“Ofcourse,” Elliot says. “Is this everything?”
“There’s a bouquet of flowers in the back seat still, but I cangrab it.”
“Notnecessary, I’ll look after it.” Elliot scurries toward my car and Ifumble my keys from my purse to pop the trunk for him.
Wesleyleans in close, making my breath catch in surprise.“Oneof yourmother’s assistants?” he says quietly, his voice conspiratorial.“Why does she need an assistant, let alone a team ofthem?”
“She’sa very busy and important woman, Wesley,” I say earnestly. “A houselike this doesn’t run itself, you know. Where would someone likeEleanor Hathaway be without a crew of minions to do herbidding?”
“Ofcourse, silly me. I bet a job like that pays well. If I ever needemployment, I know where to come.”
“Youand me both.”
His seriousexpression cracks, replaced by a grin that makes my knees wobble.“Well. You’d better get inside before it starts torain.”
“You’rejust in a hurry to get out of here before Mom comes out andconvinces you to stay for dinner,” I say, poking him in thechest.
He catches myhand, looping his fingers around mine and holding on. “I promiseI’d stay if I could. I just need to—”
“Takecare of some stuff,” I interrupt, trying to keep the disappointmentfrom my voice. “Yeah, I get it. Youaregoing to tell me what’s going onsoon, right?”
Wesley releases myfingers and shoves both his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Assoon as it’s all sorted. Promise.”
“Okay.Well.” I take a step backward, wincing when an icy drop of rainhits me in the middle of the forehead. “I’ll see you at the partyon Saturday?” He nods wordlessly and I nod in return. “Thanks fortoday, Wesley.”
“It wasmy pleasure, Buttercup. These last few days have been great. It’sbeen way too long since we made new memories together.”
I make a smallnoise in the back of my throat that I quickly cover with a cough.Why does he have to say stuff like that? It’s something any goodfriend might say to another, and yet my stupid, hopeful, traitorousheart practically leaps from my chest.
Normally, I’d hugWesley goodbye, but I’m not sure I could handle being in his armsright now. The next drop of rain that plops on my cheek is theperfect excuse to give him a quick wave and spin on my heel towardthe house.
“Hey,Evie?”
I stop and turnaround, pulling my jacket around me tighter and crossing my armsover my chest.
Wesley stays wherehe is for a few seconds before closing the distance between us,standing close enough to touch. “This is…” He shakes his head,laughing softly as if to himself. “I found a shoebox of pictures inmy old bedroom last night, and I came across one where I had thenotorious mustache.”
I snort out alaugh. “Please tell me that’s your birthday gift to me.”
“No, Iripped it to shreds and threw the pieces in the fire.”
I gasp, droppingmy arms so I can shove his shoulder. “Wesley!”
“I’mkidding, I’m kidding.” He catches my hand as I pull it back,gripping it lightly in his. “Seeing it evoked this flood ofmemories. I know I was the one who wanted to put a pin in ourearlier conversation, but…do you want to knowwhyI grew that horrendous mustachein high school?”
A string ofsarcastic responses spring to my lips, but Wesley’s tone has meswallowing every one of them. “Why?”
“Youwere so infatuated with Westley fromThePrincess Bride,I thought maybe growingthat silly little mustache would make you look at me that waytoo.”
While I open andclose my mouth like a fish out of water, Wesley leans in and kissesmy cheek. “I’ll see you at the party, Buttercup,” he says in myear. His warm breath on my skin makes me shiver. “Go inside beforeit really starts to rain.”
My legs move oftheir own accord, taking a single step back. Before I can turn,Wesley catches my hand again. “Wait, one more thing.” He reachesinto his jacket and struggles to pull something out of the innerpocket. It’s another CD jewel case, this one purple. He hesitatesbefore handing it to me. “Don’t wait to read the insert this time,okay?” Without waiting for me to respond, he squeezes my hand andthen jogs to his car.
I blink, and I’msomehow inside my parents’ house. I don’t remember walking up thefront path or opening the door. I look down to see I’ve alreadytaken off my shoes, although I’m still wearing myjacket.
Ithought maybe growing that silly little mustache would make youlook at me that way too.
Wesley’s wordsplay on a loop in my mind. Earlier, when he said he wanted to put apin in our conversation, I was imagining a pin cushion, the kind mygrandmother had in her ancient sewing basket. Now I’m imagining agrenade—an emotional grenade, which I know is ridiculous. Wesley’sconfession, on top of everything he revealed earlier, feels like hejust pulled the pin and there’s no going back. This has thepotential to get very messy.
