Happenstance 3

by Jamie McGuire

  The drunken glaze in their eyes was gone as was the excitement of ganging up on their victim. I held tight to Weston, hearing him holding his breath and then groaning.

  He looked up at Brady. "This ain't over, Beck."

  "You're damn right it's not," he said, following the others as they climbed back into the pickup.

  "You all right?" Tyson asked, standing over us.

  "I'll live," Weston said.

  Tyson nodded once and then joined the others just before the pickup flipped around, spraying us with gravel. Weston tried to shield me, but he moved slowly.

  As the red glow from the brake lights of Brady's truck faded in the distance, Weston sat up onto his knees and spit. A bit of blood remained on his lips, and he wiped it away with his wrist.

  I pulled up the bottom hem of my tank top and wiped the dirt and blood from his face.

  "This has got to stop," I said, my voice breaking.

  "Oh, it will," Weston said, his voice low and menacing.

  "No. No more fighting," I pleaded.

  "What if you end up alone with him in Stillwater? You think I'm going to let you go there, knowing he's out for blood?"

  "Do we have to talk about this now?"

  "Then, when? He's always been a dick. This is a whole new level. I never thought he'd have the balls," Weston said before spitting again.

  I helped him to his feet. "Are you short of breath?" I asked.

  "No," he said, stretching his sore muscles.

  "Brady kicked you in the head," I said, worried.

  "I felt it," he grumbled.

  "We should take you to Julianne and let her check you out just to be safe."

  Weston began to protest, but I took his keys. He wasn't fast enough to stop me.

  "You don't have a choice. I'm driving."

  "You shouldn't have done that," he said.

  "Kept them from breaking your ribs?" I asked, helping him to the passenger door.

  He slowly climbed up, grunting as he fell into the seat.

  "I couldn't just stand there and watch."

  "Don't worry. I'll take care of it," Weston said.

  "No, you won't," I said before slamming the door. I walked to the other side and grumbled to myself, "I will."

  "ANDREW, BRENDAN, AND BRADY, HUH?" Frankie said. "Asshole casserole." She shook her head as she stared out the window. "Clearly"--she shook her head again, white-knuckling the counter--"prom wasn't good enough. We need to punch Brady in the uterus and then fill his vagina with sand."

  I snorted. "That would be slightly impossible, Frankie, since Brady is male."

  "He won't be after I'm finished with him," she snarled.

  "No uterus. No vagina."

  "Yet. That little douche poodle. I dare him to come to my window. I will never put a curl on his dip cone ever again."

  "Oh. Now, he's going to regret everything," I deadpanned.

  She turned to me. "What is Weston going to do?"

  "Nothing. At least that's what I told him."

  "You think he'll listen?"

  "He'd better," I grumbled to myself.

  She raised an eyebrow. "Look at you, all grown-up and feisty after graduating high school."

  I sighed. "This can't end well. They can't keep throwing punches. Someone is going to get hurt. And...Weston was wheezing a little...after. It scared me."

  "You're afraid Weston will fight his way into another asthma attack?"

  "Yes."

  "You've got a point," she said.

  I was surprised. Frankie always supported me, but she never agreed with me.

  "Tyson is lucky he didn't join in," she said. She wagged her finger at me. "I know his mother. She doesn't allow her kids to behave that way."

  "He stopped them. If he hadn't...I don't think Brady would have cared that I was between his foot and Weston."

  Frankie seethed, but when we heard a car pull up and she recognized the woman strolling across the parking lot, her cheeks flushed bright red.

  "Frankie," I warned.

  Lynn stepped in front of my window and waited, looking smug.

  Frankie stood next to me, glaring at her, while I lifted the window.

  "How can I help you?" I asked, trying to sound as if she were any number of customers who had stood at that window before. I knew she was up to something, or she would have just gone through the drive-through.

  "How is Weston?" Lynn asked.

  I stared at her with a blank expression.

  She smirked.

  "What do you want, Lynn?" Frankie snapped. "Order or leave."

