He didn’t hit back.
An elderly man wearing the signature yellow store apron approached me from the side. “Miss? Do you need assistance?”
Boy, did I. I stared at him blankly, my ears still fully focused on the conversation a few yards away. “Yes.” Then I realized he meant the paint sample in my hand, not my feeling like I might faint at any moment. “No. I mean, yes. But not right now.” I shooed him off, not wanting to miss the rest of what was said.
He frowned, confusion pinching his bushy gray eyebrows. “I’ll be right over here when you’re ready.”
“Fine, thanks.” I waved him away, trying to look casual as my ears strained for any hint of tension from the next aisle.
But silence hung as thick as a storm cloud, ready to burst. I halfway felt like peering around the end display to make sure they hadn’t somehow killed each other right there in aisle four. But before I could decide, a board clattered to the floor. “Forget it. I’m out of here.”
My stomach dropped. Wes. Leaving. I looked around for a hiding place, but the older clerk was now staring at me, probably thinking the crazy girl with the paint chips was about to shoplift. I settled for ducking my head and hiding behind my curtain of hair. Maybe Wes would leave via the other end of aisle four and not this one—
A series of electronic beeps sounded mere feet away as someone dialed on their cell phone. I looked up as Wes turned the corner and spoke into the phone. “Sonya? Yeah. I’m coming. See ya in ten.”
He hung up as his eyes locked with mine.
The warm rush of compassion I’d been feeling moments ago froze over with the mention of Sonya’s name. I stared, unable to move, though in my heart I was already out the door and halfway down the street at a full run.
I swallowed, looking away, determined not to be the one to speak first. Drumming the paint chip on the counter, I looked impatiently over my shoulder. “Sir? I’m ready to order my paint now.” I made a show of checking my watch, as if I’d been a victim of bad customer service instead of eavesdropping.
“Addison.” Wes’s voice lowered, and he closed the distance between us by a few feet, yet still stopping well away from the counter. “What are you doing here?”
I put a happy falsetto to my voice, hoping to hide the layers of emotion threatening to break free of the dam. “Oh you know, talent-show stuff.” Forget happy. I sounded like Minnie Mouse. I coughed, trying to look casual as pain seeped through my chest. “An assistant director’s job never ends.”
“Uh-huh.” Wes nodded, looking unsure if he should continue to make small talk or head for the hills.
Leave, please leave. I forced a smile at the elderly clerk ambling around the counter, who suddenly seemed less than eager to help me check out. “Evergreen Dream, please. One gallon.”
He took the chip from me with paint-speckled fingers and eyed me from under his glasses. “Coming right up.”
I dared a glance at Wes, who had shoved his cell in his pocket. “How much did you—what did …” His voice trailed off as he gestured over his shoulder to aisle four before crossing his arms over his chest. No leather jacket tonight, just a dark-green pullover that made him look achingly approachable. Charming.
Yet somehow more dangerous than ever.
Sympathetic or not, I wasn’t about to make this easier on him. Not when he was upset and choosing to turn to Sonya instead of me. “What? Frog in your throat? Cat got your tongue?”
He narrowed his eyes at me, but not before I caught the exhaustion coating his expression. “Neither.”
“Well then you should probably hurry.” I spoke to Wes, but looked at the clerk, who frowned at me as he continued to mix my order. Great, now he thought I was suspicious and rude.
Wes ran a hand through his hair. “Addison, listen. About what happened last night—”
“Just go.” I broke him off before the clerk’s eyebrows could totally disappear into his receding hairline. Now I was suspicious, rude, and promiscuous. But if he knew what really happened—or rather, didn’t happen—he’d be applauding instead of judging. I turned back to Wes, inwardly begging God not to let my tears spill over while he stood there. “It’s not important.”
The lie burned my tongue, and I felt like the evergreen paint swirling on the machine. Jumbled. Mixed up. How could he connect with me like he did and then seek Sonya out for comfort instead? Because he knew I wouldn’t do what she would? Was that all a relationship was to him—physical?
I couldn’t do this anymore. I wasn’t that girl and never would be, even if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure of all the reasons why. I just didn’t want to be.
That was enough for now.
I jerked my gaze from the paint and firmly met Wes’s stare, willing strength into my knees. “Have fun at Sonya’s.” Don’t go. Stay. Choose me. My traitorous thoughts refused to fall into line with my will, and I hoped Wes couldn’t see the contradiction in my eyes. Or maybe I hoped he did.
Either way, it didn’t matter. He nodded once and strode away, refusing me a backward glance. I watched his retreating figure, relief and disappointment battling for center stage.
But they were both elbowed out of the way by the appearance of a thousand tiny cracks shattering my heart.
Marta showed up with cupcakes exactly seventeen minutes after my SOS text later that night. She nudged open my bedroom door with her foot, toting the box of minicupcakes in one hand and carrying her backpack on her other shoulder. “The junk food has arrived.”
I looked up from my position on the bed, surrounded by textbooks I’d opened partially out of necessity, mostly as a disguise. “You brought props. Nice touch.” I pointed to the book bag she dropped with a thud to the floor.
