Better Than the Movies

by Lynn Painter

  “I’m nothing if not sophisticated. In fact, it’s cherry-flavored.”

  “Oh, well, if it’s cherry, I’m totally in.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really.” I rolled my eyes at his total Wes-ness. “I just don’t think I’d appreciate the cherry-flavored death stick, but thanks for the offer.”

  “I knew that would be your answer.”

  “No, you did not.”

  “I thought you’d say ‘cancer stick,’ but the rest I got right.”

  I tilted my head. “I’m that predictable?”

  He just cocked an eyebrow.

  “Fine.” I held out my palm. “Hand over one of your elegant, cherry-flavored sticks of disgustingness so I can set it on fire and suck its death smoke into my lungs.”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Seriously?”

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  “You should write ad copy for the Swisher people, by the way.”

  “How do you know I don’t?”

  “Well, if you did, you would know that you don’t inhale cigars.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “So… you just take a pull and hold it in your cheeks like a bloated chipmunk?”

  “You definitely do not. You just inhale less than a cigarette.”

  “Are you like a hard-core smoker or something?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it seems to me like if you’re lighting up out here all by yourself after a long, hard day, you maybe have a problem.”

  “C’mere.” He patted the chair beside him.

  “Eww, no.” I said it teasingly, feeling somehow busted since I’d thought about moving closer to him earlier.

  “Relax—I was just going to light your flaming nasty stick for you.”

  “Oh.” I stood and moved to the chair beside him. “My bad.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve ever said that, isn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  He chuckled and opened the package. I wasn’t sure why I was doing this, especially with Wes Bennett, but I knew I wasn’t ready to go inside. I was kind of having fun.

  “Have you ever smoked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seriously?” Wes put one of the cigars in his mouth and flicked the lighter.

  “I smoked with Joss at a party last summer.”

  He grinned and puffed as the Swisher lit. “I would’ve loved to witness that. Little Libby Loo, coughing her lungs out while Jocelyn probably laughed and blew perfect smoke rings.”

  “You’re not that far off.” Jocelyn was nauseatingly good at everything. I’d never seen her fail at anything. Not back in the day, and definitely not since we’d become friends. If I were honest—and I’d never say it out loud—it bugged the shit out of me.

  Not that she was good at things. I could handle that. It was more that she was good at things without really trying or caring about them. She breezed through life, never seeming to stumble like I did on an hourly basis.

  “Here.” He handed me the cigar and lit the other one. I took it and leaned back in my chair, casually stretching out my legs and looking up at the stars. It felt important to lean into the cigar attitude.

  I took a drag. The cherry was nice, and the thing wasn’t quite as nasty as a cigarette, but it still tasted like butt.

  Wes was watching me with a half grin on his face, which made me say, as smoke poured out of my mouth, “It sure feels good to be back in flavor country.”

  He started cackling.

  I added, “Love me a good stogie.”

  That sent him over. It was impossible not to join him as he laughed with his head all the way back. When he finally stopped, he took a puff and said, “You can put it out, Buxbaum.”

  “Oh, thank God.” I put out the cigar, carefully stubbing it out against the edge of the firepit. “That was a super relaxing ten seconds, though. Really helped me wind down.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “By the way, I heard that Alex Benedetti has a crush on you.” I’d overheard that in chemistry, and my initial response had been that they could be a good match. They were both attractive athletes. So surely they were meant to be, right?

  I pictured Alex hanging out here with Wes instead of me, and I didn’t like it. I’d started looking forward to our weird camaraderie, and even though I was struggling to accept it, I kind of thought he was a nice person.

  He puffed on his cigar, his face unchanged. “I heard that too.”

  And…? “She’s cute.”

  He dipped his head. “Yeah, I suppose. She’s just not really my type.”

  “What? Why not?” Alex was a stunning cheerleader with a thousand friends, the kind of girl I assumed guys like him tended to drool over. In addition to that, she was genuinely nice and really smart. Like, I-heard-she-wanted-to-be-a-dentist level of smart.