  "Brady has a bright future ahead of him, Easter. Your future, on the other hand," she said, her eyes looking up the outer wall of the Dairy Queen and then back at me, "fits perfectly inside that little window."

  Frankie snorted. "Did you come all the way over here from the country club to taunt her? How old are you again?"

  "I just wanted to congratulate Easter on graduating. It's a pity your mother couldn't make it to the ceremony."

  "Julianne was there," I said.

  "Your real mother," Lynn said without emotion. "The one who lives in the trash can you were raised in."

  Frankie looked to me. "Is Brady's family tree a cactus? Because everyone on it is a prick."

  I stifled a laugh, and Lynn narrowed her eyes at Frankie.

  "You're the town joke, Frances. You're going nowhere. You have the same job you had in high school, and so will your children because you can't afford to give them a decent education."

  "Maybe," Frankie said. "But I can and will find a way to get them to college. You raised your son to be a cruel human being. And when most of the people from this town think of him, they won't think of the Beck name or how successful he might or might not be. They will remember only that he was a vile, snide asshole. Live with that."

  Frankie slammed the window down, and after a few seconds of deciding whether or not she would try to say something through the glass, Lynn spun on her heels and stomped back to her car.

  Frankie turned, leaning her backside against the corner of the counter. "God, I hate that bitch."

  I took a deep breath and blew my hair away from my face. "I get the feeling she doesn't like herself either. Veronica said Lynn brags about the mean things Brady says and does to people. Who purposely instills that kind of anger into their children?"

  "Lynn Beck," Frankie said, looking for something to keep busy.

  The rest of our day was hectic but uneventful. The baseball field stayed empty, and it was more than a little bittersweet to know that Weston would never hop in his pickup and drive across the street to stand in front of my window again.

  I was just beginning to get used to driving to a beautiful clean home that didn't smell like weed or stale cigarette smoke, but waking up and having nowhere to go but work was weird.

  The first few days of our last summer before life in the real world felt like the weekend, but as the days ran on, they seemed to have too much time in them to think about things like the wonderful but strange turn my life had taken, about why it had all happened, how my luck had changed--and if it would change again.

  Too much time meant long days, but before I knew it, Independence Day was upon us. Julianne and I spent a lot of time cooking and decorating the house and sidewalk for the block party Sam and Julianne would put on every year.

  Weston spent most of the day helping his mother, too, but as it got closer to dinnertime, everyone was outside, tasting one another's finger foods while chatting about how often they had to water their lawns.

  The summer was particularly scorching, and since the City of Blackwell had mandated a citywide water restriction, the grass was already beginning to turn a golden brown. Living in a Southern state where triple digits weren't uncommon for that time of year, I remembered hearing about those mandates before. Complaints about the effects of the water shortage on the lawns hadn't been a topic of conversation at Gina's, and it seemed odd to me.

  "Holy cra
p, it's hot," Weston said, grabbing me as he jogged by.

  His hairline was soaked with sweat, his cheeks bright red against his bronzed skin. A pair of aviator sunglasses covered his beautiful green eyes. That was the only thing I didn't like about summer.

  Weston hadn't looked Caucasian since a week after graduation, and my pale skin was working on its fourth sunburn of the year.

  "Don't forget the sunscreen," Julianne said as she passed by, handing me a spray bottle of SPF 70.

  I frowned. Her olive skin was a glorious shade, too. Sam, however, was rubbing a thick white sunblock onto his nose, and he wore a wide-brimmed Panama-style hat.

  This is his fault.

  "Erin!" Julianne called. "Erin, come meet Mrs. Schrimshire!"

  I made a face, and Weston patted me once on the back.

  "I try to like parties. I really do," I said before leaving Weston.

  I went to greet Julianne and a woman who was old enough not to have any business being in the direct sun. I picked up a plastic cup full of ice water on the way.

  "You are just adorable!" Mrs. Schrimshire said with a smile that nearly showed all her dentures.

  I handed her the cup. "Here," I said, sounding awkward instead of polite. "It's hot."

  Mrs. Schrimshire chuckled and grabbed the cup from my hand before taking a shaky sip. "What a good girl you have here."

