Chapter 17 Weston
WESTON
Idon’t know what throwback lo-fi indie rock song is blasting through the backyard stereos right now, but it kind of sucks.
“God, Wills. Who made this playlist?”
She gasps, turning around to face me. “Weston, you cannot talk shit about Surf Curse around here. My dad is very passionate about his music tastes.” She swivels her head around the backyard, even though nobody is out here but us. “You’d better hope he didn’t hear you.”
I can only smile at her, bemused. She’s still glancing around dramatically, before her gaze snags mine and she freezes. She tilts her head, the freckles on her nose dance when she grins, perplexed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re dorky.” I smirk, and when her mouth drops open, I add, “In a funny way. A good way.”
“Me?” she claims, placing a hand on her hip. “I’m dorky? You’re the biggest dork I’ve ever met in my entire life.” She flails her arms in the air, and the theatrical display of her reaction only proves my point further, causing me to laugh harder.
“I guess we’re in good company then,” I say, because I don’t think she’s wrong about me either. I also don’t think any other person I’ve known my entire life would describe me as dorky, and yet with Willow, it makes perfect sense.
I’ve never had the opportunity to be myself like this before knowing Willow—maybe I’ve been an undercover dork this whole time.
Her features relax, though her pert nose remains scrunched, dimples on display, and blue eyes blazing in the early afternoon sun.
She tosses her long, loose braids over her shoulders, revealing the writing on her cut-off white tee: Baby, I’m your national anthem.
Two red-and-blue fireworks are stitched into the fabric, right over where I imagine her nipples would be.
My gaze glides down her body, over her high-waisted denim cut-offs, her hand still placed firmly on her hip, nails painted red, white, and blue.
She’s wearing high-top red Converse painted with multicolored fireworks and . . . hot dogs?
The look is vintage and entirely Willow. She pulls it off flawlessly.
As I lift my eyes, they get stuck again on those two fireworks. Almost as if the shirt is taunting me, forcing me to ponder whether they’re strategically placed, and what may be underneath them.
Willow clears her throat, and my gaze snaps to her face. She smirks at me knowingly, then tosses her head in the direction of the big house’s porch. I follow the movement, gut plummeting when I find Leo leaning over the railing, watching me with a frown.
“Well?” he calls.
“What?” I ask, realizing if he’d been talking I certainly did not hear him.
He scoffs, rolling his eyes so dramatically I can see it from where I stand at the center of the yard. Willow giggles, slipping past me. My skin lights on fire when her shoulder brushes my arm. “I have to go pick up Allie. I’ll come find you when I get back.”
I can’t help myself from peeking over my shoulder to watch her walk away.
“Weston,” Leo snaps, pulling me back to him. “Can you help me with these ice chests?”
“Absolutely.” I salute him lamely, immediately regretting it when he only responds with a bewildered crinkle in his eyes and curl of his lip before beckoning me to follow him inside the house.
The entire property is teeming with people. From the back deck, it’s almost like a sea of them expands below me, all the movement like rippling water. I stick to Willow’s side like she’s a fucking buoy and I’m desperately holding on, waiting for the storm to pass.
She doesn’t seem to mind, though. She’s velcroed herself to me too.
We spent the first hour chatting with Carter and Penelope while most of the other guests arrived, and after briefly greeting Macie and Dom, Allie’s parents, Willow whisked me away. She turns from the drink table set up against the side of the house, extending a cup to me.
“Oh, I don’t drink alcohol—”
“I know.” She snorts. “You’re a child. It’s soda. Sugar-free or whatever.”
“I turn twenty-one in three months, Willow,” I deadpan. “I don’t drink because I come from a family with alcoholism. I plan on never starting to begin with. But thank you for the soda. Sugar-free or whatever.” I wink.
Her eyes flicker with understanding, features turning from playful to solemn. “I respect that.” She lifts her cup to her mouth, before pausing. “Does it bother you if I drink alcohol?”
“No, but I do have a criminal record, so I can’t be seen with delinquents. Are you twenty-one yet?”
Her lips quirk. “I turned twenty-one on May twenty-eighth.”
Damn. That was just over a month ago. I was already living here at the time, and I had no idea. “Sorry I missed it. I didn’t know.”
She shrugs, taking a sip of her drink. “It wasn’t a memorable birthday, anyway. Allie made me a cake and we ate it in bed. It’s um . . . It’s been a rough couple of months.” She huffs an exasperated laugh. “But according to Taylor Swift, twenty-two is the year that really counts.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’ve heard nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three,” I say, referencing the old blink-182 song.
