him angry, so it’s difficult to know exactly what set him off.

  I guess I’m about to find out.

  I find him sitting on a stone bench underneath a portrait of a glowering King Henry VIII. Henry looks a lot happier to see me than Wesley does. Wesley’s arms are crossed over his chest. His posture isn’t superinviting, but I sit beside him because there isn’t anywhere else to sit and I’d feel even more awkward standing in front of him. The bench is cold and hard, but it’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as the lengthening silence between us.

  “When were you going to tell me about Gran?” he finally says.

  My breath catches. Of all the things I expected he might say, this wasn’t one of them.

  Wesley stares at me and his eyes are so full of anger and hurt, I have to look away. “You knew I wanted to see her,” he says. “You didn’t think you should tell me that she has Alzheimer’s?”

  “How…?”

  “I wasn’t getting anywhere with you, so I called your house. Your aunt filled me in.”

  Thanks, Celia.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” he says.

  A spark of anger ignites inside me. Who does he think he is? “I didn’t realize I had to,” I say. “She’s my grandmother. Not yours.”

  It’s a mean thing to say, and I regret it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. I know Wesley loves Gran and I know she loves him, too. I also know she wouldn’t be at all happy about the way I’m treating him. No matter what my reasons.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I can’t believe I’m apologizing to Wesley James. But Gran would want me to be kind, and it’s the least I can do for her. And also because he’s right: I should have told him. Despite everything, he deserved to know.

  Wesley’s breathing changes. Slows down. His face softens, the lines in his forehead smooth out. He lets out a long breath and leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. I’m relieved he’s no longer mad, even though he has every right to be.

  “This sucks,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “How long has she been sick?”

  “Awhile.”

  He fiddles with his hat, pulling at a loose thread at the top of the embroider
ed skull. “I figured something was up. The last package I got from her was about six months ago.”

  I still can’t believe Gran kept in touch with him and never said a word to me about it. I didn’t keep secrets from her. But she sure kept a big one from me.

  “What was in it?”

  “The usual stuff,” he says. “A couple of comic books, some of her shortbread cookies. A letter.”

  I swallow. Now is the time to tell him that I have a bundle of letters he wrote to her. I found them the other day in one of the boxes of Gran’s stuff that Celia and I packed. Not gonna lie, I was tempted to read them. So very tempted. But in the end I decided not to because I know Gran would have been seriously disappointed in me. And I have enough guilt when it comes to her.

  I should tell Wesley I have his letters. I should, but for whatever reason, I don’t.

  “I wrote her to tell her that we were moving back to Seattle,” he says. “I was a bit nervous about coming back here.” He glances at me. “I didn’t know what to expect, if anyone would be happy to see me.”

  By anyone, he obviously means me. And that makes me wonder what Gran told him about my life. How much of what’s happened in the past few years does Wesley know about?

  “I guess that’s why she didn’t answer my last letter,” he says.

  There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach as I think about him waiting for an answer, waiting for Gran to respond.

  “She didn’t want anyone to know she was sick,” I say.

  She was diagnosed a couple of years ago, but it was only about six months ago, right around the time she must have sent Wesley her last letter, that she finally told me.

  I’d seen a change in her over the past couple of years, of course—she’d forget simple things, like the name of the street she lived on or where she’d put her keys—but I didn’t think anything was really wrong with her. I just thought it was a normal part of growing older.

  My gran seemed indestructible. She’d always been there and I assumed she would be for a long, long time. Until I no longer needed her, anyway. Not that I could imagine not ever needing her.

  The worst part? I would have noticed she was sick a lot sooner if I wasn’t so wrapped up in my own life. That last year, I didn’t see her nearly as much as I should have. I was too busy, I always had something else—something better—to do.