“BeBe, what’s gotten into you? Don’t you want to say hello to West and catch up?”
I stare at my hand and try to devise a strategy to kick his ass this time. Dad might be sick, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let him win.
“Saw him at school. We have a class together.”
“Had,” Weston says. He takes the cold beer from my mother graciously as she looks back and forth between the two of us. “She’s dropping it, right, Crosby?”
We are so screwed. Not to mention, completely obvious.
“I don’t know. I thought it was kind of fun. Tried a lot of new things I’ve never done before.”
“You should take Weston’s class, dear,” my mother says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “I think you could learn a lot from him.”
“Oh, believe me, I know. I just don’t know what he’d do to me if I couldn’t keep my grades up. I wouldn’t want to pressure him into showing favoritism.”
“I would teach you everything I know,” Weston says stoically.
My mother looks back and forth between the two of us again. She sighs, puts her hand on her hip, and shakes the confusion out of her head. “Honey, do you need your chair?”
My dad is weak from the chemo and barely able to walk. Weston goes to where the wheelchair is folded, over by the bookcases, and gets to work readying it for my father like he’s done it a million times before. My dad and Weston grab each other’s forearms as Weston pulls him to standing and lowers him into the chair.
“Thanks, West,” my dad says as he gives West a one-armed hug.
“Of course, Jim,” West replies. He hugs my dad back. I think I’m gonna cry. He has done it a million times. West loves them like I do.
I blink back the tears and look at Weston with humble gratitude. I wheel my father into the kitchen, and West follows behind us.
“Thank you for always being here for us,” I say quietly to West. We walk down the short hallway to the dining room, and he places his hand on top of mine.
“You know how much your dad babysat me when my mom was in graduate school?”
“BeBe wasn’t born yet,” my dad reminds us.
“Least I can do.” Weston shrugs, like his dedication to my family isn’t above and beyond. My heart swells like a submerged sponge, my insides are mush, and my loins are still on fire, remembering his touch from earlier today. On his desk. His suit, tie, and glasses. Weston is perfect. He’s better than perfect, he’s a gold mine, and I’d be stupid to let him slip away. I don’t care if it’s messy. This is us, and maybe it will always be this way. My family will be happy for us—eventually. They have to be. They love him as much as they love me.
I leave my dad at the head of the table where Weston’s removed the chair. My mother brings out a salad and a cutting board with a loaf of bread.
We say a simple grace and then dig into the food.
“You two must have been ecstatic to see each other,” Mom says.
Weston chokes on his soup. I feel my face turning red, and I lower my head to my food.
“What has gotten into you two?” my mother asks. We’re unnerving her with our awkwardness.
“Guess we’re out of touch, Diana. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Weston and our BeBe are smitten with one another.” My dad butters his bread, and his glasses slip down his nose as he looks at me. I turn redder. Weston grabs my hand under the table and squeezes, which causes me to yelp and gulp in air like I forgot how to breathe.
Weston can’t swallow soup, and I can’t pull enough air into my lungs. What a perfect pair of fools we make. We might as well be wearing signs or letters on our foreheads.
Mom looks back and forth between the two of us again.
“Mrs. Dashen—”
“Weston, call me Diana.”
“Diana, it’s true. Crosby and I are… We do, we, uh, have feelings for one another.” Weston is squeezing my sweaty palm so hard under the table it might bruise.
“Is that true, BeBe?” My mother looks incredulous. Then she immediately starts crying and blots the corners of her eyes with a cloth napkin.
“I’m sorry!” I blurt out. “Maybe we can stop.”
“BeBe, honey. Your mother is happy. Those are happy tears, right, Diana?”
My mother nods but doesn’t stop crying. Neither Weston nor I are breathing.
“Does Asa know?” Mom blubbers. Bring back the elephant.
Weston has pulled my hands into his lap and is holding on to both of them.
“He does,” Weston says. I whip my head around quickly. Asa knows? Asa would kill him. The only person more overprotective than Weston is my older brother—the marine.