And then Alan strolls past us. I remember our conversation last night and, like an answered prayer, an idea comes to me. Maybe he can help me after all.
I smile slowly. “I know exactly what we should do.”
* * *
It doesn’t take us long to convince Alan. His finely tuned sense of justice makes it impossible for him to turn us down.
Phase One of the plan involves getting Amy to come with me, which is harder than I thought it would be. “I just need to talk to you for one minute,” I say, trailing her into the kitchen. I’ve been after her to come with me all night, but she’s been avoiding me, which I guess isn’t all that surprising.
Amy sighs heavily, dumping a load of dirty dishes onto the counter. “Fine, if it will get you off my back.”
I walk away, but when I turn around a few steps later, she’s not behind me. She’s still standing in the same spot. “Why can’t we just talk here?” she asks, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
My heart begins to pound. She has to come with me for this to work. “Um, it’s kind of a private matter,” I say. “About Wesley.”
His name gets her feet going; Amy hustles across the kitchen and grabs my arm hard, her fingers like a cuff around my bicep. She marches me down the hall, toward the staff room. The problem is, I need her over by the alcove.
I wrench my arm away from her. “Forget it,” I say, walking quickly in the opposite direction.
“Oh no,” Amy says. “You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.” Just as I’d hoped, she follows me. I stop in front of the blue velvet curtain Rachel hung over the alcove to hide Alan, hoping Amy’s too preoccupied to notice the big black boots sticking out from underneath it.
“I’ve been thinking about what you did to Wesley,” I say. I need her to confess, to say that she’s the one who stole the money, so Wesley can be vindicated.
Amy stares at me, her head cocked. “What are you talking about?”
My face burns. “You switched your swipe card with his.”
I’m worried she’s onto me, but then she says, “I already told you why I did that. Anyway, what difference does it make to you? I thought you hated him.”
“That doesn’t mean he deserved to be fired for something you did.”
Amy leans closer and pokes me in the chest with her index finger. “Remember what I told you, Quinn,” she hisses. “You better keep quiet, or I’ll—”
She jumps back as Alan suddenly bursts through the curtain, his face thunderous. “What’s this now?” he says. “Sir Wesley has been punished for your crimes?”
Amy shrinks as Alan towers over her. “No, no, Your Highness. You misunderstood.”
He straightens even taller and puffs out his chest. “You dare to challenge the king?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m not challenging you, I’m just—”
But Alan is well past the point of listening. He’s already tried and convicted her, and is ready to mete out justice in the best way he knows how. “How now!” he booms. “Guard! Guard! There’s a thief in our midst!”
Bruce appears from the shadows where he’s been waiting. He shoots Amy a disgusted look, ready to lead her to Joe’s office.
“It’s not my fault,” Amy begs, backing away from him. “Quinn! Quinn, tell him it’s all just a misunderstanding! Please.”
“But it’s not a misunderstanding,” I say coldly. “You stole the money and you let Wesley take the fall for it.”
Amy glares at me. “Yeah? Well, you put a hair in a customer’s food.”
Rachel snorts. “Oh, please,” she says. “We’ve all put hair in a customer’s food.”
Amy’s face tightens. “Fine,” she says, tearing off her Tudor Tymes apron and throwing it on the ground. She even grinds the heel of her boot into it. “I quit. I hated this job anyway.” She storms past us and out the door. I wonder how long it will be before she remembers her purse is in the staff room.
Rachel cheers. “Good riddance,” she says. She holds up her phone, where she’s recorded the entire conversation. “I’ll go update Joe.”
“Thanks,” I say. “And thank you, Your Highness.” I drop into a deep curtsey.
Alan smiles. “No need to thank me, Quinn,” he says. “It was my pleasure. Now go tell Wesley he has his job back, if he wants it.”
My heart falls. I’ve been so focused on trying to get Wesley his job back, thinking that if I could just fix this, then things could go back to normal. It didn’t occur to me that he might not want to come back.
I need to find him and explain. I just hope he’ll listen to me.
twenty-two.
Wesley’s avoiding me. I’ve been trying to reach him for days to apologize. I even showed up at his house once, but I was too nervous to knock on the door.
Having Wesley shut me out has only reinforced how stupid I’ve been. About him, and about Gran. And while I can’t do much more to fix things with him at the moment, at least not until he calls me back, I can do something about Gran.
So, finally, I am here.
I run my finger over the nameplate on the wall beside Gran’s door. Her name is written in block letters on a sheet of card stock slipped inside a plastic sleeve. I guess they use paper instead of something more lasting because it’s easier to change when the next resident arrives.
I don’t like to think about what a new resident would mean for Gran. It’s hard to believe that she won’t ever leave this place. That this is her home now.
I’m glad that Celia insisted that she have her own room, despite it costing a lot more money. I’m happy we could do this for her, even though privacy probably doesn’t top the list of things Gran cares about anymore.
I’ve been standing outside her door for a few minutes, trying to work up the guts to go inside. I told Celia and my mom that I was ready for this, but the reality of being here? So much harder than I imagined. Everything in me wants to run, to get as far away as possible, but I know I have to face what’s happening behind this door. I owe it to Gran. And to myself.
