Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (41 page)

Wholeheartedly.

“So, now that Christmas is over, what do you want for your birthday?” Dad stood up, effectively ending our too-heavy conversation, and walked to the tree. “Besides your annual discounted Christmas ornament, of course.”

I groaned, though I secretly loved the tradition. Apparently my mother had bought me a new ornament at the after-Christmas sales every year while she was alive. My dad kept it up until our tree practically sagged under the weight of all the birthday ornaments designated to me alone. “I don’t know. A pony?”

“Maybe when you’re eighteen.” Dad winked, something I hadn’t seen him do in years.

“Okay, then a mustang.” I grinned. “And I’m not talking about the kind that eats hay and lives in the wild.”

Dad’s lips twitched to the side. “I still don’t see a reason for you to have a car. This is a small town. It’s good exercise to walk.”

We’d only had this conversation ten times during the past two years. “What if I break my ankle and can’t walk everywhere?”

Dad crossed his arms. “Then you wouldn’t be able to drive, either.”

“I could if it was my left ankle.”

We stared at each other, Dad’s eyebrows wrinkled as he tried to think of a way around my logic. “I’m not sure that’s an expense we need right now, regardless. Insurance would skyrocket.”

Weren’t we about to become a two-income family? I wasn’t going to say that, though, not on Christmas night after such a positive heart-to-heart. So I admitted defeat as I picked up my coffee mug and headed to the sink. “I was kidding. Sort of. I’ll just take the pony.” I grinned, though my heart wasn’t in it. Truth be told, I’d rather have Wes than a pony
and
a car.
Two
cars.

But I was probably more likely to get a Lamborghini for every day of the week than I was to get that secret birthday wish.

I
think you should have a carnival for your birthday.”
Marta shut her locker door, brow furrowed as she contemplated the options. “Or the circus! We could make it a tribute to childhood and visit all the traditional birthday themes. Have
Trink-Kakao!
And maybe
ein Haufen Dreck.”

“Ich spreche kein Deutsch.”
I snarkily reminded Marta I didn’t speak German—in German.

“It is just chocolate milk and what we call a pile of dirt—you know, chocolate pudding with Gummi worms on top.”

Gummi worms. Great. Just the reminder I needed.

“I really, really hope you’re kidding.” I hitched my book bag on my shoulder, already eager to get home and take a load off. Homework had kicked back after the holiday breaks with a vengeance, and truly, the last thing I wanted to deal with today was birthday talk.

Sad that calculus homework seemed more appealing.

“Why not? It’d be fun.” Marta fell into step beside me as we fought the throng of students rushing to head home after a long school day.

“A circus?” I snorted. “You must want an excuse to wear your rhinestone belt again.”

“Very funny.” Marta pushed open one of the heavy double doors leading into the parking lot. “Your seventeenth birthday is this upcoming weekend. You can’t just ignore it.”

“I’m not ignoring it. I just don’t want a big party.” With the holidays barely behind us and the wedding looming before us, I didn’t feel up for celebrating. Sure, I was adjusting slowly to the idea of my dad getting married, and so far I’d kept my commitment to be more considerate of Ms. Hawthorne, but I remained stuck in my melancholy mood.
God, I just want to keep things about us right now. Dad is doing his own thing, and Wes is—well, not in the picture. Is a little solitude too much to ask?
The only time I didn’t feel bummed lately was when I woke up early to read my Bible before school. I’d never understood how Dad could do it day after day, but after the first week, it’d been a lot easier than I thought.

Marta dodged a guy running to catch his bus. “Then let’s have a sleepover. You have to do something.”

“We’ll see.” I hoped she’d take the hint and drop it, but I’d learned this past semester that subtlety and Marta just didn’t blend.

“Is this about Wes?” She stopped walking and tugged at my arm so I’d do the same.

I squinted, lifting one hand against the winter afternoon sun so I could see her face. “He was at church yesterday.”

“That’s great!” Marta bounced twice on the balls of her feet. Then she must have registered my expression and stopped. “Isn’t it?”

“He doesn’t talk to me. He comes in late, sits in the back by himself, leaves five minutes before it’s over, and disappears on his motorcycle before I can even make it outside.” At least I knew he hadn’t left town. But at the moment, the fact offered little comfort. I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes and started walking, leaving Marta no choice but to follow. “He’s avoiding me.”

Not that I blamed him after that painful conversation in the library more than a month ago. I’d rejected him for the second time—or was it the third?—and admitted to choosing my religion over him. Of course I knew it was more than just religion, but to Wes looking from the outside in, that’s how it would seem.

But I’d been in church long enough—and felt the sizzling chemistry between me and Wes long enough—to know I couldn’t missionary date without getting myself into some serious trouble. If we weren’t on the same page with morals, goals, and God, then we didn’t stand a chance.

But did that mean I couldn’t be his friend? Stay in his life from a distance? He was coming to church for a reason—was it because of me? Or because of something deeper?

Suddenly I wanted to know more than I wanted my next breath.

“Maybe you should talk to him.” Marta huffed after me, trying to keep up. “And get closure so you can move on.”

Moving on was exactly the opposite of what I
wanted
to do, but her suggestion of talking to him felt right. I’d actually had a hundred conversations with Wes in my mind during the past month, ranging from heated arguments to whispered promises. Still, there was one problem. “I’ve tried. I’ve stalked the guy all over town for weeks. I can’t find him outside of church, and he obviously isn’t interested in talking there.”

“Go to his house. He hasn’t moved out, has he?”

“Not that I know of.” But I didn’t know much of anything about him anymore, other than what my nightly dreams reminded me of in the past. “Maybe I should try.”

“Go. Now. I’ll even take your book bag to your house for you.” Marta held out her hand, and I willingly handed over the bulging bag. She stumbled momentarily before hiking it onto her shoulder.

