Chapter 11
Isla
Iwander through Wes’s gorgeous townhouse, marveling at how different it is from what I pictured.
Thea immediately retreated to her room, leaving me to snoop to my heart’s content. Normally, I’d try to contain my nosy instinct, but a few minutes ago, I got a text from Wes with all the permission I needed.
Parking lot terrorist: Help yourself to anything
Instead of dark hallways and black walls, his two-story house has an open floor plan and tons of natural light.
Except for his bedroom, where heavy blackout curtains keep out every inch of the bright North Carolina sun, making it difficult to see anything other than his bedsheets, ruffled from sleep the night before.
I scamper down the steps, needing to put distance between me and the earthy, spicy scent of Wes wafting to me from his room.
It isn’t until I go into the fully finished basement and find his small room full of vinyl records, tucked away from sight, that I finally learn something about him.
It’s every nineties kid’s dream music collection, from Nine Inch Nails to Nirvana to Rage Against the Machine.
I thumb my way through his collection before picking out The Fragile, placing the record on the platter, and moving the needle over it.
The ominous thread of notes, buh buh buh da, buh buh buh da, comes through low and menacing before the drums kick in, elevating the song to another level.
I keep the lights off in the room and settle into the comfy chair in the corner to hear one of my favorite records on vinyl for the first time.
Me: I was starting to think that this wasn’t your house, but then I found your angsty lair.
Parking lot terrorist: Good to know that you have no concept of boundaries
Me: You said to help myself.
Parking lot terrorist: To the pantry. Not to my most prized possessions.
Me: Relax, Taz. I would never be anything less than serious when it comes to NIN. Never heard this record on vinyl. It’s fucking magical.
Parking lot terrorist: You’re a NIN fan?
Me: Saw them in concert six times. And if you accuse me of going because I’m a fan girl…
Parking lot terrorist: Wouldn’t dream of it. I hate the guys who are like that.
Me: Same.
Me: Wait. Did we find common ground?
Parking lot terrorist: Common ground, us? You’re talking nonsense.
My hand lands on my mouth, and I realize I’m…smiling. The realization has me clicking out of our text thread. I put Wes’s most prized possessions back where they belong and hightail it off our common ground.
It isn’t until dinner that Thea appears again, thanks to the intoxicating smell of garlic bread.
Her head swivels slowly from side to side, the way she would look before crossing the street.
My heart hurts for her; I remember that gut-wrenching feeling all too well.
The tsunami of nerves churning in my gut, waiting to know my punishment.
“They’re not home,” I call out from where I stand at the stove, stirring the spaghetti into the meat sauce. So many coaches tried to cure me of my love of pasta, but it has weathered every attempt. “We have about thirty minutes. You hungry?”
When Thea says nothing, I glance over my shoulder at her.
She shrugs in response. Well, okay, then.
I prepare our plates and bring them over to the table, which already has parmesan cheese, water, and cans of soda.
Thea makes her way over once I’ve taken my seat, sliding into the spot across from me.
“Did you have a good nap?” I ask her.
She swallows hard. “Couldn’t fall asleep.”
“Because of what happened today?”
She drops her gaze to her plate, clearing her throat before she speaks. “One of the guys said some mean stuff to me. Everyone laughed, and I…snapped.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m sure your uncles won’t agree with me, but it’s good that you stood up for yourself.”
Thea’s gaze locks with mine, an eyebrow arched like she can’t believe the words leaving my mouth. I deposit my silverware onto the plate and lean back into my chair.
“Life is a series of moments where we either let things happen to us or we push back. I only regret the times I let people take my voice or when I ceded my decision-making to someone else. Those moments are the ones I wish I could do over. Sometimes it feels easier not to fight, but I can promise that you’d regret lying down.
You’ll be laughing about this in five years.
Don’t give it a single thought.” I let out a weak laugh.
“Besides, boys can be shitheads. Forget what he said, all right?”
She blows out a breath. “Come on, Isla. It’s not like you could understand.”
My brow furrows. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re beautiful,” she snaps, her arm flying out to the side with the power of her statement. “You could never understand what it’s like to be torn apart like that, to have everyone laugh…” Her voice catches, emotion climbing its way up her throat.
I wait silently to see if she’ll continue, but she picks up her silverware and starts to eat the food.
“No one thought I was beautiful when I was a teenager. Most of all, me. I was bullied for having the body of a boy. I trained so hard that I didn’t get my period until high school.
Every part of me was flat, and because I was in televised competitions and in social media coverage, some guys thought that mocking me was fair game.
Never thinking that I was a person, that words hurt me the same as anyone else. It sucked, but it made me stronger.”
“Really?” she asks, tone flat and skeptical.
“The girls were worse,” I admit. “They talked a lot of crap about how I'd never make it to the Olympics, never amount to anything. They thought I thought I was better than them, which wasn't the case. I was lonely a lot.”
I leave out that it's not so different for me now. At least I have my Athlala crew, who understand the struggle of being a female athlete in a world that often doesn’t give a shit about us, who don’t think we belong in sports. Especially not at our ages.
“You were?”
“Yeah. Figure skating was a solitary sport for me until I moved to pairs. I’m happy you have a team of girls to support you.
” I crack open my soda can, the delicious sound of fizzy pop echoing around us.
“No one warns you that life doesn't get easier; the challenges change.