  “I don’t know. Alex is great but…” He looked at me and shrugged like that explained everything.

  I grabbed the hair tie from my wrist and pulled back my hair. I felt like I owed Wes since he’d spent so much time helping me with Michael. Yes, there was still a shot of him winning The Spot, but something about the night air in the Secret Area made me want to do something nice for him. “I know chemistry plays a big part in attraction, but she is gorgeous. I can’t believe you aren’t jumping at that chance.”

  “She is gorgeous.” He flicked ash off the end of his cigar and gave me the kind of eye contact that forced you to listen. “But, like, what does that mean, really? Unless my goal is just to sit and stare at her like someone would stare at an ocean or a mountain range, pretty is just a visual.”

  I widened my eyes and covered my mouth with both hands. “Oh, dear Lord, tell me more, Wesley.”

  “Shut it.” He flipped me off with his free hand and said, “I’m just saying that I like a girl who can make me laugh, that’s all. Someone I have fun with no matter what we’re doing.”

  I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. Tilted my head, furrowed my eyebrows, and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re different than I always thought you were.”

  His eyes were twinkly-warm as he said, “You’re shocked I grew out of the gnome-decapitation phase, aren’t you?”

  “Kind of.” I giggled and shook my head. “But I also thought that you would jump at the chance to, um, to ‘hit it.’ ”

  That made him smirk and look at me with one of his dark eyebrows raised. “That is disgusting, Buxbaum.”

  “Right?”

  “Is that the first time you’ve ever said those words?”

  I just laughed and nodded, which made him big laugh.

  We sat out there after that, just talking about nothing, until he finished his Swisher.

  “Are you going to have another one?” I asked.

  He tossed the butt into the fire and stood, grabbing a big stick and messing with the wood. “Why—you want one?”

  “God, no.” I lifted my hair to my nose and said, “Those things make my hair smell like a dumpster.”

  He propped the stick next to the firepit and picked up the bucket sitting behind his chair. “I actually have early lifting tomorrow, so I should probably shut this down if you’re ready to go in.”

  There was something about how soft his face was at that moment—calm and happy and licked by fireglow—that made me feel lucky I’d discovered who he’d grown into. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  He dipped the bucket into the pond and poured it on the fire, sending up a cloud of smoke. As we walked out of the Secret Area and into his backyard, he said he’d text me when Michael told him what time the movie night was happening.

  I went to bed feeling happy, even though I wasn’t entirely sure about what. Or, rather, who. I lay there, kind of thrummingly relaxed, until the smell of smoke in my hair drove me so crazy, I had to take a midnight shower and change my pillowcase.

  Then I went to bed happy.

 
CHAPTER NINE

  “Love is patient, love is kind, love means slowly losing your mind.”

  —27 Dresses

  “Hey, kiddo.” Helena looked over at me from the doorway that led to the kitchen as I practiced piano in the living room. I liked playing in the morning, and I liked playing in my fancy flowered pajamas with the matching silk slippers. It made practicing feel like an elegant pastime, like I was an erstwhile Austen character honing one of the skills that would make me a fearsome thing to behold.

  “You hungry? Want me to toast you a Pop-Tart or something?”

  “No, thanks.” I tried to keep playing while I talked to her, but I’d never been able to pull off that particular skill. If I practiced for more than an hour or two a week—like my mother used to—it probably wouldn’t seem so difficult. She’d played every single day, and it had showed. “I had a banana already.”

  “Got it.”

  She turned to walk back into the kitchen, and I forced myself to do it. I said, “Helena. Wait.”

  She tilted her head. “Yeah?”

  “I know it’s last minute,” I blurted out, steeling myself against the feelings as I extended the invitation, “but, um, Jocelyn just texted me and said her mom can take us prom dress shopping later this morning, since it’s a teacher in-service day. Do you want to come?”

