He frowned. “I never said you were.”

“We’d both probably be better off if you just returned to life as normal, and left me alone.”

He winced, like my words had physically hurt him. “That’s bullshit. You don’t really feel that way, do you?”

“I don’t know how I feel!”

“Neither do I!” he said, wheezing. He pulled his inhaler from his pocket and took a puff. After a few moments, he began again, this time calmer. “I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. And I feel like . . . I feel like you’re the only person in the world that doesn’t expect me to. What I do know is that I wasn’t happy about the direction my life was going until you got into my truck that first night. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Erin. I’m just . . . I’m winging it. I was kinda hoping you would wing it with me.”

Despite every negative thought running through my head, my lips curved up.

He slowly pulled me against his chest and hugged me. His muscles were both soft and hard. My head fit perfectly beneath his chin. We stood like that for what seemed like a long while. He smelled like sweat, but the good kind of sweat. He could have smelled like the weird stuff that was fermenting in the floor drain, and I still would have liked it.

“I better get back up there,” I said, my cheek still against his chest. He was a whole head taller than my five foot three inches, and I was glaringly aware of his fingers on my back, wrapping around to the side of my ribs. We had never been this close, even though I’d imagined what it must have felt like many times before.

He pulled away. “I’ll see you later?”

“I have homework.”

“Bring it with you.”

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I guess I can do that. If you leave me alone and let me finish.”

“You won’t even know I’m there.”

He pushed through the door, and when it slammed behind him, I ran to the front, nearly smacking Frankie in the face with the swinging door.

Weston jogged to his truck, climbed in, and sped off, pausing for only a moment before pulling out onto Main Street.

Frankie watched me expectantly.

I shrugged.

“So he’s your knight in shining armor, now?” she asked.

My face screwed up into disgust. “No. I told him I don’t need to be saved. And you should already know that about me by now.”

She smirked. “But it’s kinda nice to be defended.”

I tried not to smile, but lately it was impossible not to.

“I like him,” Frankie said. “And so do you. But in a completely different way.”

I made a face. “You have a vivid imagination.”

“You’re different since he started hangin’ around.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, rolling my eyes and reaching for the closest rag.

“Well, you don’t hate him.”

I scrubbed the sink without actually paying attention to what I was doing. “Not today.”

~*~

When we closed the Dairy Queen and walked out the back door, the red pickup wasn’t parked in the back. It wasn’t anywhere.

“I thought y’all had plans?” Frankie asked.

I shrugged.

“Ride?”

I shook my head and walked home. My hand touched the handle on our dirty screen door. I waited for the sound of his engine, but heard nothing. Soul Asylum drifted through the walls, and I was glad. If I was going to be stood up by Weston, I didn’t want to have to deal with Gina, too.

I pushed through the door and headed straight back to my room. It felt lonelier than usual. A loud knocking came from the front door, and I rolled my eyes, assuming it was one of Gina’s friends or her dealer, coming over to party. A few seconds later, Gina appeared in my doorway, her heavy mascara was smeared, the whites of her eyes bright red and glassy. She was still in her supermarket apron and her name badge was hanging crooked from her white polo shirt.

“It’s for you.” Her face mirrored my confusion.

I nodded and stood up, walking into the front room. I stopped in the middle of the carpet. Weston was standing in the front doorway, his hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket. The body of the coat was maroon-dyed wool, and a big Chenille B was stitched to the left side, outlined in white. Weston’s jacket was almost too busy with everything he’d lettered in during his high school career, especially with the numerous patches on his leather sleeves. I’d never wanted a letterman, and it was weird to see someone wearing one in my living room.

Gina stood next to me, gawking at him. She scratched her arm and nodded toward him. “Who is he?”

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.