Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (27 page)

Worse yet, it seemed they were used to this sort of interaction.

“Like you’ve never broken anything when you’ve been mad.” Mr. Keegan snorted, sarcasm lacing his voice. So
that’s
where Wes got his snort. Genetics.

“Whatever.” I could almost see Wes rolling his dark eyes. “You were mad and drunk. Fun combo.”

“Quit judging me,” Mr. Keegan’s voice snarled. “At least I go to church and make an effort. You’re just content to sit on that stupid bike of yours and sneer down at the rest of the world.”

I braced my hand against the counter, trying to steady what felt like the world turning over on its axis. It was true about Mr. Keegan. All of it. Not an emotional ploy by Wes.

More like a cry for help.

A heavy sigh carried over the rack of primer cans, followed by Wes’s voice, laced with weariness. “Great. A hungover father and a hardware store. Just what I want to do on a Tuesday night.”

“I’m not hungover anymore. And keep your voice down. This isn’t exactly public knowledge.”

The room dipped as opposite images of Mr. Keegan swirled through my brain. Mr. Keegan, smiling in his pressed slacks at church. Mr. Keegan, asleep with a beer can in hand on his couch. Mr. Keegan, carrying on a carefree conversation with me after the service. Mr. Keegan, using Wes as a punching bag when he’d had one too many.

“What, afraid of running into your beloved pastor and him learning the truth?” Wes laughed, the sound hollow and void.

Mr. Keegan snorted. “At least I try. You’re one to talk—you drink as much as me.”

My stomach dropped, and I covered my mouth with my hand, my earlier fears realized. I knew that wine last night hadn’t just been a special occasion.

Wes’s voice rose in aggravation. “I don’t drink like that anymore, and you know it!”

Not anymore? I’d just watched him drink a glass. In fact, if I thought about it long enough, I could practically still taste it in his kiss. Was he lying? Or did he used to drink so much he considered a glass of wine nothing at all?

“And I’ve never broken furniture,” Wes continued.

“Help me carry this.” Boards clattered against each other. “And before you get high and mighty, remember you put a hole in the wall a month ago.”

There was a long pause. “That was an accident.”

“Oh so you
accidentally
punched the wall? While ticked off? How convenient.”

Wes’s voice rose with disgust. “It was either that or punch you back.”

I gasped then slapped my hand over my mouth. My stomach churned as my mind desperately tried to mesh what I just heard with what I’d seen over the years. What I’d seen in Wes. I felt like a page opened before me, allowing me to read a few more lines of his story. I knew he felt unwanted with both his parents. Bounced back and forth. Knew he carried a lot of resentment, a ton of anger. But all I could think when I pictured Wes’s string of rash behavior was,
No wonder
. And through my shock, one thought resonated louder than the rest.

He didn’t hit back.

An elderly man wearing the signature yellow store apron approached me from the side. “Miss? Do you need assistance?”

Boy, did I. I stared at him blankly, my ears still fully focused on the conversation a few yards away. “Yes.” Then I realized he meant the paint sample in my hand, not my feeling like I might faint at any moment. “No. I mean, yes. But not right now.” I shooed him off, not wanting to miss the rest of what was said.

He frowned, confusion pinching his bushy gray eyebrows. “I’ll be right over here when you’re ready.”

“Fine, thanks.” I waved him away, trying to look casual as my ears strained for any hint of tension from the next aisle.

But silence hung as thick as a storm cloud, ready to burst. I halfway felt like peering around the end display to make sure they hadn’t somehow killed each other right there in aisle four. But before I could decide, a board clattered to the floor. “Forget it. I’m out of here.”

My stomach dropped. Wes. Leaving. I looked around for a hiding place, but the older clerk was now staring at me, probably thinking the crazy girl with the paint chips was about to shoplift. I settled for ducking my head and hiding behind my curtain of hair. Maybe Wes would leave via the other end of aisle four and not this one—

A series of electronic beeps sounded mere feet away as someone dialed on their cell phone. I looked up as Wes turned the corner and spoke into the phone. “Sonya? Yeah. I’m coming. See ya in ten.”

