I swallow. “Yes.”
Caleb kneels and starts to chuck the food back into the picnic basket, muttering under his breath.
I’m making a complete mess of this. I have zero experience breaking someone’s heart. It’s awful, knowing that I’m responsible for the hurt on his face. I can only hope that one day he’ll hate me a little less than he does at this moment.
“You know they’ll get back together, right?” Caleb says. He stands up and yanks the blanket out from underneath me, sending sand flying everywhere. “They’ve broken up before. It never sticks.”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
He shakes his head. “What, you didn’t know Wesley and Jolie broke up?” He laughs. “I guess the two of you are in for a fairy-tale ending.”
“Caleb, really, I’m sorry. I just—”
“You know what, Quinn?” Caleb says. “I’m not interested.” He gathers the blanket into an untidy bundle, picks up the picnic basket, and glares at me. “You two deserve each other.”
Then he storms across the beach, leaving me with the sand and the sunset and a whole lot to think about.
* * *
I’m in my pj’s, eating a huge slice of Aunt Celia’s walnut cake when Mom gets home from work.
“What a night,” she says, collapsing beside me on the couch.
She can say that again. I’ve been vacillating between feeling awful at how terribly I’ve treated Caleb and happy that Wesley and Jolie have broken up. And then to despair, because what difference does it make? It doesn’t really change anything between Wesley and me.
Mom reaches over and swipes a bite of my cake. We’ve never talked about what happened the night of the Jameses’ going away party, or what happened between her and dad afterward. But for the first time ever, I think I’m ready to.
“Did you know the Jameses are back in town?” I ask her. “I work with Wesley.”
Her eyebrows lift. “I knew they were back—Celia mentioned he’d called—but I didn’t realize you worked together. That must be nice for you. You two were such great friends.”
I shake my head. “Not so great.”
“What do you mean?”
Although I’d confided a little in Gran about Wesley, I’d never told my mom the truth about what happened between us. My dad is always a touchy subject. But if I’m going to move forward, if I’m ever going to forgive Wesley, then I have to clean out the wound.
“That night at the going away party, Wesley and I were hiding in the apple tree. We got into a fight about something”—I’m not about to tell her that we fought because I tried to kiss him and he backed away—“and I broke his magic wand.”
“Okay…”
“Anyway, he got mad and he told on me.”
She nods. “I remember that. I told him you’d buy him another wand out of your allowance.”
“And he said not to bother. Then he said that he hoped Dad found another job soon. And when I asked him what he meant by that, he told us his mom mentioned Dad had been fired.”
That was when I freaked out. Full on broke down. From the pained look on Wesley’s face, it was evident that he didn’t realize we didn’t know, but the damage was done just the same.
That was the end of my family.
“Right.” Mom looks confused. And I’m confused by her confusion.
“So if Wesley hadn’t opened his big mouth and told you, then you wouldn’t have ever known Dad was out of work. He could have gotten another job before you found out. You’d still be together.”
Instead, the night of the party, my mom wouldn’t even let Dad come back to the house to get his stuff. She packed it all up herself and sent it to Gran’s. His entire life, crammed into two suitcases.
Mom’s face softens. “Quinn, honey. That’s not what happened.”
“I was there, Mom. I remember it perfectly.” All too well, in fact.
Mom sighs and I can see she’s weighing her words. “Sweetheart, I already knew your dad had lost his job. He told me right before the party started.”
Um, what?
“It wasn’t the best timing. People were arriving and I was completely frazzled. But I guess he was worried it might come out that night, so he felt he had to tell me.” She reaches for my hand. “It was the last straw. I told him I wanted a divorce before Wesley’s family even arrived.”
My stomach drops. I’ve spent years blaming Wesley for the demise of my parents’ relationship, years believing that he’s the reason we’re not a family anymore. And it turns out that I’ve been punishing him for something he isn’t even responsible for.
