Epilogue
Art Cromley wandered listlesslythrough the park that day, as he was prone to do when he needed a quick escape from his family. He could tell by the way his mother divvied up chores that time away would be good for them both. He conjured up excuses for his disappearance, but he was willing to endure a few harsh licks of her switch, which was more than likely what he would be greeted with upon hisreturn.
He kicked his way through the grass, which was up to his knees, wondering if he would find himself covered in chiggers or ticks after his little outing. As he neared the pond, he noticed a few turtles, black dots amid the reflection of the bright sun on this warmafternoon.
The humidity was so thick, Art felt as though he had to push through it as he moved to the edge of the pond and glanced at his reflection. His golden-cross necklace hung down. He’d almost forgotten he’d changed into his white polo, as he’d been wearing a navy-blue tee most of the morning until he’d gotten it wet washing dishes. He’d considered putting on denim shorts, but they were too dirty from when he’d cleaned out the chicken coop earlier in the week, so he wore a khaki pair instead, ones that had been worn by their previous owner enough that they had holes in thepockets.
He turned and headed to the familiar park bench beside the pond, near a boulder covered in gray, green, and white moss. It was where he would sometimes stray to sit and be left on his own. If only he’d stopped by the library and fetched a book, he could have done a bit of reading while enjoying the lovely day, but since he didn’t have even that much, all he could do was stare out and let his thoughts wander as they would, through the usual fantasies, as though he were a character in one of the books he read, instead of being trapped in little nowhere Winebourne,Georgia.
He imagined himself as some sort of pirate on a ship offshore, and he would sail off and have a grand adventure in a mystical kingdom—like something out ofPeterPan.
“Mind if I sithere?”
The words shocked Art, and as he turned in haste, his cheeks warmed, mostly from embarrassment at having been caught, as though anyone who sneaked up on him might have somehow been able to intrude into his mind and catch on to the fanciful imaginings he was proneto.
Even worse, the guy who stood beside him was WesBrenner.
He’d seen Wes around town occasionally, and as he was back home for the summer, it wasn’t a great surprise they might happen upon one another, but it was a rarity, and considering how frequently Art wandered into the park, he was surprised to see Wes there thatafternoon.
In a brown-and-white-striped T-shirt and khaki shorts, Wes stood over six feet tall, his shadow casting toward the pond and shifting with him as he took a seat besideArt.
“That’s fine, right?” heasked.
“Yes, that’s just fine.” Art nearly laughed at the idea that Wes Brenner would need to ask permission to sit anywhere. As if there was anyone in that town who wouldn’t have been eager to sit next tohim.
Wes had become more and more attractive over the years. He had a sharp, well-defined jawline, sun-kissed cheeks, little dots of freckles on his nose, and that all-American look Art envied. As Art caught a glimpse of Wes’s eyes—dark brown, the sort that seemed to be looking into Art’s soul—he becameflustered.
It wasn’t the sort of flustered he would get with certain guys when they changed together before gym class. It was more than Wes’s pleasant appearance—muscles bulging in his shirt, his chest shaping the front nicely. It was something in how he moved, even as he slipped something out of his pocket in a way that Art didn’t even realize what he was doing until he was holding a lighter and acigarette.
He lit it up and inhaled, then released the smoke through his nostrils. He had the charisma of a Marlon Brando. He was the sort of man Art wished he could be, though also the sort he knew he had no chance of everbeing.
Wes turned to Art, a stoic expression on his chiseled, slightly stubbled face. Art kept wondering what it might feel like, compared to his own smoothcomplexion.
“Want to smoke?” Wesasked.
“No, I’mfine.”
“Come on, it’s good. You ever smokedbefore?”
“Yes, of course I’ve smokedbefore.”
Wes held it out, and Art took it from him. He’d never smoked, but he’d seen it done plenty of times in the movies, and he wanted to impress Wes, so he took a whiff, not even a very big one, but just as soon found himselfcoughing.
Wes chuckled. “You could’ve just told me youdidn’t.”
“It’s been a while,” Art lied, feeling like he had to play it off. His face warmed even more. He wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to impress Wes, but hedid.
Wes narrowed hiseyes.
Why is he looking at me likethat?
“Your name’s Arthur, right?” Wes said. “I think I remember you fromschool.”
“Yes. Well, just Art. You’re Wes. I definitely rememberyou.”
“Why do you say it like that?” Wes asked, his eyes narrowing further still, which Art would’ve thought was impossible until he sawit.
“Oh, no reason. I just remember you. That’s all. And I see youaround.”
