Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (36 page)

“Yep. See you.” Another honk sounded from his end of the line, and I couldn’t help but picture the coyote endlessly chasing the road runner.

Marta went home an hour later, and I decided to head to the library. Maybe losing myself in a classic novel for a few hours would take the pressure off and let me figure out what to say to Wes. I wasn’t stalling—I was preparing.

That was the mantra I repeated to myself, anyway.

I hitched the strap of my book bag higher on my shoulder as I perused the fiction rows, grateful this side of the library offered a sense of peace and quiet for now. The Saturday crowd seemed drawn to the far side of the building, where a local author was signing books and about to lead story hour for children. It was past time I caught up on my to-read list, since the talent show had sucked all my available time the past two months.

Breathing in the familiar, slightly musty smell of my beloved books, I plucked a well-worn volume of
Jane Eyre
off the shelf and let my fingers flip through the frayed pages. How many times had I read that one? Six? I reshelved it and reached for
Wuthering Heights
.

“That one’s a bit of a downer.”

I jerked so hard at Wes’s voice that I dropped the heavy book on my foot. I jumped then bit my lip as pain streamed through my toes. But the rush of awareness at Wes’s sudden proximity hurt much more.

“Sorry.” He knelt to retrieve the volume then handed it to me, his fingers brushing mine. “Why are you so jumpy?”

“I don’t know. What are you doing here?” The words practically hissed from my lips as I scrambled to stick the book back on the shelf. My toe stung, my dignity smarted, and looking into Wes’s eyes, my heart broke. I wasn’t ready for this.

“Same as you.” He grinned as he tugged at the bag on my shoulder, already half-full. “Making up for lost time since the talent show, huh?”

“Something like that.” The bag suddenly felt heavy, and I set it on the floor at our feet. “And I’ve read
Wuthering Heights
already. I don’t need a recap.”

Wes frowned, leaning against the shelf beside us and crossing his arms over his chest. “What gives, PK? You that upset to see me?”

Yes. But not because of the reason he thought. I shrugged and turned my attention to the row of novels, grazing my thumb along the spines as I pretended to study the titles. I’d practically grown up in this section of the library, and I hated to mar the fond memories with a sad new one. But I couldn’t put this off any longer, or my resolve—what little existed—would crumble.
God, help me. I’m trying to do the right thing
.

Wes’s hand on my shoulder cut off my silent prayer, and I flinched under his touch. His arm fell slowly to his side. “I’m starting to think you have an answer for me.”

I nodded, rolling in my lower lip and refusing to make eye contact. Instead I stared so hard at the spine of
Jane Eyre
thefaded text blurred and swam together.

“I get it.” Wes’s voice cracked a little, and he coughed. “You just can’t forgive me, huh?”

“It’s not that.” I spun to face him then, unwilling to let him think something that wasn’t true. “It’s where I am right now. Something happened last night that really woke me up—I realized some stuff about my life, and I can’t—”

“I see. The old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line.” Wes nodded, the formerly teasing spark in his eye now replaced with a bitter sheen. He snorted. “Guess that’s fair. I’ve used it enough times.”

“It’s not a line.” I drew a shaky breath. “It’s a fact. I’m in this process right now, and I can’t be distracted.” I shook my head. This was even worse than my conversation with Luke—so much for practice. This just sucked. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Quit being so vague, PK.” Wes’s arms tightened across his chest. “If you’re going to do this, then man up and do it. Tell me the truth. Even if it hurts.”

Oh, it hurt all right. Like an eighteen-wheeler parked against my chest. “I am telling you the truth. I don’t need a boyfriend right now.”

“When does anyone ever
need
a boyfriend?” Wes scoffed. “This isn’t about need, Addison. It’s about want. What
you
want.”

My heart struggled to beat a normal rhythm as the shelves in the library pressed in around me.
I want you, I want you, I want you
. The words pressed against my lips, threatening to spring forth and puddle on the ground between us. Everything in me wanted to wrap myself in his leather jacket and inhale his cologne and believe this would work. Believe that I could find myself while with him, that I could grow and change and finish this journey I started last night fully involved and not distracted in the least. God
and
Wes.

But a still, small voice held me back with a quiet assurance I couldn’t deny.
Wait
.

Tears formed as I met Wes’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, looking away, his eyes roaming to the shelves of books surrounding us before flitting back to my face and then finally to his shoes. “It’s your choice, PK.”

Choice. The word sounded so freeing, like I had all these options and privileges. But I didn’t. If I wanted to make my life right, really know what it meant to be a Christian, finally allow my prayers to drift higher than my bedroom ceiling, and participate wholeheartedly in a relationship with God for the first time in my church-saturated life, then I couldn’t have it all. I couldn’t surround myself with the temptation of Wes, the opportunities to sin and pedal backward instead of forward down this new path.

I did have to choose—and it hurt worse than anything else I’d ever felt.

“Nothing about this has been right.” I gestured between us, desperate for him to understand, to agree. “We’ve been off ever since you moved here. First you were with Sonya, and there were all of my dad’s rules. Then your issues with your father, and that night in the meadow, and the misunderstanding with Sonya. Our timing is jacked up.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Wes reached for my hand, and I foolishly allowed him to take it. “You’re making it more complicated than it is.”

My palm relaxed against the warmth of his grip, and before I knew it, he’d tugged me toward him. I opened my mouth to protest but couldn’t speak.

His eyes searched mine as he drew me closer. “This could be our timing, PK. Our moment.”

My breath caught in my chest, and automatically my hands snaked around his neck and my fingers tangled in his hair, longer than his jacket collar now in the back. I breathed in his spicy cologne and the scent of leather, my senses dazed as if drugged. My head reeled, the library blurring around us as Wes’s eyes dropped to my lips and he leaned in even closer.