“Your dad and I had problems long before that night,” Mom says. “He lied to me, for so long.” Her face tightens and I realize that she’s still a long way from forgiving him. So I guess I know where my issues with forgiveness come from. “Relationships are built on trust. Without that, you’ve got nothing.”
She’s right, of course. I couldn’t let Dad be the villain—even though losing his job was 100 percent his fault—so instead I cast Wesley in the role. I’ve always been too willing to overlook my dad’s shortcomings—and look where that’s gotten me.
“So you can let Wesley off the hook now,” Mom says.
I close my eyes. Letting him off the hook is the easy part. Fixing what I’ve broken is going to be much harder.
twenty.
Wesley flies into the restaurant, skidding to a stop in front of the hostess desk to say something to Rachel. Probably to thank her for calling him. According to my doctored schedule—the one that, until I arrived at work this afternoon, I forgot all about—he’s not supposed to be here for another hour.
My heart pounds as he speed walks across the restaurant toward me, tucking his billowy shirt into his pants. His black boots are unlaced and the tongues flap against the leather.
I’ve had to cover his section—along with my own—for the past hellish hour. Definitely something I should have considered before I changed his schedule, but no less than I deserve.
“I don’t know how this happened,” Wesley says, following me into the kitchen. “I’m sure I was supposed to start at six.”
“Really? Hm. That’s weird.”
He snaps his eye patch into place and then bends down to tie his shoelaces. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he says.
“Well, these things happen, right?”
Wesley glances up at me, his fingers stilling on the laces. He searches my face, like he’s wondering about something, and my heart skips. He can’t find out I was behind this.
He finishes doing up his boots. When he stands, I hand him a basket of bread.
“For table six,” I say. “And watch out, they’re supercranky.”
This is true of most of the customers tonight, at least in Wesley’s section. Because we’ve been short-staffed, everyone has had to wait longer for their food. And no one is happy about that.
Wesley takes a deep breath. “Sorry for the mix-up, Q. I know it’s probably meant extra work for you.”
He wouldn’t be sorry if he knew I was behind it. In fact, he’d probably never speak to me again.
Before Wesley can deliver the bread, Joe pushes through the kitchen door. “Wesley. A word,” he says. He turns on his heel and heads toward his office.
“What about my tables?” Wesley calls after him.
“Quinn can handle them.”
Um, no. Quinn can’t! Oh my God, I really don’t want to go back out there and deal with table six.
Wesley smiles grimly at me. “Wish me luck,” he says.
He’s not going to need luck. It’s not like they’re going to actually fire him. Not for being late once.
But, half an hour later, I’m starting to worry. Wesley’s still not back. The restaurant is full and table six has complained twice about the wait, even after I explained to them, as nicely as possible, that their orders are almost up.
I’m filling up their water goblets for the third time—seriously,
these people are like camels—when Rachel tugs on my sleeve.
“You’re needed in the kitchen,” she whispers.
I shoot a nervous glance at the couple and their two kids, wondering if they’ve complained about me to Joe. “What for?”
“Staff meeting.”
“Now?” I leave the water jug behind on the table and follow Rachel. “What’s the meeting about?”
“No idea. Joe told me to gather everyone into the kitchen.”
All the staff is crowded around the dishwashing station. Well, most of us anyway. Wesley’s missing.
Wait … where is Wesley?
Joe waits until the dishwasher stops its rumbly cycle so we’ll be able to hear him. “We all have customers waiting so I’ll make this quick,” he says. “Mr. James is no longer with us. He’s been let go.”
Wait, what? Wesley was fired because he was late, one time? According to the manual, three write-ups result in termination. Not one.
Oh my God. I did this. I actually got him fired.
Maybe it’s all the steam back here or the smell of fried food, but I’m starting to feel really sweaty and light-headed.
“We’ve noticed that money has been going missing for the past few weeks. A lot of money,” Joe says. “And we’ve traced it back to Mr. James.”