She chokes on her drink, coughing with laughter. I can’t stop the proud smile that springs to my lips at her reaction. I know this summer hasn’t been easy on her, battling with her feelings regarding her assault and the heartbreak that fell out from it, but right now isn’t the time to dwell on it.
“Wait . . .” I grip her forearm as the realization dawns on me. “Zero-five-two-eight is the code to the guesthouse. I’ve been typing in your birthday every day for weeks to unlock my door and I had no idea.”
She snorts, placing her hand over mine where it holds her. “My dad changed the code before you moved in—for your privacy. It used to be my mom’s birthday. Eleven-eleven.”
She laughs again. “You should be careful, Weston. I could break in and watch you sleep now.”
I bite my inner cheek, raising a brow. “Maybe you should.”
She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the flush to her cheeks before she grabs my hand, twining her fingers through my own. If it were any other person, I’d pull away, but with Willow, the gesture is comfort in a distressing environment. “C’mon,” she says. “I want to introduce you to Zander.”
She drags me down the porch steps, weaving us through the crowd.
The air is thick with the smell of the grill and the sound of mingling laughter, mixed with Leo’s shitty music drumming in the background of it all.
The sun sinks low on the horizon, blinding everything in gold.
The way Willow’s hair catches the light almost makes it glow, and I’m sure if I saw her eyes right now, they’d be a blazing aquamarine.
“Did you meet August and Elena yet?” she asks, stopping at the edge of the property. I follow her gaze to the couple sitting together on a lounge chair facing the cliffside.
Both dark-haired and heavily tattooed, she sits between his legs as he props himself on the chair, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. She laughs into his neck as they watch the sunset, as if the raging party going on just a few feet behind them doesn’t exist at all.
“Yeah, I met them briefly when Everett showed me around the boardwalk and introduced me to everyone on my first day.” Elena, Willow’s aunt, owns the bookstore two doors down from Heathen’s, and August, her partner, owns the tattoo shop beside it.
“Okay, great.” She continues on in search of her cousin, Zander, I assume. “She’s the person to go to if you need a good romance book recommendation. You should definitely let August tattoo you before the summer is over too.”
“I don’t read romance, and I’m afraid of needles.”
She halts, whipping around. Stray strands of her hair blow in the breeze as she scowls in my direction. “You should absolutely read romance. Everyone should read romance.”
I pop a brow. “And why is that?”
“All women should read romance so they have a bar to set their standards, all men should read romance so they can learn how to properly please a woman. That’s what Elena says.”
“Hmm,” I muse. “Maybe you can give me a list of your favorites?”
Her eyes flare, cheeks turning the sweetest shade of pink.
“Oh?” I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, grinning. “Or are you a little hesitant to let me see what books you enjoy most, Wills? Are they the real filthy ones?”
What the fuck has gotten into me?
When Willow becomes bashful, it spurs me on. Makes me outspoken and . . . allured? I’m not sure. It stirs something in my core that I’ve never felt before. A warmth. A hunger.
“I don’t think we’re going to judge my choices in literature when you’re afraid of a little tattoo needle, Weston,” she snaps back, as if attempting to hide how flustered I’ve made her. “And if anything, you couldn’t handle what I read.”
She’s probably not wrong. I step into her, dropping my head, leaning close enough to whisper against the shell of her ear, “Guess you better get me that list, so we can test the theory, yeah?”
She trembles when I breathe against her skin, and I’m fucking giddy as I brush past her. So much so that I don’t even realize I don’t know where I’m going or who I’m looking for.
Thankfully, an outrageously tall, broad, olive-toned guy around my age rounds the corner of the garage. He lifts his arm, yelling Willow’s name, eyes trained on her behind me, and I assume I’m heading in the right direction.
Willow buzzes past me, walking into his massive open arms. He kisses the top of her head, and my stomach pinches.
Suddenly, I’m antsy with the need to confirm this man is, in fact, Willow’s cousin.
She steps back from him, taking a place beside me as she brushes her hand over mine where they hang between our bodies, linking our fingers together again.
“Z, this is Weston. The surfer my dad is training this summer.”
I let out a sigh of relief, extending my hand toward him. “Nice to meet you.”
He tosses me a breezy grin, returning the shake. “You too, dude.”