Page 9 of Full Circle

I dashed into the house, slamming the door loudly behind me. From the corner of my eye I saw Aunt Shirley jump in her armchair in front of the television, blinking rapidly in her sleepy daze. I bolted up the stairs to what had been assigned as my room and threw myself onto the old quilt covering the bed, making sure I stomped loudly on her hardwood floors along the way.

Everything about the room was off, from the lumpy mattress and flattened pillow to the slanted wooden ceiling and solitary window. Even though my father’s penthouse felt more like a showroom than a home, I suddenly missed my king size bed and floor to ceiling windows looking down on the bright city lights below. It was so dark and quiet outside here in River’s Run; I had no idea how anyone was supposed to sleep here.

As my racing heart began to settle and I felt some of the anger ebb out of my system, I flipped onto my back and settled my hands behind my head, glaring up at the rickety ceiling above me. I was nobody’s son, at least not anybody worth mentioning. Although a small part of me knew I owed Mr. Hendricks an apology, it felt good to lash out at someone. One of the therapists had suggested I should get involved in some kind of sport in order to better channel some of my rage, but my father had scoffed at the idea that I had any rage to work out. All the fights I got into at school were the only time I ever felt some of my anger go away. It was always burning just below the surface, like it flowed in my bloodstream.

Celeste was the first real friend I’d ever had. There were lots of kids back in Atlanta who wanted to hang around me because of my father, but I wasn’t close with any of them. All it would take was the right piece of gossip and they’d turn on me in the blink of an eye. I knew they were after power and influence, all the stuff my dad’s money could buy. I couldn’t even say why things were different with Celeste; I just looked in her eyes and knew. Maybe that was how it worked. Maybe friends were something stronger than soulmates, where the connection ran so deep that it defied logic or reason.

Sleep came over me as I mulled over the possibility of that kind of connection with a girl who had pretty green eyes like Celeste Hendricks.

CHAPTER 4

A LESSON IN SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

CELESTE

I couldn’t even bring myself to sit in the dining area at The Comfy Cushion the next day. Marla had been appalled by Wesley’s behavior and warned me after he stormed out that I was never to sass anyone like that. I knew manners meant everything to Marla and Daddy, but after seeing how Wesley’s father acted, I wasn’t too sure that Wesley understood the difference. Even still, I wanted him to apologize to Marla, which was something I expected him to refuse. It was easier to avoid the entire situation by hiding out in Daddy’s office.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when Daddy came around the corner just before 11 a.m. and told me Wesley was out front asking for me.

“He’s your friend,” he reminded me firmly. “You don’t ignore your friends, especially when they come to ask forgiveness.”

My ears perked up at that and I walked down the hall and into the dining area with bated breath. Wesley stood next to the jukebox, a look of deep contrition on his face, holding a bouquet of light pink orchids and wildflowers. Marla stood just behind him clutching a bouquet of her own, bright red cardinal flowers.

I stopped when the toes of my sneakers were just a few inches away from his. My face flushed all the way to my hairline when I asked, “Are those for me?” No one had ever given me flowers before, not even Daddy.

“Celeste, I’m really sorry for storming out like that yesterday. I apologized to Marla, too.” Wesley shuffled his feet and pulled at the bottom of his shirt, his fidgeting letting me know that he was just as uncomfortable with our exchange. “Can you forgive me?”

“Let’s just forget the whole thing ever happened,” I offered. I accepted the flowers from him and inhaled deeply. They smelled sweet, fresh out of the ground.

He shook his head. “My housekeeper always said that I can’t forget or else how can I do better next time?” Wesley’s corresponding grin told me he knew the effect his apology was having on me. I wondered if the butterflies were located in my heart or stomach because at that moment, they felt one and the same.

I glanced at Marla and saw she was smiling at both of us. That was all I needed to see to know she had already forgiven him, too. Offering him a small smile of my own, I nodded.

“Go on back and whip up something for y’all to eat,” Marla directed me. “Jenny was too busy last night to properly restock all the condiments on the tables, so if I don’t get something out there soon, they’re gonna run me ragged over some dang ketchup!” She shooed us away towards the door that led into the prep kitchen.

“What do you like to eat?” I asked Wesley as I crossed the threshold to the large steel prep table that dominated the tiny room behind the grill line.

Wesley hovered near the doorway, his eyes as round as saucers as he took in the tall shelves filled with baskets of fresh vegetables, dry pantry items, and pre-made jars of sauces. Everything was lined up and neatly labeled, with a dry erase board on every section to write down due out dates.

“Aren’t we just gonna have a sandwich or something?” he asked.

I shrugged and went to the small sink in the corner to wash up. “I can make you a sandwich if that’s what you want.” Drying my hands, I grabbed a cutting board and large knife from the rack of clean dishes and returned to the prep table.

“Do you know how to cook?” he asked incredulously.

I laughed at the surprise in his voice. “Of course I do, silly! How else are you gonna eat if you don’t know how to cook?”

Wesley’s ears went red. “My father always insisted that we go out for dinner. Our housekeeper made my breakfasts and lunches.”

His revelation was equally surprising to me. I couldn’t imagine being nearly thirteen and not knowing how to make my own meals.

“Didn’t you ever help the housekeeper in the kitchen?”

He shook his head.

“So you can’t even make a grilled cheese? A peanut butter and jelly? A bowl of cereal?”

Wesley smiled sheepishly as he continued to shake his head with every question.

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