Chapter 15 To Hell With Brules （Wesley）
TO HELL WITH brULES (WESLEY)
The building’s all brick and attitude, windows cracked to let the air in. Up two flights, a hand-painted sign waits: HARLEM MOVEMENT FUND—FREE MODERN I stuffed it with my own bullshit. ”
Her eyes shimmer, her throat working. “Wes—”
“I’m not done.” My pulse pounds. “We don’t owe our parents a damn thing except respect.
You don’t have to become a replica of them.
You slipped into an alter ego because that’s the only way to change.
It’s the only way you could breathe. I should’ve understood that instead of treating you like a con. ”
She lets out a watery laugh, half sob, half joke. “Disassembling the social order before breakfast again, Alaska?”
“Only when it’s standing between you and me.”
Her laugh fades. She twists the cap on her water bottle until it squeaks.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything.
I kept persuading myself it wasn’t relevant—that what mattered was what we were, not where I came from.
” She shakes her head, a small, helpless motion.
“I didn’t expect it to get real. And then Alaska happened, and it was real, and I panicked too. ”
The silence stretches, soft and sharp all at once.
“I wanted you to stay that night,” she whispers finally. “Even if you were angry. Even if you hated me.” Her voice cracks. “I kept waiting for you to come back. To knock on the door. To tell me we could fix it.”
“I’m sorry.” The words catch in my throat. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve told you that I love you.”
She goes still. “What?”
“I love you.” I say it slower this time.
“I don’t care whose daughter you are or what zip code raised you.
” I take a breath, steady but wrecked. “I want the woman who built her own name from scratch and spends her inheritance on kids who can’t afford dance lessons.
The one who decides how she shows up in the world. ”
A tear escapes, quick, rebellious. “I love you too.” Her voice is shaky but sure. “Please forgive me, Wesley. I was the worst kind of idiot.”
I step in, closing that last inch between us. My hand finds her jaw, my thumb catching the tear before it can fall. “Hey,” I murmur, rough. “You’re not an idiot. You’re mine.”
Her breath hitches.
“I forgive you,” I tell her, and I mean it so hard it feels like bone setting. “All of it. Every version. The girl in the hoodie, the girl in diamonds, the girl who thought she had to handle everything alone. I get all of them, or I don’t want the deal.”
Her mouth trembles. “You still want me?”
I huff out something like a laugh. “I never stopped.”
Then I kiss her.
Not hungry, not showy, just sure. A seal. Her hands fist in my shirt like she’s steadying herself and then melting at the same time, and I feel that exhale all the way down to my ribs.
When I pull back, her forehead rests against mine. Her lashes are wet. Her voice is barely air. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing platinum. The ring feels heavier this time—earned, not borrowed.
My hands shake. Never been nervous before a puck drop in my life.
“I know this is fast. We’re new. The bullshit rule says we’re supposed to wait, let time do its thing, hit milestones in the right order.” I meet her eyes. “And maybe you’ll say no. Maybe it’s too soon, too much, too—”
“Wesley—”
“Let me finish.” My voice roughens. “Those rules were written by people who never met us. We don’t have to play by what makes sense to anyone else. We call our own game.”
I take out the band. “Wear my ring, Josephine Osgood Yardley Preston.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “What?”
“Marry me, Joy,” I say. “We rip the tag off this time. No refunds.”
She stares up at me—sweaty, trembling, eyes full of everything I lost and might still deserve.
For a second, the world holds still. Then she steps closer, slides her hand into mine, and smiles through the tears.
“You’re still off-beat, pretty boy,” she murmurs.
“Then teach me your count.”
Her laugh breaks open—bright, wrecked, alive.
She lets me slip the ring on, and the mirrors catch us—two idiots standing in a room full of light, doing it right this time.