by Lynn Painter
I dug out another spoonful of ice cream and put it in my mouth. Stared out the window.
This was a no-brainer.
* * *
“Well, well.” Wes stood inside his house, behind the screen door, looking out at me in the rain with a smirk on his face. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“Let me in. I need to talk.”
“I don’t know—are you going to hurt me if I let you in?”
“Come on,” I said through gritted teeth as the driving rain pelted my head. “I’m getting drenched out here.”
“I know—and I’m sorry—but I am seriously afraid you’re going to junk-punch me for stealing the Spot if I let you come inside.” He opened the door a crack, enough to show me how warm and dry he looked in jeans and a T-shirt, and said, “You’re a little scary sometimes, Liz.”
“Wes!” Wes’s mom came up behind him and looked horrified as she saw me standing out in the rain. “For the love of God, open the door for the poor girl.”
“But I think she’s here to kill me.” He said it like a scared little kid, and I could tell his mom was trying not to smile.
“Get inside, Liz.” Wes’s mom grabbed my arm and gently pulled me across the threshold to where it was warm and smelled like dryer sheets. “My son is a nuisance and he’s sorry.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Tell me what he did and I’ll help you punish him.”
I pushed the wet hair off my face, looked directly at him, and said to his mom, “He stole my spot when I was trying to parallel park.”
“Oh my God, you told my mom on me?” Wes closed the front door and followed me and his mother inside. “Well, if we’re randomly tattling, Mom, I should probably tell you that Liz was the one who called the cops on my car when I had pneumonia.”
“Wait, what?” I stopped and turned around. “When were you sick?”
“Well, when did you call?” He put both hands on his heart, fake-coughed, and said, “I was too ill to even move my car.”
“Stop.” I didn’t know if he was messing with me or not, but I suspected he wasn’t, and I felt like a monster because as much as I loved besting him, I didn’t like the thought of him being sick. “Were you seriously sick?”
His dark eyes swept over my face, and he said, “Would you seriously care?”
“Knock it off, you little brats.” His mom gestured for us to follow her into the family room. “Sit on the couch, eat some cookies, and get over yourselves.”
She plopped a plate of chocolate chip cookies down on the coffee table, fetched a gallon of milk and two glasses, tossed me a towel, reminded Wes that he had to pick up his sister at six thirty, and then she left us alone.
The woman was a force.
“Ohh.” Kate & Leopold was playing on one of those retro TV channels that only old people watched, and I rubbed the towel over my hair as Meg Ryan’s character tried evading the charm of a very British Hugh Jackman. “I love this movie.”
“Of course you do.” He gave me a grin that made me uncomfortable, like he knew things about me that I didn’t know he knew, and he leaned down and grabbed a cookie. “So what do you want to talk to me about?”
My cheeks got warm, mainly because I was scared to death he was going to make fun of me—and tell Michael—when I told him what I wanted. I sat down on the sofa, set the towel beside me, and said, “Okay. Here’s the thing. I kind of need your help.”
He started smiling immediately. I held up a hand and said, “Nope. Listen. I know you’re not one to help out of the goodness of your heart, so I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“Ouch. Like I’m some kind of a mercenary or something. That hurts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He conceded with a shrug. “No, it really doesn’t.”
“Okay.” It took a lot of self-control not to roll my eyes at him. “But before I tell you what I want you to help with, I want to go over the terms of the deal.”
He crossed his arms—when had his chest gotten so wide?—and tilted his head. “Go on.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath and tucked my hair behind my ears. “First of all, you have to swear to secrecy. If you tell anyone about our deal, it is void and you don’t get payment. Second, if you agree to the deal, you have to actually help me. You can’t just do a little and then blow me off.”
I paused, and he looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Well? What’s the payment?”
“The payment will be uncontested, twenty-four/seven access to the parking spot for the duration of our deal.”
