The last part slipped out before he could stop it.
Wes went very still.
“Sorry,” Jake said. “I didn’t mean?—”
“No, it’s nice. The picture you paint.” Wes took a drink of his Coke. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be good at it. Building a home.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re attentive and considerate. You help rebuild and maintain foundations, making things last. That matters.”
Jake blushed a little. “Thanks.”
They looked at each other across the table, and Jake felt that pull again—the one that made him want to reach across the Formica and touch Wes’s hand, consequences be damned.
“This is weird, right?” Wes said suddenly.
Jake laughed, relieved. “Yeah. Really weird.”
“I don’t usually—” Wes stopped, shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither.”
“Youseemlike you have everything figured out.”
“I really don’t.” Jake leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking about you since Saturday. I can’t concentrate on work. I came here today hoping I’d run into you, which is completely unprofessional and probably a little creepy?—”
“It’s not creepy.”
“No?”
“I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
Jake’s heart was pounding. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Wes looked down at his half-eaten burger. “Pedro said something yesterday. About trusting your gut. Following your feelings even when it’s complicated.”
“What does your gut say?”
Wes met his eyes. “That this is a bad idea.”
Jake’s stomach dropped.
“But also,” Wes continued, his voice quieter, “that sometimes the things that scare you most just might be the things you need most.”
Jake considered, then asked: “What about your dad?”
“What about him?”
“You seemedoutto your friends at the tavern, but does he know?”
Wes’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his food, stirring ketchup with a french fry. “Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It started with my being the only son, you know? I didn’t want to disappoint him. Then Mom got sick, and that wasn’t the right time. Then she died, and he was grieving. Then he had the big stroke, and his health is so fragile now. The stress...”
“Wes.”
