“I’m here to help.” Wesley wraps his hand, warm despite the cold outside, around mine. “Anyway I can. I can cook and clean. Do whatever you need me to so you can focus on getting your mom home.”
I blink down to my feet. If I look at him right now there’d be no hiding the adoration on my face.
“Wes. As in Wesley?” Sebastian asks slowly. “Your intern?”
Wes and I wince at each other.
“That’s some commitment to your job, Wes,” James says.
“I got fired.”
I turn to him. “He fired you?” I’m not sure why I’m disappointed. I knew this was coming. Part of me hoped Wesley might have been able to salvage a little of his dignity in all of this.
He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You flew all the way here out of the goodness of your heart?” Sebastian’s voice contains the sharpness that I’m sure will serve him well when he’s cross-examining witnesses. Before we can respond his gaze snags on our hands, the puddle of my tears on Wesley’s shirt.
“Ugh.”
“Seriously, Cor?” James says.
John chuckles. “What?”
Sebastian sighs and shuffles back to the kitchen. James elbows his twin. “Bro, they’re...” He makes a lewd gesture with his fist.
John blinks, shocked. “Corrie,no.”
Honestly.“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” We can’t even make it three days without returning to the roles we’ve worn like old sweaters our whole lives.
“Actually, she dumped me.” Wesley grins like a maniac.
I hold my forehead in my hand. “What is happening,” I mutter.
“Dude.” James winces. “That sucks.”
John shakes his head. “Harsh, Cor.”
But I can tell from the dimple in his cheek that he’s teasing. They shake Wesley’s hand before returning to the couch and leaving us alone again. There’s so much I want to say to him. Mostlywhyandhowandwhyagain. But I can only blink, speechless at the anomaly of him in my childhood home.
“Wesley...”
“Where do you want me to start?” he asks quickly, like he’s trying to hold me off from any line of questioning.
After a moment of hesitation, I point to the kitchen. “Can you help me with the dishes?”
When he smiles, the dark circles under his eyes become more pronounced. He looks like he’s worn his clothes for too many hours. He needs rest. But he says, “I’ll wash. You can put them away.”
Wesley cleans the kitchen so I can take a shower. He starts a load of laundry and goes to the grocery store while I call my father to check in on Mom. I feel like we’re playing house with three grown men, who haven’t showered in a questionable amount of time, as our children.
He makes lunch—tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. There’s no way he could have possibly known that was the meal that our mom used to make us on busy Wednesday nights when I had tutoring and Sebastian had soccer and the twins had hockey.
But Wesley notices how still Sebastian gets when he sets the plate in front of him.
“I should have asked,” he whispers, joining me at the kitchen island. “Does anyone have a food sensitivity?”
I shake my head, blowing on the spoon of steaming soup. “We’re fine.”
John sniffles.
