by Scott, Emma
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Is economics what you really want to do too? Wall Street?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked slowly.
“I don’t know,” I said, and narrowed my eyes at him with a small smile. “Part of me thinks you working with numbers and money makes no sense. The other half thinks you’d make an excellent, cutthroat Wall Street vulture.”
His eyes widened first, then his smile unfolded—a genuine smile free of irony or dryness. It kept growing, unleashing a full-throated laugh in his deep—sexy—voice.
“Oh, you can laugh,” I said, my own smile growing. “I have to say, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself right now.”
His laughter tapered to a chuckle. “I don’t know which title I like better—Amherst Asshole, or Wall Street Vulture.”
I made a face. “I don’t like that name, Amherst Asshole. Where did it come from?”
“Track guys, mostly.”
“That’s because you don’t let them know you. You have facets just like everybody else. Even for a guy who thinks feelings are like tonsils.”
His brow furrowed. “When did I say that?”
“The day we met in the library. You said feelings were like tonsils and if only you could rip them out just as easily.”
“I did say that.”
“Do you still think it’s true?”
His ocean eyes poured into mine. “More than ever.”
The air between us suddenly grew thin. The distance between us felt like inches instead of feet. The dream I had in Nebraska filled my memory. Kissing Connor, then opening my eyes to find Weston holding my face in his hands…
I cleared my throat and looked away, even as some deep part of me wanted to be closer. To know more.
“What?” he said softly.
“I can’t get a read on you, Weston Turner.”
“Why do you always call me Weston, instead of Wes?”
I shrugged. “Wes is usually short for Wesley. Weston is unique.”
“You’re the only one that calls me that.”
“Then I guess I’m unique, too.”
The smallest of smiles touched his lips. “You are.”
“Can I exploit my unique status to ask you another, more personal question?”
“Ask away. But I may exploit my Amherst Asshole status to refrain from answering.”
I softened my voice. “Where’s your dad?”
A flicker along his jaw as his teeth clenched. A flare of anger burned hot in the blue-green waters of his eyes, then extinguished just as quickly.
“That,” he said, “is the million-dollar question.”
“You don’t know?”
“He took off when I was seven.”
“He just…left?”
“Tried to sneak out like the fucking coward he is without having the balls to tell my mom. Or to look my sisters and me in the eye and say he was leaving without us. But we caught him.”
My eyes widened. “You caught him?”
“Ma and I,” he said. “I came down with a fever at school. Ma took me home, and we arrived just as my dad was packing up the car.”
“Oh my God.” My hand itched to grab his. “Weston… What did you do?”
He shrugged, a hard jerk of his shoulders. “He drove off without a word and I chased him.”
“You chased him.”
He nodded. “I chased him. But he didn’t stop.”
I slumped back in my chair. “God. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well…”
My heart ached as pieces of Weston Turner clicked into place for me. Not an asshole, but an abandoned, bewildered kid, grown into a man, chasing that car, always.
“It must’ve been so hard for you, not knowing why he left,” I said.
“Why doesn’t bother me,” Weston said. “The why is he’s weak, cowardly, a pathetic excuse for a man. Plus, a million other insults I’ve called him over the years. Why is easy.” He flicked the edge of his empty plate. “What now is the bitch to accept.”
“What do you mean?”
Weston watched me for a long moment.
“He left my mom with the mortgage and only a haircutting job to pay it. He left her with three kids to support. What now? It was screaming at us from inside our empty house. And that question stretches over the years: What now?”
I leaned forward, silent, listening as Weston spoke more words at one time than I’d ever heard him speak. His voice was low, gravelly, and his accent grew thicker, as he drifted away from me and the bakery, and deeper into the thoughts and memories of his childhood.
“Who do I talk to if I have a crush on a girl?” he said. “Who teaches me how to shave? Or to drive? Ma is crying her eyes out every night, and the crying becomes drinking too many beers, so what can I do? My sisters drop out of school to get jobs and have shitty relationships with shitty guys because they’ve never seen it any other way. A cycle for them, but for me, it was like a pendulum. My childhood swung between What now? and What did I do wrong?”
His long fingers toyed with his pen, doodling hashmarks, tallies on a wall.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, my throat thick. “You were a little boy. It wasn’t your fault.”
Weston glanced up, his eyes soft. “Sometimes that’s harder to accept than money.” He dropped the pen and pressed the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other, cracking them. “Anyway, that’s my sob story. We all have one.”
Mine was a fairytale in comparison. I tried to imagine my dad leaving Mom, Travis and me. Without a word or warning. I’d blame myself, too. I’d seek protection. Build thick walls and insulate them against feeling that kind of pain ever again. A parent’s promise is unconditional love, and Weston’s father broke it.
No wonder he’s angry, I thought. No wonder he’s walled off, holding himself back. The old saying filtered into my thoughts, We accept the love we think we deserve. Sadness clenched my heart because for Weston, it seemed that meant none at all.
“Whatever,” he said, watching me. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“I asked you to.”
Weston watched me again, the blue-green of his eyes like sea glass under the café lights.
