Page 16 of Wedding or Not

“Well, yeah.”

“See? I could have done so many things differently. I don’t know why I had to… treat you that way.”

“We were kids. Kids do that kind of thing all the time.”

“So you don’t still hate me for it?”

“I never h⁠—”

“Yes, you did. Don’t try to deny it. You didn’t talk to me for years after that night.”

He swallows so hard I can see it in his throat. “It wasn’t that I hated you. I was terrified you’d think I was into you, so I went to extreme lengths to make sure you didn’t. I was… I didn’t want a repeat of that night any more than you did.”

“Oh.” I think about that, breathing deeply.

“Have you been upset about that all this time?” He’s now shooting me a series of searching looks. “Is that why you don’t like me? Because you thought I was holding a grudge about that night?”

“I…” My voice breaks, so I take another slow breath, trying to compose my rattled emotions. “I thought I deserved it.”

“Damn it, Ella.”

He sounds impatient but not angry. I wait while he works through whatever internal struggle is conveyed in his tense jaw.

Finally he says, “I know you carry around the responsibility for everything in the world. I’ve watched you do it ever since your folks died. But you are not allowed to carry around the responsibility for that. You were a kid. So was I. Neither one of us handled it perfectly, but kids never do. I never hated you for it, and I sure as hell don’t hate you today.”

It’s the strangest feeling. Self-consciousness, as I always feel when a conversation becomes intensely personal, but so much more than that. Like a burden has finally slid off my back to crash forgotten on the ground.

And a flash of excitement too.

Another moment where it feels like the world has remade itself into something a little bit better.

“Okay,” I manage to say. “Okay. Thanks. I’m so— I mean, thanks.”

He chuckles, his face softening with amusement until it’s ridiculously attractive in a way Wes isn’t supposed to be. “So we’re okay?”

“Yeah. We’re okay.”

“And neither one of us hates the other?”

“No.”

“Good.” He appears to be smiling to himself as he turns the SUV onto another country road, this one heading north. “That will make it a lot easier to pretend we’re falling in love.”

The flea market is held once a month on a big empty lot just outside the county seat, and people drive in from hours away to attend.

The stands and tables are busy, and the aisles are crowded and loud. The air smells like fried food and vanilla and cut grass.

I’ve always liked attending. I usually go with one or more of my sisters, but I don’t mind being here with Wes today, especially after our conversation on the drive.

It almost feels fun. Like a game. One where we’re both on the same side.

We wander through the aisles with me inspecting merchandise and Wes wheeling a cart behind me and making a show of studying a tablet, as if we’re marking things off a list. We occasionally speak, but it’s only about business.

I pick out a number of cute outdoor garden accessories, and Wes dutifully sets each one on the cart. Then I head to some of the jewelry and clothing booths, taking my time as I browse through the pretty things and Wes grows visibly impatient.

Finally he makes a snide comment about wasting time, and I naturally take offense to the rudeness.

We have a silly little argument in hushed tones that I’m pretty sure is filmed by multiple phones until we “realize” that people are watching us and we walk away subdued and embarrassed.