I angled my head toward him as if on autopilot, heart racing a frantic beat.

No.

NO!

I jerked backward, my entire body protesting as my mind ordered a rush of adrenaline to separate me from danger. “See!” I couldn’t breathe, could only back away and press one hand against my stomach as I sucked air through my lips. “See! I can’t.”

“You can’t date me because you’re attracted to me?” Wes’s incredulous expression turned to doubt. “Addison, I’m not going to pressure you again. If you’re not ready for that step, fine. I’m cool.”

But was he? And better yet, was I? I’d just broken up with him, yet at the simple touch of his hand, I was ready to make out in a public library. That didn’t bode well for my virtue. I clenched my hands into fists, determined to stay strong. “I
won’t
be ready for that. Until I’m married.”

A flicker of anxiety darted through his eyes—just a flash, but it lingered long enough for me to see we were definitely not on the same page in that regard. The clarity gave me a rush of assurance that I was making the right choice, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

“If this is about sex, don’t let that make up your mind.” Wes’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t care. I can wait.”

I somehow doubted that, but the sincerity in his eyes caught me off guard.

“It’s not the … the sex.” I glanced over my shoulder, unable to believe I was having this conversation in public. “It’s the whole relationship. It’s all tied together, and I can’t tie myself to anything else right now.”

“What do you mean by ‘else’?” Frustration sketched a pattern across Wes’s features. “Come on, Addison. The talent show is behind you. You said you forgive me. So what do you have to focus on that’s more important than us?”

Aggravation built in my chest at his insistence, and I’d never felt more thankful. Anger was so much easier to bear. Sympathy and compassion? Impossible. Chemistry? Unbearable. “You want the truth?”

“Yes! I’ve been saying that this whole time.”

“Fine.” I crossed my arms and tilted my head to one side as I waited for his response. “The answer is God.”

Wes’s mouth snapped shut as disbelief filled his eyes. He took a step backward.

“I know you don’t believe me. I’m a PK. How much more Christian can I get, right?” I snorted. “But it’s true. I realized last night that I’m far from where I should be, and I want to make efforts to get there. For real.”

Wes continued to stare at me. “God?”

“God.” Saying His name out loud brought more assurance of my stand, even though my chest still ached at the crestfallen expression on Wes’s face. “I know this is weird. But seriously, why don’t you come to church tomorrow?” I reached toward him, my heart cracking into bits as he shook my hand off his arm. “Give it a try. What do you have to lose?”

“Do you know nothing about me, Addison?” Wes’s voice rose, and he made no effort to lower it even as a passing librarian shushed us from the end of the row. “Why would I want anything to do with church? For all I know, every person on that pew is a hypocrite just like my dad. Did you know my mom used to sing in the choir when I was a kid?”

I just shook my head as his rant continued, my stomach cramping at the pained glaze in his eyes.

“She did. Second soprano, third seat from the end. Every Sunday. And guess what she was doing every Saturday night? Or should I say, who?”

I flinched as the truth of his past slapped me full force.

“So excuse me when I say ‘no thanks’ to your invitation.” He brushed past me then without another word, and once again I was stuck watching him walk away, wondering when it would stop hurting, wondering why God blessed some families so much and others so little, wondering why Wes chose to confide in me.

And wondering what on earth I was supposed to do about it.

S
taring at my father in the pulpit as he wrapped up his sermon from the book of Acts, one thought played over and over in my mind—louder even than the peppermint wrapper Mrs. Vanderford crinkled from the row in front of me.

I should have told him
.

After my completely rotten Saturday afternoon in the library, I’d holed up in the bathtub at home, read almost half of
Wuthering Heights
, and used our entire tank of hot water before facing reality—and my dad—at the dinner table. After a short nap, I felt I was over Wes enough to carry on a conversation about my newly amped faith. (And by enough, I meant not really at all.)

However, instead of Dad and a hot dinner waiting for me at the table, I found a ten-dollar bill and a sticky note informing me he’d gone to Ms. Hawthorne’s house while she phoned her family long distance about their engagement, and I should order a pizza—which was wrong for so many reasons; namely, a large pizza cost more than ten dollars, and where did that leave room for cheesy bread?

So I did what any girl in my situation would do when deprived of mochas and allowance money—I’d pocketed the ten dollars, made a turkey sandwich, and gone to bed before he’d come home. Genius, except it left me sitting at church with uncertainty about what to do next churning in my stomach like the giant bubble machine on
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
. Dad deserved to know the truth about my new commitment—but not so much in the middle of a service. Maybe we could go to lunch afterward and finally talk.

If he didn’t already have plans with Ms. Hawthorne, of course.

Dad closed his sermon. As we bowed our heads to pray, my heart climbed into my throat and lodged there like Mrs. Vanderford’s peppermint. I could barely hear my father over the roar of blood in my ears as he asked God to lead souls to Him during the invitation.

A quickening of my pulse sent my body on full alert.
Nuh-uh. I’m already Yours, God. We got that worked out. Don’t make me walk the aisle, too
. At this close range from the third pew, I’d barely have to cover a few yards before I’d literally be at the altar, but that was so not the point. The preacher’s daughter coming to the Lord? What would everyone think? Mrs. Vanderford would choke on her mint, and the entire service would be interrupted with sirens. I couldn’t risk it.

I’ve got to stay put, Lord, for her own good
. I eyed the back of her big hair and baggy floral dress and winced. It probably wasn’t appropriate to wish Stacy and Clinton from
What Not to Wear
would breeze down the aisle and take the woman away. I’d seen them interrupt performances, plays, and weddings, but never a church service.