Chapter 15 #2
“Best friends?” I ask Wes, once we’re back inside the car.
He grins at me. “The spot’s available, if you’re interested.”
“What about Kaden and Ben?”
“They get the highly coveted titles of ‘housemates’ and ‘teammates.’ They’re spoiled, if you ask me.”
I smirk. “Uh huh.”
“So?”
“We haven’t known each other long enough to be best friends.”
“I’ve known you long enough, so the issue must lie with the time you’ve known me. Just tell me who I’m up against, so I can gauge my competition.”
That wipes the smile clean off my face. “I don’t really…”
“You don’t have a best friend? What about Quinn? Anyone from home?”
“The girl who did this,” I gesture to my eye, “used to be a friend. A close one.”
His mouth flattens at the mention of Alexis. “What happened between you two?”
“We had a fight in high school. Things got…ugly.”
He looks like he wants to press for more information but decides against it, and we drive the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
We spend the next couple hours doing homework for other classes, Wes’s books sprawled across his bed, mine across his desk.
It’s surprisingly easy to work in Wes’s bedroom, which I wouldn’t have thought possible a week ago.
The bed’s not as threatening as it was the first time I entered, and it’s nice to not be alone for once.
The funny thing about Wes is that he can only sit still for so long.
He’s constantly adjusting his position on the bed—on his stomach, then his back, then his side, then sitting upright—or getting up to search for a book or a snack.
He can’t go more than twenty minutes without checking in on my eye, or asking if the temperature in the house is okay, or wondering if I’m hungry or not.
His heart’s just that big, and his attentiveness might be annoying if it wasn’t so endearing.
When I feel his eyes on my face again, signaling the twenty-minute mark since his last check-in, I raise my head.
“Time to ice,” he says, and swings his legs off the side of the bed. “I’ll get you a pack. Hang tight.”
I nod, watching him leave the room, and shift my attention to the window.
The sky is a deep, ominous gray, forecasting the storm approaching later this evening.
If I were smart, I’d make Wes drive me home soon.
But when he returns, carrying not only an ice pack but a plate stacked high with chocolate chip cookies, courtesy of Ben, I can’t make my mouth form the words.
“My own personal medic and waiter?” I tease as he offers me the ice pack first and then the plate. I take the cookie resting on the top of the pile. “I don’t think I’ll ever leave.”
“Don’t,” he says easily. “Stay here with me forever. It’s nice having my bestie around.”
“You’d get tired of me.”
“Never gonna happen.”
I take a bite of the cookie and groan. Ben’s baked goods are even more delicious when they’re fresh out of the oven, and I devour the whole thing in seconds.
When I glance back over at Wes, he’s inhaled half the stack already, and I swallow down a laugh.
The Human Garbage Disposal can seriously tuck it away.
He sets the plate on his nightstand, swings his legs onto the bed, and leans back against the headboard. Then, grabbing his leather-bound notebook and a pencil off the pillow beside him, he starts writing.
“Why do you write your notes in that notebook instead of your laptop?” I ask as I press the bag of frozen vegetables over my eye. “I’ve always wondered.”
He glances up. “It helps me process better, and I get less distracted. Something about the physical act of writing things down. I used to do the same thing with plays. I’d draw them out to help with memorization.”
“Are you sad you won’t play football anymore?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty bummed about it, but I knew it had to come to an end eventually. That last touchdown and win was the perfect way to end my career.”
I nod like that makes sense, though now that I know Wes, I’m a little disappointed I’ll never get to see him play. “Did you ever think about playing beyond college?”
“Nah, I’m not good enough to get drafted.
At least, not by the NFL. I just happened to be the right fit for Stratus’s team.
Plus, I’m ready to get my life started. I’m training this summer to be an EMT, which I’ll do for two years before med school.
I just couldn’t fit in all the necessary applications and volunteer work and play football at the same time. ”
I blink at him in surprise. I had no idea about his post-grad plans besides his broader goal to end up in med school. “Wow, an EMT? That seems intense.”
“I know, but it’ll be helpful for my med school applications.
Football should help, too. Shows I have time management skills.
Commitment. Dedication. Discipline. The ability to work within a team.
” He grins, but after a moment, his smile wilts, his face taking on a more serious expression.
“A lot of people think I’m joking when I tell them about my med school plans. ”
“Why would they think that?” I ask, and then remember my reaction when he first told me in class—I kept waiting for the punchline.
I shift in my chair, feeling a little guilty.
He shrugs. “Football…it was hard work, sure. But it also came naturally. So do academics, though, and I purposely chose to come to Stratus because it was more academic than some of the other schools. I worked my ass off to make excellent grades while also playing for the team, so it feels kind of shitty when people laugh when I tell them my goals.”
“Anyone who knows you knows how intelligent you are,” I say softly. “How…special you are. Don’t listen to those people. There’s so much more to you than just athletics or being everyone’s favorite guy on campus.”
He swallows, his eyes going a little glassy before he grins at me. “Thanks, Ivy. That means a lot coming from you.”
I blush, ducking my head. “Me? Oh, I’m no one.”
“You’re not, though. I value your opinion, you know that?” I nod, even though I didn’t know that, and remain quiet. Really, I’m at a loss for words. “Enough about me, though. When can I see some of your artwork? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“I can show you my project for my Color Theory class,” I offer a bit nervously. I tend to be a little self-conscious sharing my work. “When it’s done.”
He juts out his bottom lip in a pout. “Why not now?”
I laugh at his exaggerated frown. “Okay, Mr. Impatient. It’ll be better when it’s finished, that’s why.” Before Wes can push further, my phone vibrates on the desk. I glance over to see the screen light up with a text from my brother.
Scott: Who’s going home on the 11th to sort through junk in the basement?
I’d nearly forgotten about that, and my mood dampens, the way it does whenever I think about going home.
“What’s wrong?” Wes asks, perceptive as always. “Who is that?”
I hadn’t even realized I was frowning, and I smooth out my face. “Oh, no one. Just Scott.”
“Scott?”
“My brother,” I mumble, setting down the ice pack and typing out a response.
Me: I’m going.
“I thought your brother’s name was Noah.”
“It is. I have two, Noah and Scott. They’re both older.”
Noah: I’ll be there, but I don’t wanna be.
“So, you’re the baby?”
I nod. “Yeah, but it doesn’t do me much good. Noah’s always been the favorite.”
He eyes me skeptically. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Trust me.” I’m no one’s favorite, I add mentally, but when I glance up at Wes to find him watching me so intently, my heart squeezes, and an errant thought pops into my head.
What I wouldn’t give to be his.
I spend another twenty minutes finishing my art history essay, and then Wes and I start practicing our speeches. My delivery starts out rough, but the more I practice, the smoother the words come out. The more I practice, the less I fidget and shake.
Somehow, I find a way to downplay my insecurities and the pain from my eye and the whirlwind of the last twenty-four hours and focus on the words, on the message, on Wes.
And when I deliver a near-perfect speech that has him beaming and pulling me into another exceptional hug, the fear fisting my heart eases up.
I sink into him completely, grinning like an idiot against his shoulder.
When we finally pull apart, there’s a stillness to the air. A quiet. On instinct, I glance toward the window to see a flurry of snowflakes falling from the sky, coating the world in a blanket of white.
“Guess you’re staying the night again,” says Wes, his eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect.
“I guess so,” I echo, surprised at how okay I am with the idea.
Don’t kid yourself.
Okay, so maybe I’m more than okay with the idea.
In fact, I might just be thrilled by it.