Hold up. He thinks Wesley stole from the restaurant? Not possible. Wesley is a lot of things, but he’s not a thief.
But no one says anything. No one rushes to his defense.
Should I say something?
“I realize this is a shock. It’s a very unfortunate situation. We’ll need to cover his shifts for the next week or so, until we can hire someone else, so if any of you are interested in picking up hours, let me know.” And with that he stalks off.
Bruce shakes his head. “Okay, guys. Let’s get back to work.”
“I don’t get it,” I whisper to him as the rest of the staff files out the kitchen door. “Why does he think Wesley took the money?”
“It’s probably the swipe cards,” he says. Everyone is assigned a card on their first day and we use them whenever we need to place an order or get into the cash register. “It’s actually kind of dumb of Wesley. The cards make it pretty easy to figure out if someone is stealing,” he says.
Unless you’re smart enough to use someone else’s card.
* * *
I grab Amy when she comes back in the kitchen a few minutes later to drop off some dirty dishes.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure, I need a break,” she says, blowing a piece of hair out of her eyes. “God, is it just me or is it really warm back here tonight?”
It’s not just her. Maybe guilt makes you hot. Like you’re burning in hellfire.
Or maybe the air-conditioning just isn’t working back here.
I lead her out the back door, making sure that the brick is in place so we don’t get locked out. The air out here is stuffy, but the Dumpster provides a bit of shade.
“So. What’s up?” Amy says, perching on the picnic table. She fans herself with her hand and I notice her nails are painted dark blue.
There’s no easy way to ask someone if they’re a criminal, so I jump right in. “Did you have anything to do with Wesley getting fired?”
Amy’s eyes narrow. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Bruce pointed out that all our transactions are tracked through our swipe cards.”
“And?”
“And a few weeks ago you found Wesley’s card. Remember?”
She stares at me. Ugh. She’s going to make me spell it out.
“And … well. I’m wondering if you gave him the wrong one back,” I say. “Maybe you gave him your card instead.”
Amy hops off the picnic table and grabs my arm, pulling me farther behind the Dumpster so we’re hidden from view. “Have you said anything about this to anyone?” Her fingers tighten.
“Ouch. God.” I peel her fingers off and rub my arm. “No.”
Not yet anyway.
Her shoulders relax. “All right, look. I wouldn’t have had to do it if they paid us decently,” she says. “It’s, like, impossible to live on minimum wage. You have no idea. Besides, the restaurant can afford it. It’s not a big deal.”
Not a big deal? What is she talking about?
“Wesley was fired because of what you did,” I say.
Amy wrinkles her nose. “I know. I do feel kind of bad about that,” she says. “But he doesn’t need this job as badly as I do, so.”
“That’s not the point, Amy.”
She gives me a hard look. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your mouth shut, Quinn. I really need to keep this job, as crappy as it is. I can barely afford rent. And there’s no way I’m moving back in with my parents.”
“You want me to cover for you?”
“You don’t need to do anything. They already think Wesley took the money. Let them continue to believe that.”
I feel bad about her situation. I do. But there’s no way I can let Wesley take the fall for this.
“I need to get back inside.” I try to step past Amy but she puts her hand on my chest to stop me.
She sighs. “I didn’t want it to come to this, Quinn, but you should know: It’s your word against mine,” she says. “I don’t want to throw you under the bus—I consider you a friend—but if I have to, I’ll tell Joe that you stole my card and traded it with Wesley’s.”
I shake my head. “Why would he believe that?”
“Because,” she says, smiling, “it’s not exactly a secret that you and Wesley don’t get along. Also? I saw you put a hair in that poor girl’s food.” She tsks. “Seems like Joe wouldn’t be happy to hear about that.”
Oh my God, Amy’s the devil.
“You’re blackmailing me?”
She shrugs. “Call it what you like. Just don’t cross me.” She gives me a little push and I stumble back. It gives her just enough time to get back inside, the door banging shut behind her.