“You’re a real friend.” I gave her a brief hug before taking off down the sidewalk, my hopes rising for the first time in weeks. If I couldn’t have Wes the way I wanted to, I could at least keep a friendship. Any relationship with him was better than none.

I just hoped he’d agree.

I banged on Wes’s front door then braced one arm against the frame before my shaky knees gave out completely. What if no one was home and I came over here for nothing? Or worse, what if Mr. Keegan answered the door? He should be at work on a Monday afternoon, but with all the counseling he’d been doing lately with my dad, who knew his schedule anymore.

Standing on his porch brought back memories of the night Wes had doctored my burn. I rubbed my wrist, remembering the light pressure of his touch, the way he’d spoken his heart for the first time before kissing me.

Oh boy. This was
so
not the train of thought I needed to have for a pending “let’s be friends” convo.

Peering through the curtained window, I couldn’t make out anything inside the house—not even lights. Heart sinking, I knocked one more time then turned my back to the silence and began a slow descent down the stairs. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. Maybe I’d try again tomorrow—if my nerves lasted that long.

Or maybe this was just a sign for me to leave things alone and accept the fact that we were through—on all accounts.
God, a little wisdom?

The door opened behind me.

I spun around, adrenaline flooding my body as Wes appeared in front of the screen door. He stepped outside, his expression somewhere between a smile and a question.

Wishing I still had my book bag so I had something to do with my hands, I settled for clasping them behind my back. “Hi.” Oh, that was brilliant. If I commented on the weather next, I’d kick myself in the rear.

“Hey.” The screen clicked shut behind him, and he met me halfway at the top of the stairs. “You lost?”

He shook his dark hair out of his eyes, and my fingers itched to move it for him. I squeezed my hands together until I almost lost circulation. “Just in the neighborhood.” Oh, good grief. This kept getting worse.

His eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t laugh, to his credit.

Oh well, I had nothing to lose for being honest. I climbed the stairs until I stood directly in front of him, close enough to breathe in the familiar scent of his aftershave. The leather jacket was absent, and the hunter-green thermal he wore with jeans only highlighted the tone of his muscles. I wanted to hug him but knew better than to get that close. “I wanted to see you.”

He tilted his head to one side, eyes studying me, but didn’t speak.

“I hate how things ended. I’ve been looking for you all over town—you just disappeared.” My voice shook and I coughed, wishing I could be one of those girls who knew the right words, had the right tone, the right attitude, who knew how to get what she wanted.

Well, I might have been tempted once, but I wouldn’t play those games, not anymore. I was just me. Just Addison. The most un-Lemon-Drop girl in Crooked Hollow.

And I was okay with that.

Still, I wished he’d say something.

“I’ve been around.” He leaned casually against the porch post, just out of reach.

“Around where, exactly? I’ve spent more hours in the music store and Got Beans than I have at home, trying to find you.”

Wes’s expression didn’t change. “Not around there.”

He didn’t offer further explanation, and for some reason it made me mad. Did he care or not? What was I even doing there? “You’ve been at church.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but his neutral mask remained. “So I have.”

“Why?”

He straightened, arms still crossed. “Do you think I’m coming for you?”

“I don’t know what to think.” I mirrored his defensive stance, my heart climbing into my throat and refusing to dislodge. “I invited you, but every time you’ve been there, you’ve avoided me.”

He shrugged. “Then maybe you thought wrong.”

“What are you doing?” I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, but I knew any physical contact would probably end in self-combustion. “Why are you being this way? I came over to apologize. To tell you I wanted to be your friend. I—I miss you.” I choked on the emotion building in my chest. “Forget it.” I turned to leave, and Wes caught my arm.

“I’m not trying to be a jerk, PK. I’m just confused.” Wes’s fingers slid down my arm to my hand, his touch burning through the sleeve of my jacket. “I don’t know why you’re here.”

“I’m here for you.” I stared at our joined hands, unable to make eye contact. “I can’t stand the thought of us never talking again.”

“Then talk.” He pulled me toward him, and my feet shuffled slowly his direction as if stuck in quicksand.

“I know about your mom.” I met his gaze then, his eyesdarkening before the shadow passed. “About the sacrifice you made playing for Jessica—for me—the night of the talent show.” I drew a ragged breath. “I never said thank you. Not really.”

His grip on my hand tightened. “It was all for you. I couldn’t care less about Jessica.” He let go of my hand and wrapped one arm loosely around my waist, leaning forward until his forehead touched mine. “It’s always been about you.”

I breathed in the heady aroma of his cologne, wishing I had the right to lean into his embrace and never leave. But I’d been down that path before, and nothing had changed. Danger was danger, no matter how attractive the package. I pulled away enough to see his eyes.

He touched my cheek with the back of his hand. “How’d you find out?”

“Your dad.”

Wes stiffened, his hand freezing on my face. “You talked to my dad?”

I nodded as his arm fell to his side. “I saw him at the church office a few weeks ago. He’s getting counseling.” That was private information, but if Wes didn’t already know, he should. Maybe it would help things between them if he knew his father was trying to get help. “He seems to be making progress.”

“He’s good with appearances.”

I threaded our fingers back together. “Isn’t recognizing a problem the first step?”

“Of many.” Wes snorted. “I’m not buying into anything yet. He’s gone through programs before.”

“I realize you know your father better than I do, but he seems sincere about changing. He even admitted that all of his problems were the reason he asked me to be friends with you.”

I felt Wes slipping away even before he physically stepped back. “He what?”

“He asked me to be friends with you one day at church. This was months ago, like, back in September.” I tried to hold on to his hand, but Wes moved across the porch, pacing, his back rigid.