Better Than the Movies

by Lynn Painter

  From Wes.

  Wes: I’m sorry. I didn’t know that your mom was there or I never would’ve followed you inside. I know you think I’m a dick but I promise you—I would never intrude on that.

  I sighed and sat up. I was so embarrassed. How could I even explain it? No one normal would ever understand.

  And wait—he thought that I thought he was a dick?

  Me: Forget it. I’m the one who should be apologizing because you didn’t do anything wrong. You caught me at a bad moment and I freaked out—not your fault.

  Wes: No, I get it. It wasn’t a parent so I know it’s not the same, but I was close to my grandma. Every time we go to MN, the first thing I do is go to the cemetery to talk to her.

  I looked up from my phone and blinked. Then I texted: Really?

  Wes: Really.

  I nodded in the darkness and blinked fast while my thumbs flew over the keys.

  Me: I started “running” as a way to go talk to her without having to explain.

  Wes: No shit—that’s why you started running?

  I could hear Fitz meowing at my door, so I got up and went to open it.

  Me: Not past tense—that is why I run.

  Wes: Wait a second—are you telling me that every day when I see you take off and I assume that you’re training in order to make it to the Olympic trials, you’re actually just running to Oak Lawn to talk to your mother?

  Mr. Fitzpervert looked up at me, meowed, and walked away. Now there was a dick. I shut my door.

  Me: Bingo. But I swear to God I will gut you with a vegetable peeler if you tell anyone.

  Wes: Your secret is safe with me, Buxbaum.

  I walked over to the window. Your house looks dark—are you up in your room?

  Wes: Are you ever not creeping on me, creeper? And before you ask, I’m wearing a kicky pair of trousers, a pirate blouse, and a black beret.

  I laughed in the quiet of my room.

  Me: I wasn’t going to ask, but that sounds hot.

  Wes: It is. I’ve got heatstroke up in here.

  I looked down at their front yard, where someone had left a football next to the hydrangea bushes.

  Wes: And the answer to your question is that I’m out back, in the Secret Area.

  The Secret Area. I hadn’t thought of it in years. Wes’s house had a bit of land behind their fence that had never been developed. So while the rest of the houses on this street backed up to other backyards, Wes’s had a tiny little forest behind it.

  In grade school, during peak hide-and-seek days, we’d dubbed it the “Secret Area.” It was where we’d explored, pretended, started unapproved campfires… It had been incredible. I hadn’t been back there since the summer before middle school.

  Me: Why?

  Wes: Come see why.

  Did he really want me to come hang out? Hanging out by ourselves, in a way that had nothing to do with Michael? My mom had cautioned against dating flighty boys, but it was okay to be friends with them, right? I texted: My dad and Helena are already asleep.

  Wes: So sneak out.

  I rolled my eyes—so typical. Unlike you, I’ve never snuck out. It seems ill-advised.

  I couldn’t, but part of me felt like I could hear him laugh at my response. After about a minute, my phone buzzed.

  Wes: “Ill-advised.” Buxbaum, you never fail to make me laugh.

  Me: Thank you.

  Wes: Not a compliment. BUT. You’re looking at this the wrong way.

  Me: Oh? And what is the right way?

  Wes: You—a very well-behaved teenager—simply want to get some fresh spring air and look at the stars for a couple minutes. Instead of waking up your parents, you decide to quietly slip out for a few minutes.

  Me: You’re a sociopath.

  Wes: Dare you.

  I glanced in the direction of the hall as those words—“dare you”—brought back so many memories of Wes goading me to do things I shouldn’t, like climbing onto Brenda Buckholtz’s roof and ding-dong-ditching Mr. Levine’s house.

  Before I could respond, he texted: I’m shutting off my phone so I won’t get your excuses. See you in five minutes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I like you very much. Just as you are.”

  —Bridget Jones’s Diary

  I couldn’t believe I was doing it. I stepped over the creaky floorboard in the hallway and quietly crept toward the sliding glass door in the dining room. It was risky, but for some reason I needed to do this.

