Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
The storm raging inside me begins to subside, just a little.
I listen to the sprinkler as it slows down and then stops, and the air around us turns serene.
“The mac and cheese looked very good,” I tell him.
He lifts an eyebrow. “It better be good. I’m about to break my strict diet by eating it with you.”
I let out a long sigh. “There’s no one else like you, Weston Knox.”
He cuts me a glance. “Good. I don’t want to be like everyone else.”
“Trust me. You’re better than most people could even pretend to be. Let’s get inside before Niko convinces Mom to rewatch some reality show about housewives.”
Coco greets us as we walk in again, and for one night, I try to accept what’s happening.
Other people do just want to help sometimes.
It makes me feel selfish, almost, accepting help from people who are going out of their way to give it. Wes and Niko are probably missing out on whatever raging party Onyx is throwing tonight, all just because they were worried about me.
And I don’t know how to act when people are worried about me.
It makes me feel like I’m not on an island of my own. Like I’m vulnerable. Like if I get too used to the feeling of having others around, it’ll all blow up in my face when something inevitably goes wrong.
But a while later, when I see Weston laughing in the living room with my mom and my cousin, I can’t actually find anything wrong about it.
Don’t fucking make me like you, Knox.
I can’t hate Weston anymore. Not like I used to. Even when he infuriates me, and even when he shows up in my life unannounced.
But I’ll never understand why you’re being this nice to me.
I crack a bottle of wine and Niko and I end up being the only people who have any of it. As the night wears on, all the edges around me seem to soften, and I’m regarding Wes like he’s actually meant to be here.
When it’s time for bed I set up my old bedroom for him. I tell him that Niko and I can each take one side of the big, L-shaped couch in the living room, but the moment I lead Wes into my childhood room I realize I’ve made a grave mistake.
“Stop looking at everything,” I tell him.
His head is on a slow swivel, looking around my room like it’s an art exhibit.
“Give me a fuckin’ break, Sev,” he murmurs.
His eyes scan across the far wall, which is still covered in the punk band posters I put up when I was in high school. Every inch of that wall is postered, and the other ones are painted dark navy blue with framed hockey jerseys and a few hanging hockey sticks.
“If you make fun of my Clash posters, I will knock you out,” I tell him. “Joe Strummer is still my favorite front man of all time.”
“The Clash are cool. I love ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go.’”
I raise my eyebrows. “Mr. Sheriff-Frat-Dad knows a song by the Clash? I can’t believe it.”
“I’m not as lame as you think I am,” he says. “Although I will admit I know more music from what they play in the gym than anything else.”
I puff out a laugh despite myself. “Cute.”
“You were big into hockey, right?”
“I used to think I was going to try to go pro with hockey,” I tell him. “Niko told me I was good enough to play professionally, but maybe he was blowing smoke up my ass. Still played it all the time until my injury last semester, but now I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to how I used to be.”
“That’s awful.”
Watching Wes move around my room is almost more surreal than it was to see him at the front door.
This place always felt like my fortress when I was in high school.
I almost always went to other people’s houses. My own room was a place of solitude, where I’d blast music, watch street fight videos online, and tinker with whatever random shit I could get my hands on.
I don’t feel like Weston is judging me, per se, but I do feel like I’m being observed. His clean, preppy, perfect self, moving around in my childhood delinquency lair that probably still has an old pack of Marlboro reds stashed in some drawer from when I used to think smoking made me cool.
“This is fucking cool,” Wes says when he looks over at my small workbench. “What is it?”
“That’s called a throat plate, and it’s not as interesting as that makes it sound,” I tell him. “It’s an old part from one of Mom’s sewing machines. She let me take it apart for fun when she got a new one.”
“You have so much interesting shit over here.“