  Helena lifted her chin and lowered her brows, tucking her hair behind her ears. “That depends. How come you’re asking?”

  “Um, because I thought you might want to come…?”

  Her look told me that she knew better. “Your dad didn’t tell you to do this?”

  Part of me felt like being honest, but instead I said, “No, was he supposed to or something?”

  She blinked and looked at me for another second, and then her face transformed into happiness. “I would love to come, honey. Oh my God. I think we should hit Starbucks first, where we can guess people’s coffee orders by their outfits. Then we can do the dress thing, and maybe land at Eastman’s for some lunch that includes that hot lava dessert which is supposedly to die for. Although, I seriously doubt any food is to die for. I mean, I’m obsessed with Caramello bars, but I would certainly never give my life for one.”

  She was being her usual rambling, sarcastic self, but I felt like I’d made her really, really happy.

  “What about ice cream?” I reached over with my right hand and tinkled out an ice-cream-truck-ish tune, glad I’d asked her. Perhaps this would be good for us. “That could be considered to die for.”

  “It’s not even a solid. If I’m going down for a food, it’s not going to be a food that’s hovering somewhere between two chemical states.”

  “Good point.” I stopped playing. “Do we even discuss your beloved banana bread?”

  “It’s worthy of felonious thievery, maybe, but not death. I would steal it from the president himself, but I wouldn’t just lay down my life for its delicious moistness, either.”

  “But wouldn’t stealing from the president get you killed by the Secret Service, and therefore be the same thing?”

  “Well, I’m not going to get caught, of course.”

  “Of course, indeed.”

  I went upstairs and got ready, and by the time I was done, Helena was waiting for me in the living room. She was wearing a boss bitch leather jacket that looked perfect with her jeans, and I once again marveled at the fact that she was my dad’s age.

  “You ready to do this? I’m thinking we buy a joke dress just to freak your dad out. Like, we get you a stunning gown, but we also get a trashy little number that gives him a coronary.”

  “Do you really want to have to nurse him back to health after his triple bypass?”

  “Good point. He’s a total baby when he doesn’t feel good.” She grabbed her keys and tucked her phone into her pocket. “I’ll just text him a pic to give him a tiny scare.”

  I followed Helena out to the garage and got into her car. She had a matte black Challenger, which was a brute of a car that rumbled so loud, you couldn’t hear the radio unless it was cranked. A guy at the auto-parts store asked her about it once, about why she wanted to drive a car that was clearly meant for a man and probably too much horsepower for her to handle, and I’ll never forget her answer.

  “It was true love, Ted. I looked over, saw this guy, and I totally lost my mind. I know he’s loud and in-your-face, but whenever I look at him, I feel a little weak-kneed. And when I drive him—forget about it. He’s fast and wild and a little unruly, and I can feel his throaty rumbles all through my body when I bury that gas pedal. That beast has forever ruined me for all other vehicles.”

  Ted at NAPA lost the ability to speak, while Helena beamed at him like she had no idea what she’d done. She’d wielded her power like a goddess, and regardless of my complicated feelings about her and her place in my life, I had mad respect for that.

  * * *

  “Pumpkin spice latte.”

  “Seriously? That’s your guess?” I rolled my eyes and took a sip of my Frappucino. “It’s like you aren’t even trying. Think, Helena—it’s April. Starbucks doesn’t even offer that drink in April.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Her lips barely moved as she watched the girl step up to the register. The orderer in question was young—probably a freshman—and she was dressed like a Gap model. “She’s a baby, so she doesn’t know the rules. She only knows that her older sister let her try one once, and it was ah-may-zing.”

  I giggled.

  The girl opened her mouth and said, “Could I please get a gingerbread latte?”

  To which the barista responded with, “I’m sorry, but that’s a seasonal drink.”

  I looked at Helena with a wide-open O mouth. “You were so close!”

