“Stilllove this song?” Wes asks.
“Somuch.” It’s been one of my favorites for as long as I can remember.It was often on the radio during my childhood, so it became one ofthose songs that attached itself to countless memories; nothingmonumental or life changing, but it evokes feelings of joy andcomfort when I hear it now.
Wesley tucks hisphone back in his pocket and holds out a hand. “Dance with me,Evie.”
A small,bewildered laugh spills from my lips. “Here? Now?”
“Whynot?”
Why notindeed. Hollie, Louisa, and Fergus are engaged in conversation anddon’t seem to notice or mind that we’ve separated ourselves fromthem. Stella hasn’t returned from the bathroom yet, which likelymeans she got caught up talking to someone inside. I think aboutthe hushed conversation between her and Wesley just minutes ago:‘Stay away from her,Wes.’ Why were they arguing aboutme?
Wesley raises hiseyebrows expectantly and wiggles the fingers of his outstretchedhand. I force the questions from my mind and take Wesley’s hand,letting him pull me close.
With one handtucked in Wesley’s and the other clutching the back of his jacket,I close my eyes and sink into his embrace. His familiar smell mixeswith my favorite seasonal perfume: the sweet, sharp scent of dyingleaves, crisp air, and the underlying aroma of woodsmoke. Without adoubt, this moment will be added to the bank of sense memoriesevoked by this song. In fact, I’ll likely never be able to hear“Harvest Moon” again without thinking of slow dancing with Wesleyon a perfect autumn evening with the full moon shining on us likeour own personal spotlight.
“Youdidn’t want to spend the holiday with Ashleigh?” The questionspills out, unbidden. Her name tastes like dirt in my mouth. I’vemet Wesley’s girlfriend a couple of times, and she seemed niceenough, but it always bugged me that she never made an effort toget to know Stella or the rest of the McGrath family.
The last notes ofthe song fade out and are replaced by another tune. Wesley releasesme slowly, almost hesitantly, keeping my hand in his. He blows outa long breath, drawing my attention to his lips. A thought asunbidden as my words from a moment ago enters my head: I bet hislips taste like whiskey and the sweetness of s’mores.
Wesley doesn’t getany further than, “About that…” before Stella appears. He drops myhand as if it burned him, and takes a step back. Between the suddendistance and the chilly look Stella is shooting at her brother, theair around us feels cooler.
Wes shivers,making me think the frigid air isn’t only my imagination. “Weshould get back to the fire,” he says. “I could use another s’more,how ’bout you two?” Without waiting for a response, he heads offacross the yard.
BeforeStella can move to join him, I grip her arm, keeping her in place.“Whatis going onwith you two?”
With her gazetrained across the yard, her mouth twists from side to side as ifshe’s chewing over what to say. “Did he tell you he and Ashleighbroke up?”
The unexpectedquestion makes my heart surge so hard and fast, it leaves melightheaded. My grip tightens on Stella’s arm, causing her head tosnap in my direction. Her hard expression softens into one ofunderstanding and concern. “No, he didn’t,” I say faintly. “I…Ithought you’d be happy about that?”
“Iam. It’sjust…” She sighs, her gaze swinging back toward the firepit, wherethe volume of the music has risen and Wesley is attempting to coaxa giggling Hollie out of her seat to dance with him. “It’s notimportant, Ev. Let’s go enjoy the rest of the night,okay?”
“Right,yes, of course. You go ahead and I’ll be right there,okay?”
Despite lookinglike she wants to argue, Stella sets off across the yard. I couldunderstand Wesley not bringing up the end of his relationshiptonight, but we spent hours together at the diner the other day andhe never said a word. Pieces of a mental puzzle slowly fall intoplace, although they’re jagged and don’t quite fitright.
Wesley is nowsingle for the first time in years. When we were younger, Stellarooted for her brother and me to get together, which always gave mea glimmer of hope that she knew something I didn’t, like perhapsWesley returned my feelings after all. But if that was the case—issomehow still the case all these years later—why is Stella so angryat Wes and demanding that he stay away from me? Am I misreadingthis whole thing and it actually has nothing to do withme?
I pull my phonefrom my pocket to check the time. The link to the playlist Wesleysent me earlier sits at the top of my list of notifications. Withthe others preoccupied, I click the link. The playlist is titled“BFFs” and, as I scroll through the list of songs, I see they’reall about friendship: “Friendship Never Ends” by Spice Girls, “BestFriends” by S Club 7, “I’ll Be There for You” by The Rembrandts,“Count on Me” by Bruno Mars, and on and on.
Single or not, itdoesn’t matter. Wesley is likely only staying in Bellevue untilafter my party this weekend, and he still lives three hours away.There’s also the not-so-small fact my feelings for Wesley are, infact, one-sided, as proven by this incredibly thoughtful—yet soulcrushing—playlist.
I tuck my phoneaway and straighten my shoulders, then head back toward thefirepit, my best friends…and the bottle of whiskey.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It’s Wednesdaymorning, and I’m back at my parents’ house. I got a text late lastnight from my mom requesting that I come over. She thinks becauseI’m off work this week, I’m at her disposal, but Stella and I hadplans. Sure, those plans involved lounging around in our PJs, butI’ve earned the right to be lazy if I want to. Despite that,Eleanor Hathaway’s ‘requests’ are actually demands in disguise, soit wasn’t worth the fight.
I begged Stella tocome with me and even attempted to bribe her with the promise oflunch at her favorite restaurant. She claimed she needed tocontinue her job search. I may or may not have called her a coward.Lovingly, of course.
After nearly twohours at my parents’ place, I wish I’d thought to feign an illnessor injury this morning. Mom and I have been sitting at her enormousdining room table while she goes over what seems like six thousandlists related to my party this weekend. It’s not like I have anysay whatsoever in any of it, so I’m not sure why I have to hearabout the food, decor, guest list, and the multitude of vendorsshe’s working with in excruciating detail.
In order tosurvive this tedious task, I’ve been sending regular texts toStella while Mom is distracted. The latest is a two-part photoseries: first, a shot of Mom with her phone pressed to her ear,brows drawn together in a scowl as she scribbles something on oneof her many pads of paper. The second is a selfie where I’ve got myeyes crossed and my tongue poking out. Stella replies with a stringof laugh-crying emojis.
“Whoare you texting there that you think I can’t see?” Momasks.
Busted.“It’s Stella.”
Iexpect her to make a comment about us texting each other eventhough we now live together. When we were little, we’d spend anentire day together, either at school or playing at one of ourhouses, and then we’d often spend half the evening on the phonewith each other. Our moms always thought it was hilarious andbizarre for two kids to havethatmuch to talk about.