* * *
“Here you go,” Bruce says, sliding a Big Henry—basically a virgin piña colada—in front of me. “Maybe this will help.”
I’m hunched over at one of the tables in front of the stage. The last customer left an hour ago, along with most of the staff, but I’m not ready to go home yet.
“Thanks.”
Bruce climbs up on the stage to finish sweeping. The lights have been turned up and every corner of the restaurant is illuminated. The banners are threadbare, the wood on Henry’s throne is badly in need of a polish, and I can see every dent in the suits of armor. Tudor Tymes might lose some of its magic when the lights are on, when every flaw is revealed, but somehow that just makes me love it more.
I’m hoping Wesley feels the same way about flaws. Because I’ve got plenty of them.
I’m not sure what to do about him. I have to get him his job back, but beyond telling Joe the truth and praying he believes me—and risk getting fired myself—I don’t know what to do.
I’m halfway through my drink when Alan ambles over, carrying an overloaded turkey platter. He’s still in full costume—blue velvet cape thrown over a burgundy-and-gold tunic. He’s never not in costume, and he’s usually the last to leave. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he actually lived here.
I don’t know much about Alan’s personal life—actually, I don’t know anything about his personal life, beyond that he used to do the weather on the local TV station.
“Pray tell, what’s bothering you, fair maiden?” Alan settles himself heavily on the chair and tucks a paper napkin underneath his chin.
I sigh. “It’s Wesley.”
Alan nods. “Ah yes, young Wesley. I dare say, I did not think him capable of such an odious crime.” His teeth rip into the turkey leg.
“Yeah, well. He didn’t do it. He was framed,” I say, trying not to show my revulsion at the flecks of meat collecting in Alan’s beard. “Only I can’t prove it.”
Ala
n chews thoughtfully. “To stand falsely accused of something is a terrible thing,” he says.
“So what should I do?” I sip at the dregs of my drink, feeling suddenly hopeful. Maybe Alan can help me.
He gnaws at his turkey leg again, pondering my question. “My child, the answer lies within you. Look into your heart.” He gives me a beatific smile.
That’s it? That’s his advice? Look into my heart? That is no help to me whatsoever.
And as I watch him wipe his greasy mouth on his napkin, I wonder how exactly I’m going to get myself out of this mess.
twenty-one.
Rachel shakes her head. “Wow, you really screwed things up,” she says, leaning against the hostess desk. The thin leather strings that normally crisscross the bodice of her delicate yellow gown have been replaced with black-and-pink zebra-striped shoelaces.
“I know,” I say.
“Like really badly.”
“I know! Listen, are you going to help me or not?”
Rachel pinches her bottom lip between her fingers and studies me thoughtfully. “Getting Wesley fired is heinous,” she says. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a backstabber.”
My cheeks are on fire. Rachel’s my friend and I hate that this is what she thinks of me now. “Okay, I suck. All right?” I say. “But I didn’t actually succeed. Amy did.”
She narrows her eyes. “You got what you wanted, though. So what’s changed? Why do you suddenly want him to have his job back?”
I glance away from her. “Because I like him,” I say. So much my heart aches. Admitting this out loud to her somehow makes it even more real. “But more importantly, it’s the right thing to do. He didn’t steal anything.”
Rachel nods. “Wellllll, I’m glad you’ve decided to use your powers for good and not evil, so okay. I’ll help you. That wench Amy definitely deserves to go down.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved. “Now help me figure out how to convince Joe to hire Wesley again.”
“Throw yourself on his mercy.” Rachel twirls a piece of her newly dyed blue hair. “It’s worked for me a few times.”
“No way. He’ll fire me.” This would obviously be no less than I deserve—Erin was totally right about karma—but honestly, I want to keep my job. I like working at Tudor Tymes. “There has to be another way.”
Wesley James Ruined My Life Page 13