Page 61 of Better Than the Movies
“I’ll take care of it.” Why couldn’t he—and Helena—let it go? Why did they have to pile on to the prom pressure? It felt like everyone wanted me to do something—multiple somethings—that I didn’t want to do.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll invite her? And not say something like it was my idea?”
My throat was tight, but I said, “Sure.”
He moved on to talking about something else, but I didn’t hear any of it. Why should I have to go dress shopping with Helena? For the rest of our chat and the entire duration of my shower afterward, my brain shouted arguments to the great unknown. I felt suffocated by the thought of Helena taking my mom’s place, the kind of helpless desperation that caused your fingernails to leave tiny crescent grooves on your palms.I don’t want her there, so why is it getting forced down my throat? Why do her wishes count more than mine?The arguments boiled through me as I brushed my teeth and laid out my clothes, and by the time I shut off the light and climbed into bed, I was exhausted.
And totally racked with guilt about what a bitch I’d been to Wesat the cemetery. He’d done nothing wrong, but the sight of him in that weirdly sacred place had set me off. I guess it was because that was the only place where Ifelther anymore. The rest of the world—and my life—had moved on, but in that one spot, nothing had changed since she’d died.
I was pathetic.
I flipped on my TV and loaded theTwo Weeks NoticeDVD. It was another movie where Hugh Grant was playing a sketchball, but the banter between him and Sandra Bullock more than made up for that fact and actually made him forgivable. I pulled the blankets up to my chin as Sandra Bullock’s character ordered too much Chinese food. When I reached for my phone to plug it in, I noticed I’d missed a text.
From Wes.
Wes: I’m sorry. I didn’t know that your mom was there or I never would’ve followed you inside. I know you think I’m a dick but I promise you—I would never intrude on that.
I sighed and sat up. I was so embarrassed. How could I even explain it? No one normal would ever understand.
And wait—he thought that I thought he was a dick?
Me: Forget it. I’m the one who should be apologizing because you didn’t do anything wrong. You caught me at a bad moment and I freaked out—not your fault.
Wes: No, I get it. It wasn’t a parent so I know it’s not the same, but I was close to my grandma. Every time we go to MN, the first thing I do is go to the cemetery to talk to her.
I looked up from my phone and blinked. Then I texted: Really?
Wes: Really.
I nodded in the darkness and blinked fast while my thumbs flew over the keys.
Me: I started “running” as a way to go talk to her without having to explain.
Wes: No shit—that’s why you started running?
I could hear Fitz meowing at my door, so I got up and went to open it.
Me: Not past tense—that is why I run.
Wes: Wait a second—are you telling me that every day when I see you take off and I assume that you’re training in order to make it to the Olympic trials, you’re actually just running to Oak Lawn to talk to your mother?
Mr. Fitzpervert looked up at me, meowed, and walked away. Nowtherewas a dick. I shut my door.
Me: Bingo. But I swear to God I will gut you with a vegetable peeler if you tell anyone.
Wes: Your secret is safe with me, Buxbaum.
I walked over to the window. Your house looks dark—are you up in your room?
Wes: Are you ever not creeping on me, creeper? And before you ask, I’m wearing a kicky pair of trousers, a pirate blouse, and a black beret.
I laughed in the quiet of my room.
Me: I wasn’t going to ask, but that sounds hot.
Wes: It is. I’ve got heatstroke up in here.
I looked down at their front yard, where someone had left a football next to the hydrangea bushes.
