Yet the one person I wanted to reach the most, I’d shoved the furthest away.
“But now I know.” Wes opened the screen door before firing his last shot. “You’re all the same.”
I trudged home, the walk giving me more time to think than I wanted and even more time to silently berate my dad for being so adamant about not getting me a car. If I had wheels, I could have been home by now, diving into my schoolwork instead of reliving every harsh word with Wes that still rendered me helpless.
But there was no Lamborghini, or even a fifteen-year-old, scratched, multipainted hoopty. So on I walked, the wind singing through the treetops, brushing the winter-bare branches and whistling a reminder that I had totally failed. I hadn’t been a good influence on Wes. If anything, I’d turned him further from the direction I’d hoped he’d go.
Who was I to try to convert him into what I thought was a Christian? I’d barely just started figuring it out for myself. Being a Christian wasn’t sitting in your designated pew every Sunday or volunteering in the nursery or helping the secretary fold bulletins during the week. Sure, those were good things to do, but as I’d found out, they had no bearing on the status of your heart.
So why did I think Wes had to do those things to prove himself “good enough” for me? Despite his mistakes and rough edges, Wes already had a good heart. He’d had more than his share of knocks, but he’d proven his true character to me time and again. He’d been on a journey himself, searching for worth, searching for his identity outside of his screwed-up home life.
And instead of gently coaxing him toward the God I knew could give him just that, I’d flung ultimatums and stuck my nose in the air.
I’d ruined it.
God, I’m so sorry. Maybe I’m not ready for this whole witnessing thing after all. Pretty sad confession for a PK. I might have done the right thing when I invited Wes to church, but before that I’d been inconsistent. Confusing. Unsure of what I believed.
How did that look to someone who had only seen the more difficult parts of Christianity? To someone who’d only seen hypocrisy and sin and superficial smiles? To someone who never experienced grace and mercy and unconditional love?
Now, because of me, Wes might never have the chance.
If I hadn’t seen Marta standing on my front porch with my book bag, I might have sat on the sidewalk and bawled. Instead I rallied my scattered emotions, already encouraged just by the sight of her. How had I existed without a best friend to dump all these dramas on before? I’d had Claire, but we’d never talked about anything serious. Marta had been a lifesaver—looking back, truly a gift from God.
I joined her by the front door, where my book bag rested on the ground. It’d been a nice gesture for her to bring it home for me—she couldn’t have realized I’d come home with a new burden much heavier than my stupid tote.
Marta’s typical smiling face was ashen as she looked at me. “I have bad news.” She clutched her cell phone to her chest like a life preserver, and my already-sinking heart fell straight to my shoes.
“What is it?” I tried to swallow around the knot in my throat and failed.
“My mom called. There’s been some trouble with our family.” She sniffed and looked away. “I have to go home early.”
“When?” My heart pounded a whining protest. “Not until May, right? Right after school’s out?” No, not now. Don’t let her leave now, God. Let her stay at least until March. I can’t deal with Wes alone.
The look on her face told me otherwise before she even shook her head.
“I leave in one week.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
On Saturday my birthday dawned exactly how I felt inside—gray, dreary, and bitterly cold. I took one look at the calendar on the wall, today’s date circled in purple marker, and then a second look out the window, and pulled the covers over my head. Maybe if I stayed in bed, today would pass without consequence, and I could keep on being sixteen. Then my best friend wouldn’t be leaving in a matter of days, I wouldn’t have totally lost the first guy I ever pictured myself loving, and my home life wouldn’t be that much closer to going up in a puff of wedding smoke.
Turning seventeen with your entire life in shambles didn’t seem very celebratory. I’d try again another month.
“Addison, honey, time to wake up!” My dad pounded on my closed bedroom door, something he’d done maybe twice in my entire life.
“Go away,” I mumbled into my pillow, even though I knew he couldn’t hear.
I heard the door crack open and knew he’d poked his head around the frame. “It’s already ten o’clock. Kathy and I are taking you for birthday brunch at Denny’s, so you need to get dressed.”
My first day being seventeen, and it’d be spent sitting across the table from my father and his fiancée while they giggled and fed each other strawberries off their pancakes. Perfect.
I moaned and burrowed deeper under the covers, praying for a time warp that would make this day simply end and tomorrow begin.
“You have one hour.” Dad’s cheerful voice rocked me back to reality before my door shut.
After wallowing for another ten minutes, I decided the only thing worse than a birthday brunch out with Dad and Kathy would be a birthday brunch with Dad and Kathy in my room. So I dragged myself to the shower and slapped on some makeup before staring into my abyss of a closet. My clothes stared back at me, mocking, daring to let any of them cheer me up. Why even try? I settled for a sweater with a hole in the elbow and my fat-day jeans, took one look at my hair, kinked from wallowing in bed, and shrugged. What was the point?
I headed downstairs.
“SURPRISE!”