“If I am here to study, I have to look the part.” She set the box with the familiar red CROOKED HOLLOW BAKERY logo on my desk and pulled two forks wrapped in napkins from her purse. “And we are going to study. No more lies.” She shot me a pointed stare.
We told my dad we had a Spanish test coming up, which was true, and that we needed to study, which was also true. We just left out the part about me also needing girl talk and obscene amounts of sugar.
“Technically, I didn’t lie to my dad.” I held up one finger in defense. “He never specifically asked me if I snuck out the window and went out with Wes last night.”
She shook her head. “Weak.”
“I know.” I sighed and eagerly waved her over. “Comfort food, please.”
Marta passed me a cupcake then sat cross-legged on the other end of the bed. I didn’t even use the fork or the napkin she offered—just crammed the entire mini–chocolate dessert in my mouth. Peanut butter icing squished between my teeth like a burst of heaven, and I would have sighed in delight if it wouldn’t have sent crumbs spraying all over my bedspread.
“So how bad is it?” Marta daintily took a bite of her strawberry cake, napkin spread across her lap.
“The cupcake?” I mumbled with a full mouth. “Not bad at all.”
“Nein.” She rolled her eyes. “The reason I am here.”
I finally used my napkin to wipe the chocolate off my fingers, taking my time. I needed Marta but still wasn’t sure how much to reveal. She seemed to have a soft spot for Luke, and I didn’t want to offend her by talking down about Wes—even if I needed to vent. What if she told everything to Luke? What if word got around about Wes’s family drama? I didn’t want that for him, even if he had broken my heart. “It’s pretty bad.”
“Pretty and bad? How is that possible?” Marta frowned as she took another bite.
“Oh trust me, it’s possible.” I knew she meant the English phrasing, but Wes had both terms well defined—individually and together. I shook my head before she could grow more confused. “I just meant it’s intense.”
“So does that mean you finally talked to Wes about what happened the other night?” She quickly corrected herself as I once again held up my finger in protest. “I mean, what didn’t happen.”
“Sounds bad, but not, what did you say? Pretty bad?” Marta shrugged. “You have to face him eventually.”
“There’s more.” I swallowed, my mouth dry as the familiar wave of bitterness crept up my throat. I reached for another cupcake, stalling. Even now the memory pounded in my head, a headache that wouldn’t leave. I choked the words out. “He was calling Sonya as he was leaving—told her he’d be there in a few minutes.”
Marta’s eyes bugged. “The lemon-drop girlfriend?”
I just nodded as I popped the cupcake whole into my mouth, my stomach clenching at the thought of what he could have been going to do. Did Sonya know his secrets about his father? Did she even care? Or did she value Wes as lightly as it seemed he valued her? Still, there had to be something to their relationship or else he wouldn’t have been heading there in his moment of escape.
“That does change everything.” She passed me the entire cupcake box, and I took it without protest. “Do you think they’re getting back together?”
“I don’t know.” I fished a red velvet mini from the package. “The whole conversation was a blur. I was trying to ignore him; he was trying to leave. It was so junior high it was embarrassing.”
Marta reached over and patted my pajama-clad knee. “I’m sorry, Addison. I know this is hard. But just think how much worse it would feel right now if you had given in and slept with him.”
Her logic made sense. But on the other hand, if I’d slept with him, then we’d have never argued, and he’d never have gone running back to Sonya. “I know you’re right. But I don’t feel like it right now.”
“You said you were a virgin and wanted to stay that way.” Marta leaned back, propping herself up on my bed pillows. “So what changed?”
“I think maybe I did.” I stared at the cupcake in my hand, my thoughts spinning faster than the ceiling fan whipping above our heads. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret the decision I made. I’m glad I made it, even though all this happened. And I’d make it again.”
I sighed, trying to make sense of the contradictions swirling in my head and in my heart. “But if that’s true, why do I feel so awful? I should be mad at Wes—furious, even. Him treating me like this makes him a jerk.” Yet the anger I felt in the store was strangely absent. In its place lingered sorrow, regret, and this deep ache that wouldn’t go away.
“You’ve been interested in him for a long time. Maybe it is just hard to let go.” Marta adjusted a plaid pillow under her head. “Try to picture him the way he is—the way he acted in the store, the way he acted that night he pressured you. That should make it easier to move on.” She waved her hand at me. “Go on, try it.”
I closed my eyes in an effort to appease her. But I didn’t see the sarcastic, rebellious, I’m-a-jerk-with-a-chip-on-my-shoulder-the-size-of-Mt.-Everest Wes. I saw the hurting, reaching, I’m-acting-out-because-my-family-sucks-and-I-feel-alone Wes.
And despite all he’d done to me, I couldn’t make myself give up on him.
“Better?”
Marta’s voice brought me back to the present. I opened my eyes, forcing a nod. “A little.”
True—just not in the way she’d hoped. Marta was a good friend, wanting me to make wise choices. If our roles had been reversed, I’d probably be giving her the exact same advice. To forget the jerk and find a good guy—a guy like Luke. Someone who brought me flowers just because, who helped out with the things that interested me, who walked me to class at school. Someone with gelled hair and a pressed polo. Someone who could charm my father into his blessing. Someone practical. Logical. Safe.
