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“That’s everything I should know about you?” I cross my arms. "Your dream career and favorite TV show?" I'm being a brat, but that's easier than acknowledging the elephant in the room.
“Ask me anything then.” He stops pacing to face me.
My traitorous brain drifts to whathethought about this morning, though fortunately my mouth stays shut. I can't ask what he feels about me, but I can gauge how he feels about others.
"Why are you usually the designated driver?”
“What?” He whips his eyes to mine.
“At the campout you said you’re usually the designated driver. That’s why you never had someone sit…you know." I gesture to my lap. "Why are you the driver instead of taking your turn as the…passenger?”
He blinks several times, his amber eyes softening. “I hate drinking and driving. I don’t trust anyone else not to do it.”
“Why?” It’s barely more than a whisper, because I’m guessing I know the answer.
“The accident that killed my mom. Guy was drunk.” He swallows and averts his eyes, concentrating on the window.
Wes is hurting, and I feel terrible for causing it. My only excuse, shitty as it is, is that I got defensive when he insisted I’m not fine. And I doubled down when said he hardly knows me. He knows me better than anyone. I thought he knew that. I never meant to cause him pain trying to prove he was wrong.
I’m still not sure where this is coming from, why Wes is so sure I’m not fine and why he feels like he doesn’t know me, but he just opened up in a big way. It’s only fair if I do the same.
“Wesley didn’t give up on Buttercup,” I say softly. “He never gave up on her the way my dad gives up. That’s why I hate football. That’s the thing he never gave up on. Not my mom, not me, football.”
I’ve never told anyone that before. I’m not even sure I acknowledged it myself until Wes prompted me to say it, but now that it’s out I don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed. I actually feel sort of safe. Wes isn’t judging me or pitying me or trying to placate me with nice words. He’s just listening. It’s nice.
“You think your dad gave up on you?”
“I used to, before I realized that gifts are the way he shows he cares about you." I gesture to my overflowing closet. "Obviously he cares, he just shows it differently than I want him to. And he's trying to be better.”
Wes smiles sympathetically. “Does that mean you need a new favorite movie?”
That makes me chuckle.
“So, how are we really?” He sits back on the bed, only this time instead of staying by my feet he leans against the headboard next to me.
I take a deep breath. Analyzing my feelings makes me feel weak, and that’s not the way I want people to see me. I’d rather they ignore me completely than look at me and think I’m fragile. Sitting here in my room, Wes’s big frame angled toward mine, I almost feel protected, even though he's the one I need protecting from.
“We're good.” I hope that little heart to heart bought me a reprieve from having to tell him the real reason I was avoiding him. The one where he has to let me down easy since there's no future here.
“Bachelor and ice cream good?”He cracks a small smile.
"Yeah." I press my lips together and give a shallow nod.
I’m expecting him to leave now that he’s checked on me, but instead he just sits quietly, leaning against the headboard with his eyes closed. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but being this close to him on my bed makes me feel like I should say something, before doing something I can’t take back.
“Do you really feel like you don’t know me?” I ask softly. This time I do steal a glance at him.
I see his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallows. “Sometimes.”
“What does that mean?”
He opens his eyes and focuses on the ceiling instead of me. “It’s like…you tell me things, but not willingly. And you never ask anything about me. Not unless I push you to. So, in some ways I know you better than anyone, only because I’m persistent, not because you want me to know all about you.”
“Why would you want to know about me? Aside from having a famous dad, I’m not that interesting.”
“Your dad is the least interesting thing about you.” He pins me with a stare that suggests I’m slightly crazy to think otherwise.
“Really? After going to the game with him, you don’t find my dad interesting?”
