Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter
Thirty-Two
“What are you doing here, Reagan?”
I don’t expect Wesley to open the door before I even have a chance to knock. His tone is as bitterly cold as the winter wind that whips my snow-speckled hair from my face, and I nervously tug hard on the scarf wound around my neck.
“How did you know I was—”
“I saw you drive up. You’ve been sitting in Ramona’s car for the last fifteen minutes.”
And standing on his grandparents’ porch for the last five.
“Oh.”
His expression is stony, so I try not to let my mind stray to how adorable the rest of him looks standing in front of the cheery wreath hanging on the front door in his red flannels and pullover, his hair messy, and—oh god, it looks like it’s been days since he shaved.
I want to touch his face, where the shadow of a beard grows, but I fist my hands in the pouch of my hoodie.
Wesley’s shoulders are tense, his arms crossed tight. “What do you want?”
I glance briefly to where Mona had parked on the curb, but she’s since driven away, off to occupy herself until I’m through with whatever this is.
I’d first hashed out my plan with her at our coffee date two days ago, which ran so long we were kicked out when the shop closed, after which we walked to the Mexican restaurant next door to continue our teary heart-to-heart over a plate of loaded nachos.
We talked for hours.
About Portland, about Dad, about us, about Wesley—all of it.
I just didn’t want to worry you, Mona said. You take so much responsibility for things you don’t have to. You put so much on your plate.
You keeping secrets from me is what worries me in the first place.
Well, then, if we’re being honest, I’m worried about you. What happened in Vermont, Rea?
There’s still so much left for us to unpack, but it’s a start.
When I showed her the ideas I’d outlined in my notebook and told her about how I wanted to fix things with Wesley, to show up in person and make things right again, she pointed out that Shay had mentioned he was in Massachusetts for the holidays.
“I’ll drive, then,” I said, resolute.
Her expression softened. “It’s supposed to snow.”
I hate driving in the snow. Despite living here all my life, after Mona’s accident, I’m ready to spiral after hitting one patch of ice or a slick spot of road. It had been a testament to how angry I was that I’d managed to white-knuckle my way home from Vermont.
Then it was Mona’s turn to become resolute. “I’ll drive you, Rea. Let me help. Let me be the big sister this time.”
My heart swells at the memory, even as my hands begin to shake. I take in a breath that grounds me back in the present moment and meet Wesley’s gaze. “I want to play a game.”
His eyes jump away from mine, dull, annoyed. He shakes his head. “I don’t think I have it in me to play any more games with you, Reagan.”
I nod quickly, my throat tight. “I understand. I—I made something for you. You could play it by yourself, or with others, or not at all, if you don’t want to.”
Silence wraps tightly around us. I keep my eyes on my boots where they stand on the Ho Ho Ho! doormat, poised right at the threshold.
Not without an invitation.
Finally, I look up. “I fucked up, Wes. Badly. I came here to apologize.”
I count the seconds that pass—eleven, twelve, thirteen—before Wesley sighs. He takes a step back and gestures me inside. I don’t see Lynn or Stuart as we take a sharp left and ascend the stairs, and Wesley leads me into his room.
It’s a paler, sweeter, more pastel version of the room he has at Colin’s, with a double bed topped with a green-and-blue quilt.
The walls display old pictures of Wesley I’m desperate to scrutinize, as well as posters of games and movies not so different from the ones I loved as a kid.
The desk is bare save for his laptop, which glows with Blood Pact’s signature red, black, and white style.
He’s had all month to work on it, I realize. It looks better than ever.
Without saying anything, I gently nudge his laptop to the side and pull my own out of my tote bag. I snap it open, click through a few prompts on my screen, and gesture for Wesley to sit.
When he does, I lean over his shoulder to navigate the cursor. When my forearm brushes his elbow, I dart a glance at him and flinch away. But Wesley doesn’t react, just sits stone-faced as my laptop screen fills with a familiar battle map.
It’s a digital re-creation of the map he used for our last session, when the party was fighting Vadrien. There are tokens for each character—party members, skeletons, and Vadrien—arranged carefully across it.
He frowns. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”
“It’s a digital D his eyes widen, his brows lift to disappear beneath the fall of his hair, and his lips part in a small surprised “O.”
“I didn’t know how to handle it,” I continue. “I didn’t know how to carry something that suddenly felt so big and momentous and different, and—I fucked it up. I didn’t trust it. I let it go. And I’m sorry for it.”
The silence that fills the space between us feels like a tangible thing, like a weight pressing down and keeping us apart. It’s so thick that even when Wesley speaks at a whisper, it sounds like he’s yelling. “You didn’t fuck it up.”
My vision grows blurry, and I try to blink away the building tears. “Didn’t I?”
Where he’d folded his hands tightly in his lap, they now fall open, palms up, on his thighs. He lifts one toward me. “There were things I said that I also regret. But no, Reagan. You didn’t fuck it up.” The corner of his lip twitches. “Not irreversibly.”
I look out the window. It’s snowing again. I can’t bear to look at him, like staring at that bright hope for too long would blind me as surely as would staring at the sun. But gently, he circles his hand around my wrist and draws me close to him.
He’s smiling—just a little—when I finally look back at him. He glances to my laptop. “It still needs a lot of work,” he finally says.
I nod. “Yes.”
His eyes flash up to mine. “We could work on it together.”
I’m blinking rapidly, but it’s no use—the tears fall anyway, twin streams of warmth down my cheeks.
“Yes,” I say quietly, ignoring the wobble in my voice. “I’d like that.”