Page 29 of Boyfriend
“He did welcome you to the family,” Stevie says darkly. “That would freak out any girl.”
Weston laughs, and the sound is joyous instead of bitter. “It would, right?”
He and his brother look at each other and then laugh so hard that Stevie doubles over.
I edge away from my host—the man I’ve just insulted. And I step off the porch.
Weston reaches for my hand, and squeezes it. “Well done, Abbi girl. It needed to be said.”
Mr. Griggs wouldn’t agree, I bet. He stomps past us and heads for the parking lot.
* * *
Weston drives us home, his father stewing in the passenger seat.
I’m such an idiot. Weston invited me home with him because he wanted his dad to lighten up for Christmas. But I wrecked it. Now the man will probably avoid me, which means he’ll avoid his sons too.
Nice going, Abbi. Great work.
It’s deathly quiet in the car until Weston turns on the radio. Naturally there’s nothing but Christmas music playing. Weston turns it up, as if he could drown out his father’s bad humor with a pop star’s rendition of “White Christmas.”
“I like you,” Stevie says suddenly. He uses a low voice, and I don’t think anyone can hear him but me.
“Thanks,” I grunt, wondering whether Stevie is going to be creepy. I don’t get that vibe from him. Still, it’s an odd thing to say.
“I like you for him,” he clarifies quietly. “He needs a feisty one. Not all those easy women he takes to bed.”
This comment I ignore. I don’t want to hear about the women Weston takes to bed. I’m jealous, to be honest.
“If only you were real,” he says.
That gets my attention. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Please,” Stevie whispers. “You’re not really his girlfriend. I’m not stupid. But it’s a shame.”
“Careful,” I say. “Or you’ll get one of my speeches, too.”
Stevie snickers. “See? I’m a big fan.”
“Dude,” Weston says from up front. “Are you seriously giving Abbi a hard time?”
“Nope,” Stevie says, shaking his head. “Just telling her how it is.”
He’s right of course. It’s hard to fault him for speaking the truth.
I do anyway.
* * *
An hour later, the awkward moment finally arrives—the lights are off. Weston and I are lying side by side in a double bed. Not a queen size. Not a king. Nope. Just me and the hottest man on campus in a double. Lying on our backs. Staring at the ceiling.
I thought this would be awkward because our charade has trapped us here within smooching distance of each other. I never anticipated it would be awkward for an entirely different reason—that I just told his father off in front of God and everyone.
“Look,” I say. “I just want to apologize for making tonight more uncomfortable for you. I failed at my job.”
“What? No,” Weston insists. “You did fine. Better than fine. You told my dad what he needed to hear. We’ve all tried. But maybe he needed to hear it from an outsider.”
“But my job was to lighten him up for Christmas Eve and Christmas.”