So I knock.
Nothing.
Maybe she’s sleeping? I knock louder. Still no answer.
A terrible thought occurs to me and my heart starts to pound. Please please please let her just be sleeping. Please don’t let me be too late.
I take a deep breath and push open the door.
The lights are off and the curtains are drawn, but they’re so thin the midday sun filters right through them, casting enough light that I can see Gran propped up in bed, a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her eyes are closed but they slowly flutter open when she hears me enter.
I sag with relief.
“Gran? It’s me,” I say. I sit down in the plastic chair beside her bed.
She’s not wearing her glasses and it takes her a second to focus. I think I see a flicker of recognition in her blue eyes. I reach for her hand. It’s knobby and warm and so familiar that it makes me want to bawl. I squeeze my eyes shut, to keep the tears from spilling over. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Not in front of her. Not until I’m alone.
“Someone brought you flowers,” I say, noticing the wilting tulips on her nightstand. Purple—her favorite color—arranged in a simple glass vase. The scarred wooden table is littered with tissues, a half-filled coffee mug, a small windup travel clock. So different from her nightstand at home, which was always stacked high with romance novels. Gran can’t read anymore—she doesn’t have the patience, but even if she did, I doubt she’d remember how.
I think that’s the worst part of this disease. Everything Gran loved—her books, her house, her family—is lost to her. Just as she’s lost to us.
Suddenly, Gran struggles to sit up. “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” Her eyes widen in panic and confusion. It kills me to see her look at me like that. Like she’s never seen me before. Like I am someone who could hurt her.
“It’s okay, Gran. It’s Quinn.” I squeeze her hand. Maybe there’s something familiar about
my fingers, too, because she relaxes and her eyes get this dreamy look.
“I have a granddaughter named Quinn,” she says. “Do you know her?”
I nod. “We’ve met.”
Gran reaches up and pulls the ruby hairpin out of her white dandelion-fluff hair, the one my granddad gave her when they got married, and presses it into my palm. The red, heart-shaped stone twinkles in my hand. “Could you give this to her? I’ve been saving it for her.”
I lose the battle with the tears—they spill over my cheeks, fall like raindrops into my lap. “I’ll make sure she gets it,” I say.
Gran’s eyelids are already starting to shut. She falls asleep quickly and I continue to watch her, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, remembering all the stories she told me about growing up in England. The story of her life.
I need to find a way to get to London. It may be too late for me to make enough money for the band trip, but I will start saving again, until I have enough to go. I will get there. And when I do, I will visit every place Gran has ever told me about. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll find something of her there.
I wipe the sleeve of my cardigan over my eyes. When I stand up to straighten her blanket, I hear someone enter the room.
I turn around and Wesley is standing in the doorway, holding a bunch of purple tulips. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a black T-shirt, his normally wild blond hair tucked neatly behind his ears.
My heart swells. Happiness sweeps through me as my brain finally recognizes what my heart knew all along,
I love Wesley James.
How could I not have known that, all this time?
Unfortunately, if the grimace on Wesley’s face is anything to go by, he doesn’t feel the same way.
“I’ll come back,” he says, turning on his heel.
“Wes, wait.”
He stops and looks at me warily. I can tell he’s debating whether or not to just continue down the hall, so I jump in before he makes up his mind to leave.
“You haven’t returned any of my calls,” I say.
“Yeah, well. It took me a while, Quinn, but I finally got it,” he says bitterly. “You’ll never forgive me.”
My stomach tightens. I have really made a mess of things. “There’s nothing to forgive you for,” I say. “Obviously, it’s not your fault my parents got divorced. Blaming you for that was stupid. I’m sorry.”
Wesley’s fingers tighten on the bouquet and the flowers shake a little. “You got me fired.”
I wince. He may not have called me back, but clearly he’s listened to my messages. I knew that the only way forward was to be honest with him about everything, even if he ended up hating me for it.
And it’s pretty evident that he hates me.
“I got Amy fired, too, if that makes you feel any better,” I say. “And I talked to Joe and he says the job is yours again if you want it.”
Wesley shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
He’s not reacting in the way I expected him to. I thought he’d be happy to have his job back. I thought … well, maybe I thought there was hope for us. Despite everything.
“I don’t think I can work there anymore. Not with the way things are between us,” he says. “I was hoping that we could be friends—”
Friends? Something breaks open in my heart. I don’t want to be friends with Wesley. I want more than that. So much more.
“But I just don’t see how that’s possible now,” he continues. “There’s too much history. You can say you’ve forgiven me, but the truth is, Quinn, I’m not sure I forgive you.”
The air is pushed out of my lungs. I feel like I’m underwater, a long, long way below the surface. I don’t know how to make this up to him—I don’t know if I ever can—and that’s a difficult thing to have to live with.
Now I know exactly how Wesley felt.
“I’ll quit Tudor Tymes,” I say.
Wesley’s eyebrows snap up toward his hairline. “What?”
“I’ll quit,” I repeat. “If working with me makes you uncomfortable, then I’ll resign.”