He hung up as his eyes locked with mine.

The warm rush of compassion I’d been feeling moments ago froze over with the mention of Sonya’s name. I stared, unable to move, though in my heart I was already out the door and halfway down the street at a full run.

I swallowed, looking away, determined not to be the one to speak first. Drumming the paint chip on the counter, I looked impatiently over my shoulder. “Sir? I’m ready to order my paint now.” I made a show of checking my watch, as if I’d been a victim of bad customer service instead of eavesdropping.

“Addison.” Wes’s voice lowered, and he closed the distance between us by a few feet, yet still stopping well away from the counter. “What are you doing here?”

I put a happy falsetto to my voice, hoping to hide the layers of emotion threatening to break free of the dam. “Oh you know, talent-show stuff.” Forget happy. I sounded like Minnie Mouse. I coughed, trying to look casual as pain seeped through my chest. “An assistant director’s job never ends.”

“Uh-huh.” Wes nodded, looking unsure if he should continue to make small talk or head for the hills.

Leave, please leave
. I forced a smile at the elderly clerk ambling around the counter, who suddenly seemed less than eager to help me check out. “Evergreen Dream, please. One gallon.”

He took the chip from me with paint-speckled fingers and eyed me from under his glasses. “Coming right up.”

I dared a glance at Wes, who had shoved his cell in his pocket. “How much did you—what did …” His voice trailed off as he gestured over his shoulder to aisle four before crossing his arms over his chest. No leather jacket tonight, just a dark-green pullover that made him look achingly approachable. Charming.

Yet somehow more dangerous than ever.

Sympathetic or not, I wasn’t about to make this easier on him. Not when he was upset and choosing to turn to Sonya instead of me. “What? Frog in your throat? Cat got your tongue?”

He narrowed his eyes at me, but not before I caught the exhaustion coating his expression. “Neither.”

“Well then you should probably hurry.” I spoke to Wes, but looked at the clerk, who frowned at me as he continued to mix my order. Great, now he thought I was suspicious
and
rude.

Wes ran a hand through his hair. “Addison, listen. About what happened last night—”

“Just go.” I broke him off before the clerk’s eyebrows could totally disappear into his receding hairline. Now I was suspicious, rude, and promiscuous. But if he knew what really happened—or rather, didn’t happen—he’d be applauding instead of judging. I turned back to Wes, inwardly begging God not to let my tears spill over while he stood there. “It’s not important.”

The lie burned my tongue, and I felt like the evergreen paint swirling on the machine. Jumbled. Mixed up. How could he connect with me like he did and then seek Sonya out for comfort instead? Because he knew I wouldn’t do what she would? Was that all a relationship was to him—physical?

I couldn’t do this anymore. I wasn’t that girl and never would be, even if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure of all the reasons why. I just didn’t want to be.

That was enough for now.

I jerked my gaze from the paint and firmly met Wes’s stare, willing strength into my knees. “Have fun at Sonya’s.”
Don’t go. Stay. Choose me
. My traitorous thoughts refused to fall into line with my will, and I hoped Wes couldn’t see the contradiction in my eyes. Or maybe I hoped he did.

Either way, it didn’t matter. He nodded once and strode away, refusing me a backward glance. I watched his retreating figure, relief and disappointment battling for center stage.

But they were both elbowed out of the way by the appearance of a thousand tiny cracks shattering my heart.

Marta showed up with cupcakes exactly seventeen minutes after my SOS text later that night. She nudged open my bedroom door with her foot, toting the box of minicupcakes in one hand and carrying her backpack on her other shoulder. “The junk food has arrived.”

I looked up from my position on the bed, surrounded by textbooks I’d opened partially out of necessity, mostly as a disguise. “You brought props. Nice touch.” I pointed to the book bag she dropped with a thud to the floor.

