Jamie McGuire - Happenstance

Weston held out his hand. “Weston Gates, ma’am. I’m a friend of Erin’s.”

Gina hesitated, but she finally shook his hand then looked to me. “Are you going somewhere?”

I nodded.

“Erin was going to help me with my homework.” He lied seamlessly, as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Oh,” Gina said, satisfied. That probably made sense to her, because she couldn’t fathom someone like Weston Gates wanting anything else from me.

I rushed to my room to change and gathered my things. A minute later, I was behind Weston, hurrying him outside. Once we got into his truck, I sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t have done that. I didn’t want you to see my house.”

“Why not?”

“It’s filthy. It smells.”

“All I smelled was weed. Your mom is baked,” he said, amused. When he realized I wasn’t, he reached over for my forearm. “Hey. It’s a house, Erin. It’s not a big deal. I don’t care where you live.”

“It’s just humiliating,” I said, wiping a tear away. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

Weston pulled away from the curb, his jaw working under his skin. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, Erin, I’m sorry. I thought it was nicer than picking you up from the DQ. I thought I’d introduce myself to your mom.”

“She’s not my mom,” I said staring out the window.

“Huh?”

“Her name is Gina.”

“Are you adopted?”

“No. But,” I looked over at him, “do you ever get the feeling that you belong somewhere else?”

“All the time,” he said, sounding exhausted.

“I’ve never felt like her daughter. Not even when I was little.”

“Maybe it’s because she’s the way she is? She doesn’t seem like the mom type.”

“She’s not.”

“Then it makes sense that you would feel that way.”

We weren’t driving out of town like we usually did. Instead, we were driving to the south side, where many of the doctors and attorneys lived. Weston’s parents built a huge house on a lot there when we were in middle school. He pulled into his driveway and under the arch that attached the house to one of the garages. The spot was enclosed by garage doors, the side of the house, and a gate to the backyard.

When he turned off the engine, I shook my head. “I’m not going in there.”

“Oh, quit it,” Weston said, pressing the garage door opener.  Hopping down, he slammed his door and then jogged around to my side, opening my door with a wide grin. When I didn’t budge, his face fell. “Don’t be such a baby.”

I slowly climbed down and followed him into the garage and through a door. The house was dark, but a television was on somewhere. The dim blue light grew brighter as we approached the kitchen.

“Weston?” a woman called.

“I’m home, Mom!” he called back. He slipped my backpack off my shoulders and set it on the counter.

“Weston, what are you doing?” I said through my teeth, getting angrier by the second.

His mother walked into the kitchen, her highlighted hair and oval face accentuating her amazing green eyes. It was clear who Weston favored. She stopped, surprised to see me. I wanted to crawl under the counter.

“Who’s this?” she said, with fake cheerfulness in her voice.

“Erin Easter.” He looked at me. “This is my mom, Veronica.”

“Nice to meet you,” I choked out.

She gave me a once over, visibly unimpressed with my appearance. Her eyes critically assessed me like I was a parasite that had infiltrated her home and needed to be exterminated. Weston didn’t seem to notice. He opened the pantry, grabbed a bag of chips, a jar of salsa, and two bananas then pulled a couple of cold cans of Cherry Coke from the fridge.

“We’re going downstairs,” he said.

“Weston Allen,” Veronica began.

“Night, Mom,” he said, guiding me in front of him toward a door down the hall. I grabbed my backpack and walked slowly, unsure of where to go.

“This one,” Weston said.

I opened it, and he walked past, using his elbow to flip on the light, revealing a flight of stairs leading to a lower level. When we reached the bottom, we walked into a vast room with couches, a couple of televisions, a gaming system, a wet bar, exercise equipment, a pool table, and an air hockey table.

That one room was bigger than my entire house.

“Whoa,” I said quietly, letting Weston lead me to the couch.

“This is my space. They won’t bug us down here.” He unscrewed the lid of the salsa, and the bag of tortilla chips crackled as he unrolled it. “You hungry?”

“I’ll take that banana,” I said, pointing.

He tossed it to me. “I’ll wait.”

“For what?”

“Until you finish your homework. I’m going to find us a movie to watch.”

I watched him while he pushed buttons on the remote without looking at them, turning on the DVR and browsing the movies on demand. I pulled out my textbook. A piece of notebook paper stuck out from the page I needed, and I worked on the nine questions I had left to answer. It took only about fifteen minutes to finish, and Weston remained quiet, keeping his word.

Once I closed my book and packed away my things, he excitedly returned his focus to me. “Do you want to watch Triple Thunder, or The Dark House on the Hill?”

“Both sound equally . . . entertaining.”

“Triple Thunder it is.” He pushed a button on the remote, and the screen turned black for a moment. He chose a few more options; then the movie began, opening with a sweaty guy running for his life in a desert.

Halfway through the movie, Weston leaned back against the couch cushion, his size twelves crossed at the ankle on top of the ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. I had a more difficult time relaxing.

Weston looked over at me, back at the television, and then back at me.

“What?”

“You’re so uptight. Do you want me to take you home?”

“I just . . . I don’t think your mom likes that I’m here. And I . . .”