  I wanted to hang out with Wes.

  It was probably just that his understanding of my grief made me feel a camaraderie with him. I’d always felt like my visits with my mom were freakish, but I’d also felt like something inside me would break if I had to stop.

  That theory would be tested in the fall, though, wouldn’t it?

  Regardless, finally sharing it with someone felt almost like a release. It didn’t make sense that he was the one—of all people—for me to share it with, but I was starting to move beyond questioning it.

  It also felt nice to not be fighting with Wes for once. Which was weird, because that was our thing; he messed with me and I got pissed. Rinse and repeat, for our whole lives. But now I was discovering that he was hilarious and nice and seemed like more fun than pretty much everyone else I knew.

  I slowly pulled open the door, listening for any sounds coming from the other end of the house as Mr. Fitzpervert snaked in between my stockinged feet.

  I stepped out onto the deck and slid the door closed behind me. It was a chilly night, with a clear sky and a bright, high moon that lit up the town. I could see moon shadows everywhere, which were beautiful and eerie at the same time.

  I crept down the stairs, and once I hit the cold grass, I jogged across the backyard and over to the chain-link fence that separated our yards. It suddenly felt like it had been mere days—not years—since I’d climbed that fence as a kid, and I was over it and in his yard in seconds.

  The shadows were creepy, so I kept jogging to the back gate, forgetting any semblance of coolness or composure. I pulled up the arm, opened the gate, and whisper-yelled, “Wes?”

  “Over here.”

  I could barely see because the thick trees blocked out the moon, but I walked in the direction of his voice. I went around a flowering bush and a wide fir tree, and then there he was.

  “Oh my God, Wes.” I looked around, amazed.

  There were hundreds of tiny twinkling lights strung in a grouping of trees that circled four wooden Adirondack chairs, one of which Wes was sitting in. A firepit roaring with flames was at the center of everything, and a rock waterfall ran behind him. The space was so thick with foliage that it felt like a wild, hidden spot instead of a suburban backyard. “This is incredible. Did your mom do all of this?”

  “Nah.” He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. Wes Bennett looked awkward—for perhaps the first time ever—and he sat there with his long legs stretched out in front of him and looked up at the sky. “This is my favorite spot, so I actually did it.”

  “Nope.” I sat down in the chair across from him. “You didn’t do this. No way.”

  “Yes way.” He kept his eyes up and said, “I worked for a landscaping company three summers ago, and everything we charged clients a fortune for, I would just do myself back here. Retaining walls, waterfalls, pond; it’s all simple and cheap to make if you know what you’re doing.”

  Who was this guy?

  Tucking my legs underneath me, I pulled my sleeves over my fingers and looked up at the sky. It was clear and there were stars everywhere. “Bella Luna”—a very old Jason Mraz song—was the choicest of all musical numbers to set the background for this surprise moonlit oasis.

  Bella luna, my beautiful, beautiful moon

  How you swoon me like no other—

  I stopped the music in my head and said, “Hey, I saw Michael today.”

  “I know.”

  I squinted, trying to better see his face in the darkness, searching
for some giveaway. He just kept looking at the sky, though. “He told you?”

  “He did.” I looked at Wes’s profile. His lips barely moved as he quietly said, “He texted me. Said he’d run into you and, Liz—he said you were funny.”

  “He did?” I wanted to howl. I knew it. “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said, ‘She’s pretty funny.’ And then he mentioned the get-together at his house.”

  “Yep. I said I’d give you a shot.” I looked into the fire. Funny—he’d said I was funny. That was good, right? I guess that meant my awkward coconuts text hadn’t kicked me off the island. “But part of me worries that I’m screwing up my chances with our little version of fake-dating.”

  That brought his eyes right back to my face. “You want to quit?”