“So you want me to work there, without you?” His lips twitch, like he’s fighting one of his trademark smirks. “You sure you aren’t still trying to get back at me?”
Relief floods through me. Cracking jokes is a good sign. Maybe even a step toward actually becoming friends. And if all I can have from Wesley is his friendship, I guess I’ll have to accept that. It will have to be enough.
“I’m done with trying to get back at you,” I say. “I promise.”
He nods. “Then I think we can handle working together,” he says. “Although, I must admit, it was nice not to have to worry about being thrown in the stocks.”
I smile.
Behind me, I hear Gran stir. I turn around. She’s awake and she’s watching us, a delighted expression on her face. For a moment, I think she recognizes us, but then the light goes out of her eyes again.
“Hi, Gran.” Wesley walks over and removes the dying flowers from the vase on her bedside table, replacing them with the tulips in the bouquet he brought with him. “How are you today?”
Gran doesn’t answer him, but she doesn’t look afraid or confused. And as Wesley chats with her about last night’s baseball game, I feel ashamed for ever trying to keep the two of them apart. It’s going to take a while to forgive myself for that.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” I say.
Wesley glances over at me. “You don’t have to go.”
Yes, I do. I’ve already cost them time together. And maybe there are things that he wants to tell her that he can’t say in front of anyone. Even me. Especially me.
“I need to get going,” I say. “See you around?”
He smiles. “Seems you can’t get rid of me.”
Thank goodness.
I realize, as I’m walking down the hall, that being friends with Wesley is going to be hard—really hard. But not having him in my life at all? So much harder.
* * *
Later that afternoon, I’m wheeling my bike out of the garage when Dad walks up the driveway.
“I remember the first time you rode a bike,” he says. “You were seven.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not in any mood to take a trip down memory lane with him. I’m not in the mood for him at all, actually. I haven’t seen him since our fateful breakfast when he told me he’d gambled away my money.
I stuff my bag into the white wicker basket attached to the handlebars, then put up the kickstand and get onto my bike, prepared to ride right past him.
“Quinn, wait,” he says. “Please.”
I sigh. “What do you want, Dad?”
His hands are buried in his pockets and he’s jingling his change, a nervous habit that used to drive my mom crazy. He glances uncertainly at the front door.
“No one’s home,” I say.
The jingling stops. “Okay, well, I just wanted to stop by to see how you are. And to bring you this.” He pulls a check out of his pocket. I stare at it until he says, “Take it.”
I reach for the check, my heart thumping. I don’t give up hope easily, so when I unfold it and realize it’s his child support payment and not the money he owes me, I’m disappointed all over again.
“It’s not the full amount,” he says. “Tell your mom I’ll try to get the rest to her next week.”
“Where did you get the money from?”
He shrugs. “I sold my baseball.”
I blink at him. “Your Derek Jeter baseball? I can’t believe you did that.”
“It was just a ball,” he says. “I didn’t get much for it—not enough to give your mom what I owe her or to pay you back, unfortunately.”
But it was all he had. And that counts for something.
“I’m sorry, ladybug. I was really hoping I could give you your money back in time for London,” he says, his eyes getting misty. “I never should have taken it in the first place.” He clears his throat. “I’m going to start going to meetin
gs again. Today, in fact.”
Right after my mom left him, Dad started going to Gamblers Anonymous, hoping it would win her back. But it was way too late. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Once he realized that she was done, he gave up trying.
“Okay.” I dig my keys out of my bag. I want to leave the check inside on the coffee table, where Mom will see it as soon as she gets back. “Do you want to come in?”
He hesitates. I can tell he’s tempted to see the inside of the house where he once lived, probably hoping it hasn’t changed, that something of him is still in there, but he says, “No. I’m good.”
It’s probably for the best. Because there’s nothing left of him in our house. My mom made sure of that.
“Where are you off to?” he asks after I come back outside.
“I’m going over to Erin’s,” I say. I need to get her take on what happened with Wesley this morning.
There’s no sign of Dad’s car anywhere. He could have used the money from his baseball to get his car out of the impound. But he didn’t. He used it to pay my mom what he owed her.
Maybe I’m letting him off the hook too easily, but that’s the thing I’m learning about forgiveness; it’s not something you just do for the other person, it’s something you do for yourself.
“How about I walk you there?” he says.
“Sure,” I reply.
We have a lot of ground to cover, far more than we can manage in the short walk to Erin’s place, but it’s a start.
twenty-three.
It’s been six days since Alan sent anyone to the stocks. Wesley’s convinced it’s because Alan’s grown bored with it, but I know the truth: He’s in love. The proof is in the way he can’t stop smiling at Justine, the pretty brunette actress Joe recently hired to play Anne Boleyn. Alan’s also been wearing his nicest royal clothes and he’s trimmed his scraggly beard. I think he’s even lost a few pounds.
The best part? Justine always smiles when he’s around, too.
Wesley’s been back at work for a week. Things are better between us. We’re friendly. Friendly friends. It’s fine.
Wesley James Ruined My Life Page 14