  "We sure do," Julianne said, beaming with pride. "Erin, Mrs. Schrimshire has lived in this neighborhood the longest. Her husband was an attorney here in town. The Gates took over his firm."

  "I sure miss your other Erin. How are you holding up, honey?" Mrs. Schrimshire asked, touching Julianne's arm.

  Julianne smiled. "I miss her, too."

  "Must be so odd...to be so happy to have your daughter back and to also miss the one you raised."

  "It is," Julianne said, handling the uncomfortable conversation like a pro.

  "It is so nice to meet you," I said, trying a polite smile.

  Julianne winked at me.

  "Ribs are ready!" Sam yelled from our yard.

  Half the street migrated toward the smoker, and Julianne gestured for me to follow.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm terrible at this."

  "Stop being so hard on yourself. You're doing just fine, and you look fantastic."

  Julianne scanned me from my side braid to the white sundress and navy sandals. She'd bought the dress and helped me choose what shoes to wear.

  "Can you come with me to college and help me choose the right outfits?"

  "You wear sweats to class in college. And no makeup. Try not to shower either. They look down on you for that," she said, only half-joking.

  "Oh, thank God," I said, helping her serve the plates Sam had quickly filled with meat.

  Weston appeared next to me. "The Johnsons have a pool," he said, tugging on me.

  "Don't you dare!" Julianne shrieked. "It took her forever to get her braid just right, and she doesn't want to look like a river rat before the fireworks!" She looked to me. "Or do you?"

  I shook my head.

  Julianne playfully narrowed her eyes at Weston. "The neighborhood brats all jump into the pool at once." She poked him with a plastic fork. "Don't think I don't know."

  Weston chuckled. "Fine. C'mon, babe, let's find some shade until sunset."

  "Lawn chairs are in the garage," Julianne called after us.

  Weston grabbed two folded chairs and set them in the shade created by the house. While the sun sizzled on the street, the neighbors ate and chatted under the trees, and the younger kids--who were impervious to the miserable heat--chased each other and threw tiny balls of tissue that would snap when they hit the ground.

  "I can see now how deprived I've been," I said, watching the kids yelp each time a ball of tissue hit their feet.

  "Do you really mean it?" Weston asked.

  I wanted to hold his hand, but my palms were sweaty, and I imagined his were, too.

  "No."

  "I think about it a lot."

  "What I've missed?"

  "I wonder how different you would be if you had grown up with your real parents."

  "You think I would have acted like Alder?"

  He shook his head. "No. I bet you would be the same. Maybe a little more relaxed in social situations..." He trailed off, laughing.

  "I can't argue with that," I said.

  Weston held a plastic bottle in front of me, and I smiled as I took it from his hand.

  "Straight from the cooler," Weston said, proud.

  "When I think back on this summer, my memories will consist of the back of your pickup, the overpass, heat that makes my face melt off, and Fanta Orange."

  "We'll make other memories, too," Weston said. "I noticed there are a bunch of broken-down boxes in the garage."

  "Yes. I'm not sure what they think I'll fill them with."

  "All the stuff your crazy mother has bought you. Mom said Julianne has filled the entire guest room with dorm stuff."

  I nodded. "A memory foam egg crate for the bed, cutlery, and homemade completely organic cleaners. That's pretty much all."

  "That can't be all! Mom said there's an entire roomful of stuff!"

  "Towels. Lysol. A furry throw or two from Pottery Barn."

  "A throw?" He smirked. "That's just excessive."

  I laughed out loud. "Why is your mom snooping in Julianne's guest room? That's weird."

  Weston snorted. "Julianne is very proud of your dorm accessories."

  "Clearly."

  I watched my parents eating and talking and laughing, looking happy--and sweaty. No one really wanted to touch each other--which was nice when I met the neighbors, but not so nice for affectionate people like Sam and Julianne. I could tell they wanted to hug but decided to wait until the sun went down.

  "I could really go for an extra-tall cherry dip cone right now. I don't have connections at the Dairy Queen anymore."