I reeled backward, my sock-clad foot slipping on the bottom step. Grabbing the railing, I barely caught my balance as I gaped at our dining room full of family and friends. Luke and Marta stood under a bouquet of balloons so big they barely cleared the chandelier. Dad and Kathy stood by the table next to a punch bowl and a cake proclaiming my age in sparkly glitter icing. My dad’s church secretary, two deacons, and my Sunday school teacher smiled back at me beside a gift table loaded down with ribbons and bows.
My mouth slowly opened, and I said the only thing I possibly could.
“I’ll be right back.”
I turned on my heel and pounded back up the stairs. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have known Dad would never take meto Denny’s for my birthday. Somehow I managed to yank off the holey sweater and jeans at the same time and slipped into my favorite purple sweaterdress and boots instead. Then I ran the straightener through my hair, added a layer of lip gloss, and strolled competently back downstairs as if, yes, I always looked this good.
“I think you surprised us as much as we did you.” Marta linked her arm through mine and giggled. “Where were you going looking so messy? Your dad said he tricked you with brunch.”
“That’s what I get for choosing comfort clothes on my birthday—utter humiliation.” I leaned close so no one would hear. “You’re a little stinker. I said I didn’t want a party.”
“No, you said ‘we’ll see.’ “Marta grinned. “That sounded like yes to me.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll have to remember that.”
“Besides, your dad did most of this.” Marta gestured around the house. “I just helped him brainstorm.”
I hugged her. “It’s awesome.” Even though I’d been totally caught off guard, I couldn’t help but be touched by their joint effort. The entire downstairs had been transformed into party central, the furniture moved aside to make room for games—childhood games, as Marta had envisioned. Pin the tail on the donkey, board games, and musical chairs sat ready and waiting on the carpeted floor. Even a piñata dangled outside the back window. Streamers in bold primary colors hung from the ceiling and wrapped the border of the room. It was the perfect tribute to childhood.
And today, with so much gloom in my immediate forecast, I couldn’t think of anything better to celebrate than the carefree days of bein
g a kid.
“Happy birthday, Addison.” Luke sidled up to us and handed Marta and me a glass of red punch. “I plan on beating you both in Chutes and Ladders today.”
“Game on.” I slapped him a high five, grateful that so far no awkwardness existed between us. Though from the sidelong glances Marta kept shooting his way, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was more upset about leaving than she currently let on.
But I couldn’t think about that right now. No sense in taking the whole “it’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to” theory literally.
I spent the next few minutes greeting guests, thanking people for coming, and promising to play musical chairs ASAP.
“Are you surprised?” Dad finally broke through the throng and hugged me, barely letting go before Kathy did the same.
“Of course she was. David, you should have given her better warning of what to wear.” Kathy patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Next surprise party, I’ll be here to make sure you know the ropes.”
That actually didn’t sound too bad. I hugged her back. “Thanks, to both of you. Marta said this was all your idea, Dad.”
“Then your best friend is a little bit of a liar.” Dad tugged at Marta’s hair, and she grinned. “This was teamwork, through and through.”
Warmth spread over me, healing some of the open wounds I’d carried this week. Regardless of who had the idea, I was loved. I was celebrated. It couldn’t get much better than that.
“Let’s have cake.” Marta eyed the dessert sitting on the table. “Then you can open your gifts.”
“No, I can’t wait anymore.” Dad ushered me toward the gift table. “Presents first.”
“But this will take all day.” I couldn’t stop staring at the tower of gifts covering the end table. What had Dad done, called in favors from everyone at the church to send a present?
I could only imagine how many gifts would be at his and Kathy’s wedding.
“Then at least this one.” Dad plucked a small yellow box with a pink bow from the top of the stack and pressed it into my hands. “Here, honey. Happy birthday.”
A crowd had gathered, and several people smiled behind their hands as if they already knew what was inside. Cheeks burning, I quickly untied the wrapping, wishing Dad had just waited to give me my gift later in private. If it was a gift card to an underwear store, I’d kill him.
I opened the lid and gaped at a single black key lying on a bed of tissue paper.
“You didn’t.” I started to touch the key then pulled my finger back as if it might bite.
I looked up at Dad, repeating my question. “You didn’t. Did you? No, you didn’t.”
“I did.” His smile beamed so brightly it was a wonder the cake icing didn’t melt. “Why don’t you look outside?”
Key clenched in my palm, I squealed and ran to the front door, nearly knocking my head against it as I struggled to get it open. I burst onto the front porch, and there in the driveway sat an older model, yet adorable, silver two-door car.
With a motorcycle parked directly behind it.
The next two minutes flew by in a blur. I stared at my car and then at Wes and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or both. Marta, bless her heart, had taken one look at Wes astride his idling bike and immediately ushered everyone back inside the house with bribes of cake and ice cream. I thanked Dad profusely for the car and promised I’d be inside soon.
I couldn’t imagine that anything Wes had to say at this point would take long.
“What are you doing here?” My breath puffed in the cold air, and I couldn’t keep the tension from my voice as I slowly made my way down the driveway.
He killed the engine and climbed off his bike, setting the kickstand and pocketing his keys before offering me a half smile. “Happy birthday.” I noticed a bulge in his leather jacket pocket. A birthday gift? Unlikely. He owed me nothing.
