Page 37 of Salvation

He looks at me like I’ve grown three heads. “Yes.”

***

A couple of hours have passed now. Or maybe it’s a few minutes. I don’t know, but Wesley keeps messing with the door, and it’s driving me crazy.

"Will you give it a rest? We aren’t getting out of here until someone comes looking,” I snap.

Eventually, he gives in and listens. He comes to sit across from me, letting his hands rest on his knees. We just sit there, not saying anything. I’m not sure how much more time passes, but it’s so quiet that I can’t stand it.

“I’m pretty sure this basement is haunted.”

He scoffs. “I’m pretty sure you’ve said that about every old building in town before.”

“Whatever,” I mutter.

More silence.

“We’re friends, right?” I ask, bringing up our previous conversation from the bar.

“We are.”

"Tell me something you haven’t told anyone else.”

He’s silent for a few minutes, thinking of what kind of information to give me, then a slow mischievous grin spreads across his face, causing a dimple to pop up. “I’m the one who stole Mr. Finnigan’s mailbox.”

“Oh my god, I knew it was you! He called the cops on every kid that walked past his house after you did that.”

Our laughter fills the air, so loudly that it echoes against the stone walls in the basement, and tears spring to my eyes.

When our laughter slows, I ask him, “Is my mom seeing the Sheriff?” The pace at which his brows rise is almost comical.

“Why do you ask?”

I shrug, not deigning with a response. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A lot of us have noticed the way they interact. Wouldn’t hurt for you to ask her yourself.”

I swallow, looking up at the ceiling. “I just…I thought she’d tell me if she was.”

“Did you tell her about Marshall?”

Fair point. Wesley doesn’t prod me any further, letting me think about the question in whatever way I need to. I can’t expect her to lay everything out on the table when I get home when I haven’t even given her the time of day since I’ve been back. It’s not like she hasn’t attempted to get me to stick around for a chat. I know I owe it to her – to let her explain, and to explain myself too.

I consider asking about his relationship with Brittany, too, but creating a tense atmosphere that we could be stuck in for a couple more hours is less than appealing. We continue to play this game of questions for quite some time until I prod deeper, which surprises us both.

“Tell me about the pond tattoo.”

He sits there, contemplating what he wants to say. He's quiet for so long I'm not sure he's going to answer the question at all.

“I got it for you,” he says looking directly at me as he says it, so sure and confident in his answer. Like it’s not a big deal that he’s tattooed a piece of me on his body forever.

“Why?” I ask softly.

“You already got your question. It’s my turn.” He nods his head toward my arm. “How’d you get the scar? I don’t remember it happening when you were here.”

“It did.” I answer truthfully. When silence greets me, I push on. My nerves rising, and my palms sweating. I look into his comforting blue eyes. “Look, Wesley. There’s something I want to tell you –"

Right then, Elain’s voice sounds from the top of the basement steps, and we both jump to our feet. “Downstairs!” Wesley shouts. We both head to the steps where Elain waits with the door swung open. He turns around, pausing halfway on the stairs, and looks down at me. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Um, nothing important.” I shrug.

---