  "I still work there. Stop pretending you don't get a dip cone every time I'm scheduled."

  Weston leaned his head toward me, but he didn't dare touch his wet hair to mine. "Because you love me."

  "Yes, I do."

  He paused in thought. "Why do you still call it Sam and Julianne's house? It's your house, too."

  "Not really."

  "Yes, really. My parents' house is my house."

  "You've lived there your entire life."

  "So, it just feels weird to say it?"

  I shrugged. "I guess."

  "Does it feel weird to say I'm yours? Because it doesn't feel weird to say you're mine."

  I pressed my lips together, trying not to smile. "Some mornings, after waking up, it hits me all over again that this is really happening. I wonder why you're mine."

  "Because you're kind and brilliant and beautiful. And you're not like anyone else."

  "And because I make you extra-tall cherry dip cones?"

  "Exactly," he said with a nod.

  He relaxed back into his chair just as the sun spilled pink and orange rays across the sky. I thought about the mural and that our artwork would be there long after we'd left Blackwell behind.

  The sun set, and the stars began to peek from the darkness, one at a time. Eventually, the first pop of the fireworks show could be heard, and a spray of red, white, and blue spread out in all directions across the night sky.

  Children screamed in delight while the adults oohed and aahed.

  Weston reached over and touched my silver necklace. "Are you going to stop wearing it when you're in Stillwater?"

  "No," I said. "Why would I?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you don't want old things in your new life."

  "This is my new life," I said, intertwining my fingers in his.

  WESTON AND I WOULD SPEND OUR DAYS AND NIGHTS on the Gates' private dock at Lake Ponca, in our spot at the overpass, and on the couch in his basement. He'd also visit me on the few days when I worked at the Dairy Queen.

  Frankie was training a n
ew girl, Jordan, and after a few weeks, it didn't make much sense for me to take up room in the tiny space we had to work in. That, and I would be leaving in less than a week for college.

  On my last day at the DQ, Frankie was quiet. The rushes from football and band practice letting out were over, and I was just beginning to clean up the mess we'd made.

  A truck snarled in the baseball field parking lot. It was Weston's red Chevy, and he was gunning the engine while parked in his usual spot. He backed out, paused, and then crossed the street before parking on the asphalt, just like he had done a hundred times since he got his license.

  My heart fluttered. He wasn't wearing his baseball uniform, but he was in a T-shirt and basketball shorts, his toned long arms bulging from his sleeves.

  He approached my window and smiled. I pulled it open. Asking him what he wanted was unnecessary, but he was making a gesture. This was the last time he would drive across the street and order from me.

  "Can I help you?" I asked, feeling a bit sentimental.

  "Hi, Erin," he said from under his bangs. His emerald-green eyes glowed as he tried to stifle a grin.

  "Hi."

  "I'd like a cherry dip cone, please. Extra tall."

  "You got it," I said, turning.

  Jordan and Frankie both watched me take a cone from the holder and then pull on the soft-serve lever. I made his extra-tall cone, smiled as I created my very last curl on the top, and then turned again, dipping the ice cream into the cherry coating. The gooey red layer hardened as I carefully handed it to Weston under the window.

  "Thanks, babe," he said before taking a large bite off the top as he always did. "I wanted to be your last one."

  He dropped a few dollars on the counter, and I gave him his change. He winked at me before swaggering back to his pickup.

  "That," Frankie said, "was disgusting. I'm so glad today is your last day, so I'll no longer be forced to witness your grotesque public affection."

  "Technically, that wasn't PDA," Jordan said. She shrank back when Frankie shot her an intimidating glare.

  I crossed my arms. "How is Mark? He's come to the drive-through at least once every time I've been here."

  She snarled, "He is wonderful. He allegedly loves me and my crazy kids. He wants to move in together. I said not yet."

  "Not yet?" I asked.

  "He's nice. I like him a lot. But not yet."

  "Fair enough," I said.

  "I still can't believe you're leaving me," Frankie whined, turning to restock the cups. "I mean, I knew it was coming. I've known you weren't going to stick around here, but it won't be the same without you."