  I shrugged and wondered what he was thinking. Because as fun as this actually was, and in spite of the fact that it was kind of working, I was done with all the lying. I said, “I always think I know what I’m doing, but what if you’re right about my terrible grand plans? What if I’m just ruining both of our dating lives?”

  And jeopardizing my friendship with Joss and also sinking into a life of habitual dishonesty.

  “Then I’ll have to kill you. Dating is my everything.”

  “Smart-ass.” I rolled my eyes because, for a popular guy, I’d only ever heard of him being in a few relationships, none of which had turned into anything serious.

  I ran my teeth over my bottom lip and said, “Maybe you should take me to Michael’s, and then we should decide we aren’t a match. And, I don’t know, send out a group text?”

  I blinked fast and tried to figure out why the thought of being done with our plan made my heart beat in my neck.

  He looked at me then, and I was surprised by how soft his smile was. He looked almost sweet as he said, “I can’t believe your ridiculous plan is working.”

  “Right?”

  He kind of laughed and so did I, and then he said, “I really am sorry about earlier, by the way.”

  I waved a hand. “No biggie.”

  “I made you cry.” He looked away, but I caught a glimpse of his clenched jaw. It was almost like it mattered to him that he’d upset me. And, in the moonlight, I felt something that I had never felt about Wes before. I wanted to move closer to him.

  I swallowed and checked myself. What was this influx of Wes-fondness? I was probably just aware of how much fun I’d had with him during our deal, and now it was almost over.

  That was it.

  So instead of following through on the absurd instinct to move closer, I just said, “God, you’re so arrogant, Bennett. I was already crying when you showed up. Everything isn’t about you, you know.”

  But it was actually that moment, that crying moment, that’d forged some sort of connection between me and Wes.

  And it was a good connection.

  I saw his Adam’s apple bob around a swallow as I stared at his silhouette. He lifted his eyes to me and said, “Promise?”

  “Ugh. Yes.” Good Lord, he was killing me with his concern. I cleared my throat and looked back at the sky. “I’m good now, so forget you ever saw it.”

  “Done.”

  We sat quietly for a few minutes, both of us lost in the starry sky, but it wasn’t awkward. For once in my life, I didn’t feel compelled to fill the empty space with constant chatter.

  “I can still picture her perfectly, you know,” he said.

  “Hm?” I said. I was confused, and must’ve looked it, because he added, “Your mom.”

  “Really?” I curled tighter into the chair, wrapping my arms around my legs and picturing her face. Even I wasn’t sure I could remember her exact features anymore. It broke my heart a little.

  “For sure.” His voice was warm, like it was holding a smile, and he cracked his knuckles when he said, “She was so… Hmm… What’s the word? Charming, maybe?”

  I smiled. “Enchanting.”

  “That’s perfect.” He gave me a little-boy grin and said, “There was this one day, I was running in front of your house and totally wiped out. Absolutely shredded my knee on the sidewalk. Your mom was out there, trimming her roses, so I tried jumping up and being cool. Y’know, because I was, like, eight and your mom was hella pretty.”

  I smiled and remembered how much she’d loved tending her garden.

  “Instead of treating me like a little kid, she cut one of her roses and pretended to hurt her finger. She did a whole ‘ouch’ thing before saying, ‘Wesley, would you mind helping me for a minute?’ ”

  “Now, mind you, I just wanted to crawl off into a corner and die from my horrific battle wounds. But if Mrs. Buxbaum needed me, I was damn well going to help.”

  Wes was grinning, and I was helpless to do anything other than the same. I hadn’t heard a new story about my mother in such a long time that his words were oxygen and I was breathing them in with a life-and-death desperation.

  “So I limped on over and followed her inside your house, which, by the way, always smelled like vanilla.”

  It was vanilla candles—I still bought the same scent.

  “Anyway, she had me help her get a Band-Aid on her finger like she couldn’t do it herself or something. I felt like the hero when she kept thanking me and telling me how grown-up I was getting.”

  Now I was beaming like a dork.