“We all have our shit. Connor’s life isn’t any easier because he’s got money or both his parents. He’s got double the pressure bearing down on him. I have the responsibility to my mother and sisters.”
“Taking on that responsibility makes you the opposite of an asshole.”
“I know,” he said. “But…”
“But what?”
“Nothing. It is what it is. I’m pissed at my dad and I don’t know how not to be.”
I reached across the table to touch his hand, because I had nothing to say or offer but my presence.
His gaze held mine, the blue-green warm and deep, then it dropped to our hands on the table. His closed around mine, his long fingers folding under my palm, his thumb sliding against my skin. Just as it had done against my cheek in my dream…
My heart began to pound, and I swallowed hard.
“Weston…”
The wind whistled hard against the bakery windows just then. A newspaper slapped hard against the glass, then swirled away in the cold eddies of encroaching winter. Weston stiffened and withdrew his hand.
“It’s cold out,” he said. “How are you getting home?”
“Connor was supposed to meet me.” I checked my wristwatch. “Five minutes ago. We’re going to grab something to eat. You want to come with us?”
“No.”
I bit my lip, not wanting to leave him alone. I wanted to hold his hand again, or put my arms around him and give him a hug. He was a grown man, but my mind kept picturing a little blond boy, standing on an empty street and watching his father drive away.
I want to keep touching him.
The thought was both completely wrong and felt completely right. I fought for somethin
g neutral to say.
“You sure? I heard your car broke down.”
“It did,” he said. “But Connor and a buddy of his took it to the garage and had it fixed while I was in class last Monday.”
Warmth spread through my chest, feeling like relief. “That’s a classic Connor thing to do,” I said. “He has a generous heart.”
Weston nodded and abruptly began packing up his things. “Next week, when you meet his parents, it couldn’t hurt to tell them that.”
“I will.”
“Speak of the devil.” Weston tilted his head toward the door.
With a blast of chilly wind, Connor came into the bakery, eyes scanning the tables. His smile widened when he found me, then faltered to see Weston.
“Hey,” Connor said. “How’s it going?”
I got up and put my arms around his neck. “We were just talking about you.”
“Oh yeah?” He kissed me briefly, his gaze over my head.
Weston got to his feet. “I was just leaving.”
“We’re heading out to get something at Boko 6,” Connor said. “You hungry?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Weston shouldered his bag. “See you at home.”
“Bye, Weston,” I said.
“Yep.”
He pushed out the door. Connor watched him go, brows furrowed. I buried my hand that had been holding Weston’s in Connor’s hair.
“Everything okay?” I asked, feeling like a liar. A fraud. A cheater.
I was only comforting Weston. That’s all.
Connor blinked and then looked down at me. “I guess. I’m nervous about Thanksgiving, actually. Distracted.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Then I changed my mind.” His smile returned and his arms around me tightened as he kissed me deeply. “Everything’s great.”
It is, I thought as we headed out into the cold November wind, Connor’s strong arm around me, keeping me warm. I watched Weston walk to his car a block ahead and climb in alone.
Isn’t it?
Weston
Wednesday evening, we drove to Boston in Connor’s Hellcat, four days’ worth of luggage for three people crammed in the trunk. Autumn rode shotgun. I sat in the back with earbuds in, my music cranked up so I wouldn’t have to listen to their small talk. The sight of their twined hands on the console was unavoidable.
Connor was a wreck. Autumn did her best to comfort him, but I had to wonder if she regretted coming, instead of spending Thanksgiving with her own father.
We arrived at the Drake residence off of Dartmouth Street. Connor parked at the curb and peered up at the huge row house.
“I feel like I’m about to stand trial,” he said. “Exhibit A,” he added, with a nod at the silver Jaguar parked in front of us. “Jefferson is here.”
Autumn slipped her hand across his shoulders and into his hair. “I hate that this is so hard for you.”
Connor forced a smile. “Nah, I need to chill. My parents will love you.”
Autumn didn’t say anything, but I could almost read her thoughts in the downward curve of her lips.
It’s not me they need to love.
Connor punched in the security code on a panel at the front door and opened it.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” he said.
The house hummed with talk and laughter. The scent of cooking hung in the air—baking bread, roasting meat, vegetables simmering in thick sauces.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” Autumn said. Her neck craned from the ruffled collar of her simple blue dress. As she turned this way and that to gaze up at the high-vaulted ceiling with its crystal chandelier, the tendrils falling from her loose bun danced around her porcelain face. She started fidgeting with her bag on her shoulder. “Now I just got nervous.”
Connor’s mother emerged from the sitting room then. “Hello, my darlings.”
Senator Victoria Drake wore an elegant, pale beige pantsuit with a string of pearls at her throat. Her hair was down instead of the severe coil she wore in D.C. She radiated refined elegance with an underlying mom warmth, but her eyes were sharp. A woman who wrote laws for a living, for Massachusetts and the Drake household.
“Hi, Mom,” Connor said.
Victoria embraced him and held his face in her palms a moment, then turned to me.
“Wonderful to see you, Wes,” she said. “You look handsome as ever.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Drake.” I gave her a light peck on the cheek and was suffused with perfume, and the chalky smell of her makeup.