“Whoa.” He walked over and plopped down in the chair across from me. “You will give me THE parking spot?”
I so didn’t want to, but I also knew how badly Wes wanted it. He and his dad were always tinkering with his old car, mostly because it never started, and their toolboxes looked wildly heavy whenever I got The Spot and they had to haul them all the way down to the end of the street to get it going. “That’s correct.”
His smile went big. “I’m in. I’m doing it. I’m your guy.”
“You can’t say that yet—you don’t even know what the deal is.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“What if I want you to run naked through the commons during lunch?”
“Done.”
I grabbed the throw that was folded over the arm of the couch and wrapped it around my shoulders. “What if I want you to turn naked cartwheels through the commons during lunch while singing the entire Hamilton soundtrack?”
“You got it. I love ‘My Shot.’ ”
“Seriously?” That made me smile, even though I wasn’t used to smiling at Wes. “But can you even do a cartwheel?”
“Yup.”
“Prove it.”
“You’re so high maintenance.” Wes stood, shoved the coffee table out of the way with his foot, and did the most awful cartwheel I’d ever seen. His legs were bent and didn’t turn over his head at all, but he stuck the landing with over-the-head gymnastics arms and a confident smile before plopping back into his chair. “Now tell me.”
I coughed out the laugh I was trying to hold in and searched his face. I was looking for honesty, some kind of hint that I could trust him, but I got sidetracked by how dark his eyes were and the way he flexed his jaw. I thought of the time in seventh grade when he’d given me six dollars to get me to stop crying.
Helena and my dad had just gotten married, and they’d decided to remodel the main level of the house. In preparation, Helena had cleaned out the closets and drawers and donated all of the old stuff. Including my mother’s DVD collection.
When I’d had an emotional meltdown and my dad had explained the situation to Helena, she’d felt awful. She’d apologized over and over again while I’d sobbed. But all I’d been able to focus on were her words to my dad: “I just didn’t think anyone watched those cheesy movies.”
I’d been a resourceful kid—still was resourceful, as proven by my being at Wes’s house at that very moment—and it had only taken one phone call to find out where the movies had ended up. I’d snuck out, lying to my dad and saying I was going to Jocelyn’s, and ridden my bike all the way to the thrift store. I had every penny of my babysitting money in my front pocket, but when I got there, it wasn’t enough.
“We’re going to sell this as a collection, kid—you can’t by them individually.”
I stared at that price tag, and no matter how many times I counted, I was six dollars short. The jerk at the store was unyielding, and I cried all the way home on my hot-pink bike. It felt like I was losing my mom all over again.
When I was almost home, I saw Wes bouncing a basketball in his driveway. He looked at me with his usual face, half smiling like he knew some secret about me, but then he stopped dribbling.
“Hey.” He tossed the ball onto the grass in his front yard and walked toward me. “What’s wrong?”
I remember not wanting to tell him because I knew he’d think it was
ridiculous, but there was something about his eyes that made me break down all over again. I bawled like a baby while I told him what happened, but instead of laughing at me, he listened. He stayed silent through my entire breakdown, and once I stopped talking and started hiccupping embarrassing little sobs, he leaned forward and wiped my tears with his thumbs.
“Don’t cry, Liz.” He looked sad when he said it, like he wanted to cry too. Then he said, “Wait here.”
He gave me the One sec finger before turning and running into his house. I stood there, exhausted from the crying and shocked by his niceness, and when he came out his front door, he gave me a ten-dollar bill. I remember looking up at him and thinking he had the kindest brown eyes, but my thoughts must’ve shown on my face because he immediately gave me a scowl and said, “This is just to shut you up ’cause I can’t stand to listen to you bawling for another minute. And I want my change.”
My mind jerked me back to Wes’s family room. Michael. The Spot. Needing Wes’s help.
My eyes ran over his face. Yeah, his brown eyes still looked exactly the same.