But I didn’t want safe. I’d known safe my entire life. I wanted the guy who would argue with me in the pouring rain, not just stand by carrying the umbrella. I wanted the guy who wore leather and took risks but at the same time made sure I was protected. The guy who possessed a secret passion for classic novels and could play the piano better than Alicia Keys, yet had no idea of his own skills. The guy who made me cry, but also made me feel.
I wanted the guy capable of breaking my heart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I never knew time could drag and fly by at the same time.
Every time I thought of my encounter with Wes at Crooked Hollow Hardware, every time I envisioned him knocking on Sonya’s front door, my heart plummeted into my stomach, and the hands on the clock all but stilled. Had it really been two weeks since that night at the hardware store? Felt like years.
Yet when I glimpsed my father rushing out the door for yet another coffee date with Ms. Hawthorne, or when I saw how much work the talent show needed before the rapidly approaching opening night, the pages seemed to fly right off my calendar. Not that I was surprised. My heart and mind had yet to sync with each other. It figured time also refused to fall in line.
Mrs. Lyons, however, was all too aware of the clock, and it seemed with each passing moment, she grew even more jittery about the talent show—if that was possible. But hey, she had a prop-room closet full of green paint and a cast that, while they might not shine like the stars on the backdrop behind them, at least wouldn’t flat-out embarrass themselves. We’d come a long way.
Now if we just had people show up, all would be well.
“Addison, that Let Them Read Foundation representative called you again. I don’t know why they insist on calling my cell when you’re clearly in charge of this.” Mrs. Lyons’s exasperated voice carried from the first row of theater chairs by the stage, where she’d set up camp for this last rehearsal with her handy-dandy clipboard, a half-eaten cheeseburger, and an unmarked white Styrofoam cup that I couldn’t help but wonder had a little something extra mixed into her Diet Coke. “Can you handle this?”
“Sure, I’ll call Debra back.” Though I couldn’t imagine why she’d be calling this close to the show. Everything they needed for advertising had been handled long ago, and since the fund-raiser hadn’t actually happened yet, there was nothing to report. A pinch of dread clenched my stomach. This couldn’t be good.
Mrs. Lyons rattled off the number I already had programmed in my cell, and I nodded and pretended to write it on my clipboard as I turned my back and hit CALL. I’d learned these past several weeks that with Mrs. Lyons, control was everything—even the appearance of it. If she thought she was handling things—even if handling meant delegating—then she could function. With or without her Diet Coke.
And wasn’t that how we all were?
“This is Debra.” The brisk voice of the representative carried into my ear, and I made my way into the wings stage right.
“Hey, it’s Addison, with Crooked Hollow High. Mrs. Lyons said you’d called?” I forced a smile, hoping my sudden rash of nerves didn’t show in my voice. “Were you just checking in with our progress?” Please, please just be checking in. Unlikely, however, since I’m sure the entire Let Them Read Foundation had better things to do than make unnecessary phone calls to high school students in Kansas.
But I was desperate for hope. We couldn’t handle any more catastrophes. Not when Mrs. Lyons’s hair was finally startingto defrizz. Not when Michael had changed his socks, and I hadn’t caught Claire throwing up in the bathroom in a solid week. If this fund-raiser didn’t go as planned, not only would I be the laughingstock of the school—again—but I’d lose the one thing in my life that was actually going positively right now. Concentrating on a bigger picture for once was a nice reminder that the world kept revolving and I really could make a difference somewhere out there.
Even if my own life sucked.
“Once again, we’re so grateful your school chose our foundation to donate to,” Debra said. Papers shuffled from her end of the connection as I w
aited for the inevitable “but.” “But I’m afraid there’s a problem with our advertising agreement.”
Marta appeared in the wings, stage left. “Everything all right?” she mouthed across the expanse of stage.
I shook my head, clamping my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Complications.” I ducked my head back to the phone. “What sort of problem? Everything was on the paperwork I scanned and e-mailed to you. Just like you asked.”
“We never received it.”
My heart jump-started. “What? I sent it two weeks ago. The day before the deadline you gave me.” My thoughts rushed together. I clearly remembered writing the ad copy, taking it to the school office, and scanning it on the assistant principal’s machine.
“I’m sorry, Addison, it’s not here.”
“But I scanned it at the school office and e-mailed it to you that—” I broke my own sentence with a gasp. That night. The night Wes came to my window. I was supposed to have gone home from the talent show, pulled up my e-mail from my computer, and sent the attachment. I’d even started to put a reminder on my phone until my dad’s random appearance at the rehearsal knocked me off balance. “Oh no. Oh no.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Debra’s kind voice sounded a million miles away. “I just wanted to let you know it’s too late for the newsletter. But I’m sure your other advertising efforts will draw a crowd. Don’t worry.”
My face grew hot. What other efforts? Besides vague word of mouth and a few posters hung around town and around the school, there were no other efforts, outside of the tiny ad printed in the local newspaper. I’d been counting on this newsletter reaching a venue I couldn’t and giving the talent show a prestige it simply didn’t have without a foundation’s name behind it.
Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK Page 20