“And you must be Autumn.” Victoria offered her hand for a brisk shake. “So lovely to meet you.”
“Wonderful to meet you too, Mrs. Drake,” Autumn said, then bit her lip. “Or…Senator…?”
“Please. Call me Victoria.”
I smirked. Mrs. Drake had been asking me to call her by her first name for years, and it was impossible. Connor’s mother exuded the aura of a famous person—one step removed from mere flesh and blood like the rest of us. She was far warmer than Mr. Drake, but still intimidating. If Autumn ever felt comfortable enough to call her Victoria, I’d eat my shorts.
“Connor tells me you’ve petitioned Harvard to create your own major?” Mrs. Drake asked.
“I will be,” Autumn said. “I’m still putting the project together.”
“Connor’s older brother, Jefferson, is set to graduate Harvard Business School with Honors this spring.”
“I heard,” Autumn said, her gaze flickering to Connor for a moment, her smile stiffening. “What an amazing accomplishment.”
“We’re very proud.” Mrs. Drake beckoned us deeper into the house. “Come. Everyone’s here except for your mother and sisters, Wes. Miranda called and said they’re all driving up tomorrow.”
“The Wahlberg show will have to wait,” I muttered to Autumn.
She grinned. “Whatta pissah.”
I barely contained the laugh that threatened to bust out of me.
God, this girl.
We adjourned to the lavish sitting room of polished mahogany and glass tables. A fire burned in the fireplace. Mr. Drake and Connor’s older brother sat with a tall blonde woman dressed impeccably in slacks, and a cashmere sweater. Jefferson’s fiancée, I presumed. Perfectly put together, not a hair out of place. A dystopian film director’s wet dream of the perfect woman.
I glanced down at Autumn—small and delicate, but holding her own in this intimidating space, a genuine smile on her full lips.
She’s fucking perfect.
The Drake men exchanged handshakes and greetings. “Dad, this is my girlfriend, Autumn Caldwell,” Connor said.
Alan Drake nodded curtly at Autumn. “A pleasure.”
“Thank you for having me, Mr. Drake,” Autumn said.
“Hey, Wes,” Jefferson called, walking over and shaking my hand with a grip a tad stronger than necessary. “Good to see you again. This is my fiancée, Cassandra Malloy.”
Through the introductions, Mrs. Drake motioned over a caterer in a white blouse and apron, holding a tray of small dessert tarts. “We’ve had dinner, but you’re just in time for these and please, help yourself to any drink.”
“Autumn, can I get you anything?” Connor asked.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Wes?”
“I’m good,” I said. Something told me not to leave Autumn’s side as Jefferson indicated she should sit with him and Cassandra.
I clapped Connor’s shoulder as he headed to a glass table covered in bottles of expensive liquor. Autumn sank into one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace and I leaned on its arm. Casual on the outside, but holding a machine gun on the inside.
The senator left the room to take a call. Mr. Drake stood at the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantle, grim-faced and quiet, as usual.
“Tell me, Autumn,” Cassandra said. “Victoria said you’re applying to Harvard for grad school?”
“That’s right.�
�
“What’s your area of study?”
“Social anthropology,” she replied.
“I wasn’t aware that Harvard had a social anthropology department,” Jefferson said, putting one ankle on the other knee.
“It doesn’t,” Autumn said. “I’m petitioning the Anthropology department with an application that includes a project focused on an area of socially-conscious reform in order to create a special degree for me.”
Jefferson pursed his lips as if reluctantly—and condescendingly—impressed. “And what area do you feel is in dire need of reform?”
Autumn folded her hands in her lap as Connor returned with a glass of, at least three fingers of Scotch. I reluctantly relinquished my post to him.
“I’m still working that out,” Autumn said. “Several areas I’m leaning toward. Population impact on the environment, the effects of racism at different economic levels, or the rights of the disabled and urban planning.”
“So, we have a social justice warrior in our midst.” Jefferson surveyed his audience to see if we shared his amusement.
My teeth clenched at the patronizing tone, but loosened as Autumn replied, “Yes, you do.” Her voice was cool and steady, her gaze unblinking. “Social change on a large scale usually begins with micro-protests or rebellions. Warriors who take a stand. Rosa Parks sitting at the front of the bus is the most famous example. The Me Too movement, being a modern day parallel.”
Cassandra sipped her wine. “Broad stroke, isn’t it?”
Jefferson sniffed. “Indeed. One can’t compare the Civil Rights Movement to a hashtag on Twitter.”
“I think the argument can be made that they have important similarities,” Autumn said, her voice stiffening. “In the same way that Ms. Parks’ action was a catalyst for the Civil Rights Movement, Me Too opened the floodgates of women—and men—coming forward to tell their stories of abuse, often in environments where sexual harassment was considered an unchangeable reality. For the first time, we’re seeing real consequences for abuse of power and voices are demanding to be heard. My aim is to be one of those voices, and if that makes me a social justice warrior, then so be it.”
I rocked back on my heels.
So there, you sanctimonious pricks.