  “Not my first rodeo, kid.” She shrugged and took a sip of her espresso. “You’ve got Messenger Bag over there—don’t disappoint me.”

  I looked at the guy with the messenger bag who was staring down at his phone. His bag was total butter, rich leather worn to perfection in the way that only expensive bags could be worn. His tortoiseshell glasses made him look smart but also stylish, and his watchband was perfectly coordinated with his belt and shoes.

  “Venti iced Americano with soy milk.” I leaned back on my stool and crossed my arms. “He’s embracing spring by selecting a cold beverage, but he can’t let go of the strong seriousness of the Americano’s bite.”

  “That is excellent, my pupil.”

  Messenger Bag looked at the barista and said, “Yeah, I just need an iced dark roast.”

  “Ooh, so close,” I muttered, pulling my phone out of my dress pocket and checking for messages. There was no reason to think Wes would text me, but after hanging out last night and having such a good time, it felt like a possibility.

  “And can I get a splash of soy, please?”

  “Boom.” Helena slapped the table. “That’s pretty freaking close, Liz.”

  “We’re on fire today.”

  She nodded and said, “Speaking of fire, what’s up with Wes?”

  “What does he have to do with fire?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. I’m too impatient to wait for a good segue.”

  “Oh.” I cleared my throat and watched as Messenger Bag took his coffee and joined a table of three other Messenger Bags. “Um. Nothing is really ‘up’ with Wes.”

  “Are you sure? Because you spent at least an hour outside with him last night.”

  My eyes shot to hers, but instead of looking pissed, she gave me a Gotcha smile. “Don’t worry—it was purely by accident that I know. I happened to be looking out the window at the exact moment that you shot across the backyard like your butt was on fire and climbed his fence.”

  “Does my dad know?”

  “Why would I wake him up when you were just going outside to look at the stars?”

  I shrugged and bit down on my smile. As much as I didn’t want to fall under the she’s-so-cool spell that everyone who met Helena seemed to fall
under, sometimes she really could be unbelievably cool. “I don’t know. Thanks for not telling him. It was nothing, but I feel like it’d be a big deal to him.”

  “Oh, it definitely would be.” She lifted her cup and toyed with the lid. “He trusts you, though. We both do.”

  “I know.” I crossed my legs and traced one of the grooves on my tights with my finger. “And Wes and I are just friends, for the record. He’s kind of helping me with something.”

  “What?” She swung her leg back and forth over the side of her stool. “Last I heard, you two were battling over that parking spot. Now, all of a sudden, you’re friends and he’s providing helpful assistance? How in the frack did that happen?”

  “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.” She looked through the opening in her lid before swirling her cup around. “But you have to be a little attracted to Wes. I mean, not only is the guy pretty and muscular, but he’s also hilarious. Like, if I was a teenager, I would totally go for that one.”

  Before I had a chance to utter a sound, she interrupted herself with, “Oh, good God, please scratch that from the record. I sound like one of those teachers who sends pictures of her bits to her students. You do know I didn’t mean it like that, right?”

  That made me smile. “Of course.”

  “I find Wes adorable in the way that one finds a puppy with huge paws adorable.”

  “Settle down. I know.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “And I agree. Until recently, I hadn’t really noticed Wes. But now that I’ve spent time with him, I can totally see why a girl might be into him.”

  “His shoulders, right? They’re wildly broad.”

  I squinted. “They are?”

  “You hadn’t noticed?”

  “Not really. But that’s not the point. What I was going to say was that I can see how a girl would get into him because he’s kind of thoughtful for a…” How would I even categorize Wes anymore? My previous labels didn’t seem to fit. “For Wes.”

  I pictured him at Ryno’s party, saving me from certain humiliation by holding up the pants he’d loaned me. Holy God, Wes Bennett was kind of a catch, wasn’t he? He listened well, made late-night phone calls, built beautiful firepits that belonged in lifestyle magazines. Wes was a little bit dreamy.