That's why it's important to surround yourself with people you trust, who love you, and tune out the rest.”
Thea nods in understanding, her shoulders relaxing out of their hiked position. “It’s weird. You made that seem…uplifting?”
I snort. “That might be my favorite compliment ever.”
“Was that a compliment?”
My chest squeezes at the sight of her smile.
“Excuse me.” I toss a napkin her way, and she laughs.
Thea swallows a bite of garlic bread. “So, there were never any…”
“Never what?”
She shakes her head, color creeping into her cheeks. “Boys you liked who liked you, or whatever?”
Against my will, I think of the boy with soft brown eyes and softer lips who knelt beside me when he found me crying. I’d always wished for someone kind who could make me laugh, and who liked being around me.
“I didn't have my first kiss until I was sixteen, and I didn't go on a date until after high school.”
Thea holds her fork up to her mouth, pauses. “Why didn’t you date the guy you kissed?”
“I, um, well—” I stop abruptly to clear my throat. “I don’t know. It didn’t end up working out. He didn’t live near me and—”
She cuts me off. “How did you meet?”
I’ve never talked about my night with teenage Wes Davidson with anyone.
Part of me didn’t want to let anyone else in on what had been the most memorable day of my life until that point.
The other part of me didn’t know if anyone would believe the story, and I didn’t want to defend it.
I didn’t want anyone to say a damn word about it, to ruin it. It was perfect, and it was mine.
“One of my skating tournaments. He was there for his brother. He gave me his phone number, but my phone was stolen in the Newark Airport security line. It hadn’t yet synced my latest action, so his number vanished into the ether.”
Wes never told me his last name, only that his brother was a figure skater. I tried the combinations of his name with every skater from the competition, but came up empty. The inexplicable stroke of luck slipped through my fingers like water, leaving its imprint, but nothing else, behind.
“It was a chance meeting,” I conclude, resting my jaw in my open palm. “Anyway, everything got better for me after high school. It is not true that these are your best years, Thea. The best years are the ones you choose.”
“Hey.” The sound of Wes’s rough voice jolts me. How long has he been listening to us?
Thea tenses in her seat. “Hi,” she mumbles into her plate of food, eyes downcast to hide from him.
Slowly—oh, so slowly—I turn toward the sound that sent goosebumps down my arms. He looks more casual than I’ve ever seen him, in faded light-wash jeans and a form-fitting plain white T-shirt.
His hair looks wind-tossed in the best way possible, the tips of his longest strands barely grazing his trapezius muscles.
His sun-kissed cheeks stand out stark against his dark beard.
He looks good.
The thought is far from a recent realization, but I keep trying to ignore it.
The longer he holds my gaze, the more I’m starting to wonder why I ever thought staying away from him was a good idea.
Since our unfortunate incident in the parking lot, Wes has only helped me—first with the figure skating lessons gig, and then by hiding me from my father and ex-husband when we were at lunch.
He’s grumpy, but, of all people, I shouldn’t hold that against him.
It hurts a little that he doesn’t remember our kiss. I remember because he was my first, but for him, I was likely one of many. It was so long ago, I don’t know why it bothers me.
“Where’s Spencer?” I ask to break the tension.
“We took separate cars. Needed the space for the move.”
Wes picks up the most adorable ginger cat, crying for his attention from the countertop.
I noticed the litter boxes during my snooping, but these two didn’t make an appearance until their person came home.
The ginger cat nuzzles against his chest, while a larger, black one rubs up against his legs, looking up at him with pure adoration.
His roughness evaporates as he whispers to the cats while bending down to give love to the one at his feet.
I look away, no longer able to take the sight.
“Spence went home to get his beauty rest since you’re on the ice early tomorrow,” he adds.
Fucking hell. There goes my ride home. Spencer’s little comments about Wes and me make me wonder if he went home to force us together.
Wes strides toward us, and Thea jumps like a spooked animal. “Can I be excused to my room?” She mumbles again, but with the silence around us, Wes hears her easily.
His eyebrows draw together, lines etching across his forehead. “Thea, we need to talk about what happened today.”
“But maybe tomorrow?” I chime in, hoping that my suggesting it wouldn’t render it an automatic rejection. “It’s been a long day.”
Thea raises her head to look at Wes. “Tomorrow,” she repeats.
“All right,” he grumbles with obvious reluctance. Maybe he sees beyond his annoyance to the obvious pain on his niece’s face. “Want your usual tea?”
“Duh,” she says with a peek of a smile. “The lemon, with—”
“Honey.” Wes finishes her sentence. “I know. I’ll bring it up in a few.”
Wes walks into the kitchen, beelining for the cabinet to the left of the oven. He gets a tea bag from the box before striding to the opposite side of the kitchen.
“I’ll drive you home if you can wait until she gets settled,” he says as he places a mug in the Keurig. “Shouldn’t be long.”
“Okay,” I say, dumbfounded at this version of Wes, one who doesn’t hold a trace of grumpiness in his tone while talking to me.
When the stream of water ends, he steeps the tea bag before letting it rest in the cup and adds a heathy dose of honey.
He walks toward me, so I step to the side to let him pass.
But he doesn’t, remaining at my side, the scent of lemon tea brewing in the air surrounding us.
There’s also him, a combination of sunscreen and sweat and spice, peeking through the lemon.
I swallow hard when he leans in closer to whisper in my ear, “You were my first kiss, too, Red.”