16. Chapter 16
Chapter 16
BECKY
W eston’s sudden gesture at church left me perplexed. What was with him inviting me along to lunch as though he hadn’t just placed me firmly in the friend zone that very morning?
If you had asked me last year whether Weston might see me as anything more than an annoyance, I would have laughed. But now, I didn’t know what to think. I usually prided myself on reading people. My intuition was telling me he liked me. But I’d been wrong about him before. I knew our histories, and our differences meant we didn’t make sense romantically. But oh, how I hoped he liked me.
Something about his quiet confidence and the measured way he carried himself intrigued me. However, with that longing came my fears. Could Weston ever date a broken girl like me? I’d have to cross that bridge if and when we ever got there.
After lunch, we drove to Weston’s place. I’d never been to his house, but I had an inkling it would give me a window into the mind of this mysterious man. I loved that he was opening up to me more. Even if I had no idea what to label our relationship. At the very least, I had hope for our future as mutual friends of Gray. Elle was right; this holiday was just what Weston and I needed to find common ground. I knew it shouldn’t make me so happy, but people’s acceptance of me was like a dose of fresh oxygen. I’d better not mess up his opinion of me now.
“You can leave your stuff in the car; we won’t be long,” he said.
Weston seemed skittish, and I remained quiet, not wanting him to change his mind about sharing secret places with me. I trailed behind him as we stepped through an interleading door into a dark garage. I instinctively reached for him, hating myself for being such a scaredy cat.
“Sorry, I’ll get the lights,” he said, while letting me stay latched onto his forearm. The smell of metal and engine grease hit my nose as we blindly moved along the wall. Weston flipped the switch, and a bright light illuminated the double garage. I gasped in amazement. The space was rustic, and in the center of the room stood an old car, a project in the making, I supposed. But the car wasn’t the cause for my reaction—shelves lined the walls of the garage, displaying hundreds of incredible creations. My eyes widened in wonder as I took in the stunning array of handmade furniture and decorations. There were quirky lamp stands, delicate coffee tables with intricate designs, and sturdy doorstops that were both functional and beautiful. I was particularly drawn to the coat racks, each one unique and expertly crafted. Were they made from pipes?
As I took a step closer to admire one of the creations, I pointed to the shelves. “Did you make this stuff?” I asked, disbelief evident in my voice.
“Yup,” he said.
“No way! These are stunning, Weston. You could sell these, you know?”
“You think?” he said as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yes, this lampstand has such a chic quirkiness to it; I know people who would pay good money for it.”
“Thanks,” Weston said. Perhaps I was wrong, but I think he was blushing.
“Is this made from an exhaust pipe? ”
“I’m rebuilding a car. So, I buy second hand parts off of eBay, but sometimes I get these mixed boxes with lots of parts I don’t need, so instead of throwing them away or trying to sell them again, I make them into things.”
To better convey my sentiment, I turned to look Weston in the eye. “Weston, this is phenomenal! I barely know you and I’m so proud of you. Your dad would also be so proud of you if he could see this.”
His reaction wasn’t immediate. He held my gaze for a lingering moment, his expression unreadable. Perhaps I’d overstepped the mark in bringing up his dad again?
Then his lips twitched upward in a half-smile, the closest thing to a grin I’d ever seen from him. His hands, roughened by hard work, clenched at his sides, a subtle telltale sign of his discomfort at the praise.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he finally muttered, looking away to hide the slight redness creeping up his neck. His gaze dropped to the ground. “Dad was a numbers guy, so I don’t think he’d understand this... but thanks, anyway.”
I wanted to stay and examine these little masterpieces. “Didn’t you say you were going to hang out here today? Why don’t you work on your car for an hour since we are here now, and I can check out these creations? I promise I won’t get in your way. ”
“Nah, I usually work alone.”
“You won’t even know I’m here. Please? This will be way more fun than going back to my cottage alone.”
“Okay, fine, but you aren’t allowed to touch anything.”
“Deal.”
As I meandered around the garage, it was as if each trinket and object whispered tales of the quiet, introspective man who’d designed them. I even explored his regular garage stuff, bicycle parts, gardening equipment, and a box of old books. What can I say? Everything about Weston intrigued me.
My fingers danced across the spines of the books, pausing on titles that mirrored my own struggles— The Financial Diet for Beginners , Live Debt Free , Building Your Business .
“Hey, who do these old books belong to?” I asked, embarrassingly hopeful Weston also struggled with debt.
He ambled over to see my find. “Oh, those are Dad’s old books from before he started Trust Insured. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” I replied, trying to mask my true thoughts. These books, these simple tokens of wisdom, underscored the chasm between our worlds. This cardboard box brimmed with a wisdom that was as foreign to me as it was familiar to him. I couldn’t help but let a wistful sigh escape, imagining a world where I had been nurtured by the same wealth of knowledge rather than the shadow of a drunk father and an absent, yet demanding, mother. How different life could have been. Weston returned to his work, and I continued exploring, all the while wondering if our worlds could ever gel. Not likely.