Weston’s phone chirped. Alder’s name lit up the display. He read the text in less than a second, then shot one back.

“What if your mom mentions to Alder that I was here?”

“She won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“She doesn’t want Alder to be mad at me. She’s already envisioning Gates-Alderman grandchildren.”

My face screwed into disgust. “You should probably take me home.”

He sat up. “Why? You don’t like the movie?”

“It’s not okay for me to be here. You have a girlfriend, and we’re . . .”

“Sneaking around?” Weston said with a sweet grin. “Fine.” He picked up his phone.

“What are you doing?” I asked while he tapped out a message.

“Breaking up with Alder.”

I grabbed his phone and held it away from him. “Are you trying to make things worse?”

“No. But you telling me you won’t hang out with me because of a girl I don’t even like anymore . . . that’s an easy fix.”

“Why would you stay with someone you don’t like for five years?”

He shrugged. “Something to do, I guess. She’s not ugly.”

“No,” I said, sighing. “She’s not. You sound like a huge asshole right now.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“No, you can just take me home.”

He groaned, and then sat up, facing me. “My parents have been married for twenty years, and they don’t really like each other.” He paused, and when he realized I wasn’t satisfied, he continued, “I liked her at first, but I never liked the way she treated people. You, in particular. When I talked to her about you, she just seemed to treat you worse. But every time I thought about breaking it off with her, the drama I knew would follow didn’t sound all that appealing.”

“Five years is a long time,” I said.

“You have no idea.”

“So are you just going to wait until you leave for college?”

“That was the plan, but now I kind of want to do it sooner.” He leaned toward me, and I leaned away. He snorted. “You’re really going to make me do this by the book, aren’t you?”

“I’m not making you do anything,” I said, handing him back his phone.

“You’re making me miss this movie.”

I glanced at the television. “It’s paused.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said with a smile, pushing a button. The violence ensued, along with screaming, gun shots, and helicopter blades whirring in the air. Weston settled back into the cushions again, and I did the same.

He looked down at his phone, still in his hand. “What’s your number, anyway?”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Landline?”

“Nope.”

Weston frowned, but kept his eyes on the television screen. “Do you like hanging out with me?”

I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right. “Yes?”

“Not because you don’t have anyone else to hang out with?”

“I have other people to hang out with.”

“Frankie?”

“Yes.”

“What if I wasn’t with Alder? Would you . . .?” He stared at the TV.

“Would I what?”

“Let me kiss you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not sure you’d enjoy it.”

He turned to me. “What makes you say that?”

“I haven’t had a lot of practice. None, actually.” I could feel my face heat up. I preferred to tell the truth, but it wasn’t always easy.

“You’ve never kissed anyone before,” he said, as more of a statement than a question.

“So?”

He stared at my lips and readjusted so he could look straight ahead again. “I’m available whenever. If you want to practice.” He was purposefully keeping his face smooth, but he wasn’t doing a very good job because the corner of his mouth kept trying to curl up.

“I don’t want to practice. I want a real first kiss. And not from a guy who’s cheating on his girlfriend.”

He frowned. “I told you I’d break up with her. You don’t want me to.”

“We’d never have a moment of peace. The whole school would freak out, and I’m pretty sure your mom would, too.”

“Is that why you don’t want me to break up with her? Or is it because you just don’t want me?”

I kept quiet, and the air in the room became thick and stuffy. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Weston squirmed while he waited for my answer.

“I’ve thought you were kind of amazing since kindergarten,” I said.

He peeked over at me and grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

With his eyes back on the television, he spoke softly and nervously. “Me, too. About you.”

I nodded, and we watched the rest of the movie without another word.

When it was over, Weston put on his jacket, picked up my backpack, and walked me upstairs. He snatched his keys from the kitchen counter. We made our way outside into the chilly night air. Weston pulled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It was warm and smelled like him, and I pulled it tighter around me. Weston helped me climb into the passenger seat. Before he could round the front of the truck, his parents came outside to talk to him.

Their conversation immediately looked tense, and Weston kept stealing glances at me. He put his hands on his hips, shifted his weight nervously, and shook his head a lot. He was beginning to look angry. I wished he didn’t have automatic windows so I could roll mine down to hear what they were saying.

Finally, his parents turned to go inside, and Weston joined me in the truck.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“Don’t be.”

“No, that’s just fucking rude to do that in front of you. They could have waited.”

“What did they say?”

He shook his head and backed out of the drive. When he pulled onto the street, I reached over and touched my fingertips to his. He intertwined his fingers in mine.

“What did they say, Weston?”

He sighed. “They’re concerned about my new friend. They don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be spending time alone with you because of Alder.”

“They’re right.”

He squeezed my fingers. “I can’t give you up now. When we spend time together, I feel this peace that I don’t get when you’re not around. It’s kind of like when you’re a kid, and you put on fresh PJs after a bath and get into a made bed with clean sheets straight out of the dryer. That’s what being with you feels like.”

My eyebrows lifted, and a surprised, appreciative smile swept across my face. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“It shouldn’t be. You’re so good, Erin. You’re just . . . good. You don’t deserve the way they treat you, and I don’t even know why they do it.”