  “Then she ‘noticed’ my bloody knee and said I must’ve been so concerned about helping her that I hadn’t even realized I was bleeding. She cleaned me up, put on a Band-Aid, and gave me a Fudgesicle. Made me feel like a damned hero for face-planting on the sidewalk.”

  I laughed and looked up at the sky, my heart full. “That story is so on-brand for my mom.”

  “Every time I see a cardinal in your yard, I think it’s her.”

  I looked at his shadowed face and almost wanted to laugh, because I never would’ve imagined Wes having such a fantastical thought. “You do?”

  “I mean, there’s the whole thing about cardinals being—”

  “Dead people?”

  He scrunched his eyebrows at me, cringing a little. “I was trying for verbiage a tad more delicate than that, but yes.”

  “I don’t know if I buy the whole dead-people-come-back-as-birds thing, but it’s a nice thought.” It was. The nicest. But I’d always felt like if I allowed myself to believe in those notions, I’d never get past her death because I’d surely spent every second of my life tearfully bird-watching.

  “Do you miss her a lot?” He cleared his throat and made a little sound like he was embarrassed by his own question. “I mean, of course you do. But… is it at least a little easier now than it used to be?”

  I leaned forward and held my hands in front of the fire. “I miss her a lot. Like, all the time. But lately it feels different. I don’t know.…”

  I trailed off and stared at the flames. Was it easier, he wondered? I felt like I couldn’t answer that question because I refused to let it get easier. I thought about her a lot—every single day—and if I started doing that less, surely it’d get easier.

  But the easier it got, the more she’d disappear, right?

  He scratched his cheek and asked, “Different how?”

  “Worse maybe?” I shrugged and watched the bottom of the log as it heated to almost a shade of white. I wasn’t sure how to explain it, when I didn’t even get it myself. “I don’t know. It’s really weird, actually. I just… I guess it kind of feels like I’m really losing her this year. All of these milestones are happening, like prom and college applications, and she isn’t here for them. So my life is changing and moving forward, and she’s being left behind with my childhood. Does that make sense?”

  “Holy shit, Liz.” Wes sat up a little straighter and ran his hands over the top of his hair, messing it up as his serious eyes met mine in the firelight. “That makes total sense and it also sucks.”

  “Are you lying?” I squinted in the darkness, but the fire’s flicker made it tough to
read his expression. “Because I know I’m weird about my mom.”

  “How is that weird?” The breeze lifted his dark hair and tousled it just a little. “It makes perfect sense.”

  I didn’t know if it did or not, but a wave of emotion crashed over me and I had to roll my lips in and blink fast to hold it back. There was something about his casual confirmation of my sanity, my normalcy, that healed a tiny little piece of me.

  Probably the piece that had never discussed my mother with anyone other than my dad.

  “Well, thanks, Bennett.” I smiled and put my feet up on the edge of the firepit. “The other thing that’s messing with me is that Helena and my dad keep trying to insert Helena into every one of these things where my mom is supposed to be. I feel like the bad guy because I don’t want Helena there. I don’t need a fill-in.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “Right?”

  “But at least Helena is supercool. I mean, it’d be worse if your stepmom was a total nightmare, wouldn’t it?”

  I wondered that all the time. “Maybe. But sometimes I think her coolness makes it harder. No one would understand why I feel this way when someone so cool is right here.”

  “Well, can’t you include her and just not replace your mom? It seems to me that you can still hold on to your memories, even if Helena is with you. Right?”

  “It’s not that easy.” I wished it was, but I didn’t think there was room for both of them. If Helena went dress shopping with me and we had a great time, that memory would be stamped forever, and my mother would have no part in it.

  “Do you want a cigar?”

  That stopped my train of thought. “What?”

  I saw the upward movement of his lips in the dark before he said, “I was about to enjoy a Swisher Sweet out here before you showed up.”

  That made me laugh, immature Wes enjoying a gas-station variety of cigar in his backyard like some kind of grown-ass man. “Ooh—classy.”