Page 48 of Better Than the Movies
I stared at him, waiting. He was shirtless, having donated his shirt to my bloody nose, and I got momentarily distracted by the sight of his chest. I mean, I wasn’t usually one to ogle anyone’s physique, but my neighbor was wicked defined.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Adam said, answering before Wes and yanking me out of my pectoral revelry, “but your nose looks kind of like… Mrs. Potato Head’s nose.”
“Holy shit, that’s it!” Noah nodded emphatically. “Not the rest, but for sure the nose.”
Michael didn’t even hide his laugh, but it was at least a warm, friendly laugh. “Itdoesresemble a potato nose. And it’s bleeding again.”
He was right—I felt a warm trickle on my upper lip. “Oh my God!” I re-covered my nose.
“No, it doesn’t; don’t listen to them.” Wes lifted my chin in his thumb and forefinger, and his eyes dropped down to my covered nose. “Your nose is just a tiny bit swollen.”
Noah muttered, “Tiny bit?” at the same time the lady said, “You should probably go to the ER, dear. Just to make sure it isn’t broken.”
The ER, really? What about my Laney-free ride home with Michael? I said, “Um—”
But Wes interrupted with, “Nope, no objections. I’m takingyou to the ER, and you can call your parents on the way. Cool?”
Adam said, “Dude, you didn’t drive. And quit being so bossy to the missus.”
My nose was throbbing but I couldn’t stop the smile. Wes’s friends were ridiculous. “I don’t need you to take me to the hospital. I’ll call my dad.”
“But Helena said she and your dad would be at the movies.” Wes looked worried, which made me feel a little warm and fuzzy.Which meant I probably had a concussion.He looked up something on his phone and said, “The hospital is literally right down the street.”
“Oh yeah.” He was right about my dad and Helena, and probably about the hospital, too.
“I’m sure they can meet us there if you call them.” Wes gave me his hand to help me up. “Think you can stand?”
“Of course.” I let him pull me to my feet.
“You better shirt up, man.” Adam made a face. “You look like a perv in just jeans, like an underage stripper.”
I pressed the shirt tighter against my face as Wes grabbed his jacket from the floor and put it on over his bare chest. My cheeks were on fire—I felt like I was watching something dirty—and I shakily managed to say, “Let’s go, you pervert.”
But as we exited the gym, it occurred to me that Wes had donated his clothes to me twice now. Either I was on a hidden-camera show and Wes was pranking me, or he was seriously the nicest guy.
“Hair hero. Oh my God, I don’t even have words.” Wes’s face was serious as he walked with me down the steps on the side of theschool, but there was that mischievous twinkle in his eye, the one that never went away. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?”
“I mean, yeah, I think I’m a fairly amusing person.” I grabbed the metal railing and wondered how I’d ended up alone with Wes at the end of this night, instead of making magic with Michael. I was a little surprised that I didn’t feel more disappointed, but perhaps that was just my body’s defense mechanism to keep me from dying of embarrassment.
“What if Michael tells everyone that he’s my hair hero?”
It hurt to smile but I did it anyway. Wes was acting like my nose hadn’t just exploded in front of my forever crush, and I loved him for it. He was picking up right where our convo would’ve headed if not for my accident. “He won’t.”
“Because I could do so much better.” He started naming people as we walked down the dark sidewalk. “Like, Todd Simon—that guy’s got some good hair. And Barton Brown—you could get lost in Barton’s shiny mane. Those guys are worthy of hair heroism. Those guys are worthy of follicle adoration. But Michael Young? Puh-leeze.”
“You could never get Barton Brown; be realistic.”
“Isocould get Barton. He’d probably lose it if I asked him to be my hair hero.”
“You would never ask him, Wes, and you know it. He’s in another hair league.”
“Why are you hurting me like this?”
“Sorry.” I tried not to stare as we walked under a streetlight, but I realized as I looked at him that his face was always fun. He almostnever looked pissed or like an asshole, and I couldn’t imagine him being legitimately angry. “I guess I’m projecting.”
He glanced over at me and gave me a closed-mouth pity-frown. “Howisthe honker feeling?”
“It doesn’t really hurt now. Except when I touch it.”