“Okay.” I picked up a cookie and took a bite. “But I swear on everything holy that I will hire a hit man if you blab about this.”
“I very much believe you. Now spill it.”
I had to look at something other than his face. I went with my lap, staring at the smooth texture of my leggings when I said, “Okay. Here’s the thing. Michael is back in town, and I was kind of hoping to, y’know, touch base with him. We were close before he moved away, and I want to get that back again.”
“And I can help with that how, exactly?”
I kept my eyes down, tracing the seam of my pants with my index finger. “Well, I don’t have any classes with him, so there’s no way for me to talk to him naturally. But you and Michael are already friends. You hang out. You invited him to a party.” I dared to look at him when I said, “You’ve got the connection that I want.”
He tossed the rest of his cookie into his mouth, chewed it up, and dusted his hands on the knees of his pants. “Let me get this straight. You are still starry-eyed over Young, and you want me to drag you along to Ryno’s party so you can get him to like you.”
I considered denying it, but instead said, “Basically.”
His jaw flexed. “I heard he’s kind of interested in Laney.”
Ugh, no. My own personal investment in the situation aside, Laney Morgan was totally wrong for Michael. In fact, nudging him to fall in love with me would be doing him a favor simply by saving him from that. I said, “Don’t you worry about that.”
An eyebrow went up. “How positively scandalous of you, Elizabeth.”
“Shut it.”
He smiled. “You can’t think that just showing up at a party is going to make him notice you. There’s going to be a ton of people there.”
“I only need a few minutes.”
“Pretty confident, are we?”
“I am.” I’d already written a script. “I have a plan.”
“And it is…?”
I tucked my legs underneath me. “Like I’m telling you.”
“Nah.” He got up, moved to the couch, and plopped down beside me. “Your plan sucks.”
I wrapped the throw more tightly around my shoulders. “How could you possibly know that when you don’t know my plan?”
“Because I’ve known you since you were five, Liz. I’m sure your plan involves a contrived meeting, an entire notebook’s worth of silly ideas, and someone riding off into the sunset.”
He was close, but I said, “You’re way off base.”
“Bet.”
I sighed. “So…?” All I needed was for The Spot to be a stronger draw than Wes’s determination to antagonize me.
Wes crossed his arms and looked pleased with himself. “So…?”
“Oh my God, you’re torturing me on purpose. Are you going to help me or not?”
He scratched his chin. “I just don’t know if The Spot is worth it.”
“Worth what? Allowing me to be in your presence for a few hours?” I tucked a wet curl behind my ear. “You’ll barely even know I’m there.”
“What if I’m trying to hit it off with someone?” The look on his face was so creepy, I smiled in spite of myself. “Your presence might mess with my mojo.”
“Trust me, you won’t even notice me. I’ll be too busy making Michael fall wildly in love with me to even touch your mojo.”
“Ew. Stop talking about touching my mojo, you perv.”
I rolled my eyes and turned toward him. “Are you going to say yes, or what?”
He smirked and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. “I do love watching you take the walk of shame from Mrs. Scarapelli’s. It’s kind of my new favorite hobby. So I guess I’ll drag you along to the party.”
“Yes!” I stopped myself from doing a fist pump in victory.
“Settle your ass down.” Wes leaned forward, grabbed the remote, and turned up the volume on the TV before looking at me as if I smelled bad. “Wait—this movie? You love this movie?”
“I know it’s a weird premise, but I swear to you that it’s great.”
“I’ve seen it. This movie is trash, are you kidding me?”
“It is not trash. It’s about finding someone so right for you that you’d be willing to drop everything and traverse centuries for them. She literally ditches her life and moves to 1876. I mean, that is a powerful love.” I looked at the TV, and my brain started quoting along with the movie. “Are you sure you’ve seen this movie?”
“I’m positive.” He shook his head and watched as Stuart begged the nurse to let him leave the hospital. “This movie is formulaic, aspartame-infused, tropey garbage.”
