Avery
A fter that night, I knew we were staying in Caper. Maybe that’s why I let myself care about Wes, because he wasn’t going to be temporary.
On the days when George and Dad went out for appointments, Wes and I would cook and clean the entire house.
It was his idea, but I went along with it.
I think it gave him this sense of control when he had none, reaching for anything he could do to help.
There was a fair amount of trial and error.
Some of George’s old favorite meals made her nauseous because of her treatment, and it wasn’t like we knew how to cook anything elaborate.
I’d stay with him at his house on those days, bringing my guitar with me.
He’d listen to me play while the food was in the oven.
Music wasn’t something I shared because it felt like letting someone have access to my soul.
I was greedy with my obsession, but it seemed like the only way I could take care of Wes while he was too worried to take care of himself.
The first time he asked me to teach him how to play, I was working through “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young.
“Yes, like that,” I said, letting go of his hand after helping him form the shape of the final chord in the progression. “All you need are those four. Now try cycling through them.”
He did, his fingers moving stiffly from one to the next. “Oh my gosh, I’m doing it!” His face lit up brighter than I’d seen it in weeks. “It’ll take me an hour to get through this song at this rate, but I’m doing it.”
A timer went off in the kitchen, and I jumped to my feet. “Keep going, I’m going to check on the sauce and start the pasta.”
That day we decided on our most ambitious recipe, a Bolognese that we had to use some of George’s white wine to deglaze the pan, whatever that meant.
Out of curiosity, I took a sip and offered some to Wes, who shook his head.
The sauce took two hours, and we’d tried to time it for when our parents would be back.
I scoured through cupboards searching for pasta, but all I could come up with was a quarter of a box.
Returning to the living room where Wes was still playing, I said, “Keep practicing. Try adding a little more pressure on the frets. I’m going to run to my place to see if I can find more pasta. I’m pretty sure Dad picked some up last week.”
It took me half an hour to get to my house, find the pasta, and get back, running most of the way.
Pushing through the door, I kicked off my sneakers and listened.
He was still playing, faster now, almost up to speed with the regular tempo of the song.
His rhythm was off, but we could work on that next.
“If you keep practicing, maybe we can show my dad and George next week.” The last words fell from my lips as I registered what I saw.
Wes didn’t seem to notice me. He just kept playing as his fingers bled, red smearing against the dark stain of the guitar.
“Stop,” I said, but he didn’t. I raced over and wrenched the instrument from his hands. Sour bile crept up the back of my throat. The guitar landed next to us with a sickening twang. “Stop!”
He looked at me with clouded eyes then blinked, brows pinching as if to place my panic. His gaze fell to his hands as he muttered, “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Where’s your first aid kit? Wes, where is it?!”
“Bathroom.” He started to stand but I pressed a hand to his shoulder and forced him to stay.
“No, you stay right here.” I ran to the bathroom, hauling back the massive kit from under the sink.
I struggled to click open the clasps with shaking fingers. Silently, I cleaned the cuts, wiping them with antiseptic as he winced. They were small and only on two fingers, yet it was one of the most terrifying things I’d ever witnessed.
“Why didn’t you stop?” I wrapped his final finger and, after a moment of hesitation, let go of his hand.
“I didn’t notice. I wanted to get the chords right and then it started feeling so good that I couldn’t stop.” He looked down and flexed his fingers.
“Promise me you won’t do it again.”
The front door opened and George’s voice chimed. “Something smells delicious!”
Wes gulped and quickly said, “I promise, but can you grab the guitar and hide it while I take care of the first aid kit. I don’t want her to worry.”
“I won’t say anything.” If Dad was taking care of George. I could handle taking care of Wes, this odd boy who’d forced his way into my life.
I put the guitar in its case, realizing I hadn’t given a thought for the instrument until then. My anxiety and fear were entirely for Wes.
George picked up a strand of my freshly-dyed crimson hair and smiled. Red streaks stained my forehead, so much you would have thought my skull had split open.
“It’ll fade.” Her reflection in the mirror nodded, then the corners of her lips dipped with doubt. “Or I think it will.”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll just borrow one of your new hats,” I told her.
“I guess that’s one solution.”
George was wearing a teal tie-dyed scarf as a head wrap. When she’d shaved her head two weeks prior, I’d offered to do the same, but instead she made me promise we’d do something she always wanted to try on my hair.
“How are my girls?” Wes asked as he leaned against the door frame, sounding far older than his thirteen-year-old self.
He was dressed in a crisp button up and his hair was slicked back, though a few strands were fighting the gel and sticking out at odd angles.
The ridiculous image caused me to giggle.
“Ready to dance the night away,” George said with a shimmy of her shoulders.
We went to the local dive to see a cover band that night. I cringed when I heard their attempt to belt out The Smith’s greatest hits.
The four of us sat in the cracked leather booth closest to the stage, Wes and I sipping on syrupy Shirley Temples and trading glances with each song we recognized. George stared at the dance floor with a wistful expression but stayed seated with us.
My dad had none of it. He never buried his feelings, but if he could fix melancholy, he would. I hadn’t thought of him as strong before, but as I watched him carry George in his arms, that changed. She threw back her head and laughed as he danced, dipping her before spinning around.
“She’s smiling,” Wes said, hardly blinking as he watched them,
I clinked my sweating glass with his. “You are too.”
He blushed, averting his gaze and twirling the straw. “Do you like the band?”
I gave him a you can’t be serious look and took a long sip. The lead singer’s vocals were so garbled I could barely make out the lyrics, and the guitarist’s fingers weren’t applying the right amount of pressure on the fret, muting the chords.
“It’s not like we’re any better.”
“We could be,” I countered. I’m not sure if I believed it. I just didn’t like being told what I could or couldn’t do. “If we keep this up, by the time we’re their age, we’ll be way better.”
Dad swept back to the table with George, both of them flushed with glee. He set her in the booth next to Wes before sliding into the spot beside me and squeezing me in a side hug. “Hey, kid.”
“What did we interrupt?” George asked, trading a look with my dad.
“We’re going to perform one day, and we’re going to be really good,” Wes told them, though he was looking at me. He spoke without a hint of doubt—a prophecy. A foreign emotion ballooned in my chest. He believed in me, in us, and I wanted to keep being an us. To make something great with him.
“We’re going to be the best,” I agreed, and for the first time I started to picture a future with someone in my life other than my dad. I wanted to stay in Caper and make music with this boy, to dream, and make sure those dreams came true.