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I creep through the mulch and hoist myself onto the edge of the porch. I grab the corner beam and pull myself up on top of the railing. The worn sole of my sneaker slips on the smooth wood, and I curse. There’s no way I’d be able to explain breaking my leg in Weston Cole’s flowerbeds.
Despite the anxiety and adrenaline racing through me, I persist. At this point, it would be just as perilous to turn back. I’m halfway there. I grasp the metal gutter and pull myself up until my elbow connects with the rough asphalt of the Coles’ roof. I swing one leg up and use the momentum to roll my entire body upward. I lie there for a minute, shocked. I can’t believe I came up with the idea to do this and am even more amazed I did so successfully. I just hope none of the neighbors are looking outside.
I crawl along the roof. I reach the first window and carefully raise my head to peer inside. It’s a white-tiled bathroom. The shapes of the sink and toilet are barely visible in the light cast from the hallway. I drop back down on my hands and knees to continue my slow progression across the asphalt. I stub my finger against the edge of one of the hard shingles, which sends a stabbing pain up my arm. I move forward tentatively, only to feel the shingle slide with me. I sigh and grab it before I continue creeping along to the next window. I slowly sit up and glance inside.
Bingo.
Wes is sitting at a wooden desk, scribbling something in a notebook. I take a minute to study him until I realize I’m sitting on his roof and this is not the best time to do so.
I tap gently against the glass. Wes spins around and looks understandably shocked to see me.
He stands and walks over to the closed window, sliding it open when he reaches it. Rather than asking what the hell I’m doing on his roof, he grabs my forearms to help pull me over the sill and into his room. I half climb, half tumble onto a gleaming wooden floor.
Wes’s arms are the only reason I stay upright. He must have just showered because I can see droplets of water in his brown hair. The cedar and bergamot scent that’s begun to fade from his sweatshirt surrounds me as he shuts the window behind me.
I huff as I straighten. “Your roof needs some work,” I inform Wes, handing him the stray shingle I picked up.
“I’ll let my dad know. He might have some questions, though. Namely about what I was doing on the roof.” He gives me a questioning look as he tosses the shingle in the trash. “What are you doing here, Maeve?”
I take a deep breath. “I want to talk to you. I—”
There’s a knock on the door. “Wes?” A woman’s voice calls.
I panic.
Wes is mouthing words at me, but they seem to spell out total gibberish. I wave my arms at him, trying to wordlessly convey I have no idea what he’s telling me.
Finally, with an exasperated sigh, he grabs my arm and drags me over to the doorway. My eyes widen as he gently shoves me against the wall to the left of the door and then opens it, effectively shielding me behind.
“We’re headed to the dinner,” Wes’s mother states.
“Yeah, I heard you and Dad discussing it.”
“Weston, please don’t start. I’ve had my fill of arguing for the night. You’re staying here?”
“I’m staying here.”
“Okay.” Footsteps sound as Wes’s mother moves away from his doorway, and Wes shuts the door.
“Your parents are leaving?” I whisper to Wes.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Is that a problem?”
“No, my timing just sucks. I saw them in the living room, which is why I climbed onto the roof. If I’d waited ten minutes, I wouldn’t have had to risk my life, or at least my soccer career, to talk to you.”
Wes snorts. “The porch is only ten feet high. I’m not sure how much damage you could have actually done.” I was slightly off with my estimate, apparently.
“Feel free to climb it one day. You’ll see it’s not as easy as it looks.”
“I think I’ll probably keep using the front door,” Wes replies, smiling slightly. “So, what made you risk your life and soccer career to talk to me?”
I gulp. I was hoping to blurt it out to him as soon as I came through the window, so if he told me to get lost, I could just climb right back out.
“Maeve?” Wes prompts.
“I didn’t mean it,” I tell him. “I mean, I did mean it; everything I said last week was true. But I don’t want this—us—to end. There are a lot of reasons why this is a really bad idea, but I can’t stop thinking about you, and I—”
Wes kisses me, and I stop talking. He wraps his arms around my waist to tug me closer to him, and I let my fingers wander into his damp hair.