“Of course.” Why would I expect Wes to surprise me? “Of course Wes Bennett is a rom-com snob. I would expect no less.”
“I’m not a rom-com snob, whatever that even is, but a discerning viewer who expects more than a predictable plot with fill-in-the-blank characters.”
“Oh, please.” I put my feet on the coffee table. “Exploding buildings and high-speed chases aren’t predictable?”
“You’re making the assumption that I like action movies.”
“You don’t?”
“Oh, I do.” He tossed the remote onto the table and grabbed his glass. “But you shouldn’t assume.”
“But I was right.”
“Whatever.” He drank the last of his milk and set down his glass. “Bottom line—chick flicks are laughingly unrealistic. Like, ‘Oh, these two are so different and hate each other so much, but—wait. Are they so different after all?’ ”
“Enemies-to-lovers. It’s a classic trope.”
“Oh, good God, you think it’s awesome.” He narrowed his eyes, leaned over, and patted me on the head. “You poor, confused little love lover. Tell me you don’t think this movie is remotely connected to reality in any way.”
I smacked his hand away from my head. “Yeah, because I believe in time travel.”
“Not that.” He gestured toward the TV. “Time travel is probably the most realistic part. I’m talking about rom-coms in general. Relationships never ever, ever work like that.”
“Yes, they do.”
His eyebrows went up. “They do? Correct me if I’m wrong, but it didn’t seem like it worked that way with Jeremiah Green or Tad Miranda.”
I was kind of taken aback by his awareness of my romantic history (or lack thereof), but I supposed it was inevitable when we were in the same grade at the same school.
“Well, they can.” I pushed my still-damp hair out of my face and wasn’t surprised that Wes thought the way he did. I’d never heard of him being serious with any girl—ever—so it was probably safe to assume he was your classic player-type jock. “It’s out there, even if the jaded, cynical people like you are too, um… cynical to believe.”
“You said ‘cynical’ twice.”
Sigh.
He smiled at my irritation. “So
you think that two enemies—in the real world—can magically get over their differences and fall madly in love?”
“I do.”
“And you think that plotting and planning and trickery is no big deal if it’s done to spark some sort of true love?”
I chewed on my lip. Was that what I was doing? Trickery? The thought put a little twist in my stomach, but I ignored it. That wasn’t what was happening here. I said, “You’re making it sound ridiculous on purpose.”
“Oh, no—it’s just ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I realized I was gritting my teeth, and I relaxed my jaw. Who cared what Wes thought about love, anyway?
He got a little smirk going and said, “Have you thought about the fact that if your little love notions are valid, then Michael is actually not the guy for you?”
Nope; he was the guy for me. Had to be. Still, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“At this point, you and Michael aren’t mad at each other, so it’s doomed. Every rom-com has two people who can’t stand each other in the beginning but eventually bang it out.”
“Gross.”
“Seriously. You’ve Got Mail. The Ugly Truth. Um… When Harry Met Sally, 10 Things I Hate About You, Sweet Home Alabam—”
“First of all, Sweet Home Alabama is a second-chance-at-love trope, asshat.”
“Ooh—my bad.”
“Second of all, you’re a little impressive with your rom-com knowledge, Bennett. Are you sure you aren’t a closet watcher?”
He gave me a look. “Positive.”
I really was a little impressed; I loved The Ugly Truth. “I won’t tell anyone if you secretly fangirl over romance flicks.”
“Shut it.” He chuckled and gave his head a slow shake. “So what trope works for you and Michael, then? The followed-him-around-like-a-puppy-but-now-he-sees-the-puppy-as-a-potential-girlfriend-even-though-he-already-has-a-potential-girlfriend trope?”
“You are an obnoxious love hater.” It was all I could think of to throw back at him, because—all of a sudden—Wes had the uncanny ability to make me laugh. Like, even as he made fun of me, I had to force myself to not give in to another giggle.