“If I am here to study, I have to look the part.” She set the box with the familiar red C
ROOKED
H
OLLOW
B
AKERY
logo on my desk and pulled two forks wrapped in napkins from her purse. “And we are going to study. No more lies.” She shot me a pointed stare.

We told my dad we had a Spanish test coming up, which was true, and that we needed to study, which was also true. We just left out the part about me also needing girl talk and obscene amounts of sugar.

“Technically, I didn’t lie to my dad.” I held up one finger in defense. “He never specifically asked me if I snuck out the window and went out with Wes last night.”

She shook her head. “Weak.”

“I know.” I sighed and eagerly waved her over. “Comfort food, please.”

Marta passed me a cupcake then sat cross-legged on the other end of the bed. I didn’t even use the fork or the napkin she offered—just crammed the entire mini–chocolate dessert in my mouth. Peanut butter icing squished between my teeth like a burst of heaven, and I would have sighed in delight if it wouldn’t have sent crumbs spraying all over my bedspread.

“So how bad is it?” Marta daintily took a bite of her strawberry cake, napkin spread across her lap.

“The cupcake?” I mumbled with a full mouth. “Not bad at all.”

“Nein.” She rolled her eyes. “The reason I am here.”

I finally used my napkin to wipe the chocolate off my fingers, taking my time. I needed Marta but still wasn’t sure how much to reveal. She seemed to have a soft spot for Luke, and I didn’t want to offend her by talking down about Wes—even if I needed to vent. What if she told everything to Luke? What if word got around about Wes’s family drama? I didn’t want that for him, even if he had broken my heart. “It’s pretty bad.”

“Pretty and bad? How is that possible?” Marta frowned as she took another bite.

“Oh trust me, it’s possible.” I knew she meant the English phrasing, but Wes had both terms well defined—individually and together. I shook my head before she could grow more confused. “I just meant it’s intense.”

“So does that mean you finally talked to Wes about what happened the other night?” She quickly corrected herself as I once again held up my finger in protest. “I mean, what
didn’t
happen.”

“Sort of.” I wadded my napkin into a ball. “I was at the hardware store getting paint for Mrs. Lyons and overheard Wes arguing with his father.” No need to tell Marta that “arguing” was sort of like saying Lady Gaga wore weird outfits—the understatement of the year. “We ran into each other after. It was awkward.”

“Sounds bad, but not, what did you say? Pretty bad?” Marta shrugged. “You have to face him eventually.”

“There’s more.” I swallowed, my mouth dry as the familiar wave of bitterness crept up my throat. I reached for another cupcake, stalling. Even now the memory pounded in my head, a headache that wouldn’t leave. I choked the words out. “He was calling Sonya as he was leaving—told her he’d be there in a few minutes.”

Marta’s eyes bugged. “The lemon-drop girlfriend?”

I just nodded as I popped the cupcake whole into my mouth, my stomach clenching at the thought of what he could have been going to do. Did Sonya know his secrets about his father? Did she even care? Or did she value Wes as lightly as it seemed he valued her? Still, there had to be something to their relationship or else he wouldn’t have been heading there in his moment of escape.

“That does change everything.” She passed me the entire cupcake box, and I took it without protest. “Do you think they’re getting back together?”

“I don’t know.” I fished a red velvet mini from the package. “The whole conversation was a blur. I was trying to ignore him; he was trying to leave. It was so junior high it was embarrassing.”

Marta reached over and patted my pajama-clad knee. “I’m sorry, Addison. I know this is hard. But just think how much worse it would feel right now if you had given in and slept with him.”

Her logic made sense. But on the other hand, if I’d slept with him, then we’d have never argued, and he’d never have gone running back to Sonya. “I know you’re right. But I don’t feel like it right now.”

“You said you were a virgin and wanted to stay that way.” Marta leaned back, propping herself up on my bed pillows. “So what changed?”

“I think maybe I did.” I stared at the cupcake in my hand, my thoughts spinning faster than the ceiling fan whipping above our heads. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret the decision I made. I’m glad I made it, even though all this happened. And I’d make it again.”