“Sweet ride.” Wes nodded toward my car, and I turned toward it with pride, grateful even more for the distraction.
“Yeah, Dad didn’t do too bad.” I ran my hand over the shiny, clean bumper, exhilaration at my newfound freedom threatening to burst through my skin.
“Have you sat in it yet?”
“No. What, you don’t have something manly to prove by looking under the hood first?”
Wes smirked. “Hardly. Come on. Get in.”
He actually opened the driver’s door for me before walking around to the other side, something he’d never done before. Probably all the birthday gift I’d get from him.
I nestled back against the seat—not leather, but at least they were clean—and rested my hands on the steering wheel. A slow smile seeped across my face. My car. My car. No more buses or worn-out shoes or carrying heavy book bags for a mile. No more walking everywhere under the sun.
Oops. Note to self—would definitely have to cut back on the mochas now.
Wes slid into the passenger seat, and my car-euphoria bubble popped. “How did you know about the party?”
He leaned his head against the seat, allowing me a full view of his profile, and my stomach fluttered. “Marta invited me.”
I didn’t know whether to kick her or hug her. “I’m surprised you came.”
“Why? Because I freaked out on you the other day, overreacted, and said things I shouldn’t have?”
I bit my lower lip. “Uh, yeah. Basically.”
“That was sarcasm.” He inhaled deeply and exhaled with a short puff of air. “Listen, PK. I’m sorry. When it comes to my dad, I have some hot buttons.” He finally looked over at me, and the sincerity in his eyes almost did me in. “You pushed them. But it’s just because I don’t want him to have anything to do with you. With us.”
“Is there an ‘us’?” The words slipped out before I could decide if they were worthy. I didn’t have anything to offer. I was still a mess myself—I had no business trying to help someone else. And a relationship with Wes—now, just as he was, with all his drama and pain and hurts—would be impossible if he didn’t allow God some kind of foothold first. But how could I say that without it sounding like an ultimatum again, without it coming across as if he wasn’t on my level?
A level that right about now felt like rock bottom.
“I hope so.” Wes took my hand, which I’d rested on the gearshift, and folded his fingers against mine. “But once again, that’s really up to you.”
I twisted in my seat to face him as the tears built, sensing this was about to become the worst birthday in the history of the world. How many more times could we hurt each other before this—this thing between us—would finally end?
Apparently one more time.
I shivered, a chill that had nothing to do with the low temps outside the car. “Wes, nothing has changed.”
He pressed one finger to my lips, drawing me to silence. “Do you want to know where I’ve been the past month?”
I tried to play it off, but in all honesty I was dying to know. “If you want to tell me.”
“At school.”
I stared at him, blinking, sure I’d missed a step. “Come again?”
“I enrolled at the local university outside of town. I started last week.” He brushed one hand in the air as if ridding the car of a pesky fly. “There was a bunch of paperwork and forms to fill out and some financial aid stuff to process, so I practically lived up there for a while. But I’m all set.”
“You’re going to college?” I stared at Wes, unsure if I should make a big deal out of this incredible news or not. “On a scholarship?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” He snorted. “It’s your fault. All that talk you gave me about wasting my talent.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d give it a try.”
“That’s … great.” I licked my lips, faltering for the right words. I wanted him to know how proud I was, but at the same time I had no claim on him to really express it. I settled for neutral. For safety. Careful to control the pitch of my voice, I nodded stiffly. “I’m happy for you.�
�
He squeezed my hand. “Addison, what I said on my porch is still true—I really did like your church. And I don’t really think you’re a hypocrite.” He winced. “I was just ticked.”
“No, it’s true. I am.” I wrestled my hand away, all thoughts of control and neutrality flying out the window. “Everyone is a hypocrite, in a sense, because no one is perfect. But being a Christian isn’t about being perfect. It’s not about the rules and black and white like I once thought. It’s just being real and honest before God. Letting Him take over and lead you. Prompt you toward good decisions. And—” I stopped short and groaned. “Oh gosh, I can’t even talk about it without preaching a sermon. You must think I’m awful.”
“No, PK.” Wes reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the back of his knuckles brushing gently across my cheek. “All those times you tried to talk to me before, it wasn’t authentic.” His hand slowly drew away from my face. “But this is real. This is you.”
“But I’m never going to be the girl who can ride on the back of your motorcycle or get matching tattoos.” I gestured around my car. “I’m cloth interior to your leather.” I let out a half chuckle. “I’m the girl who wants to be in the third row at church every week.”
Wes leaned in toward me, eyes dancing like he had a secret. “Sounds like my kind of girl.”
I reeled back. “So what are you saying? Are you ready to give church another try?” I swallowed hard. “And not just church, but God? Because the former really isn’t important when compared.”
Wes let out a sigh. “I’m not saying I’m ready to sing ‘Kumbaya’ and sway around a campfire. But I think I can handle sitting on a pew with you. And listen with an open mind.” A slow smile built across his features, one that coated my stomach with butterflies and dared to let me hope I might get my birthday wish after all.
Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK Page 31