“Wes, are you and Molly having sex?”
“What! No. Why would you ask that? When she was here did she look like the type of girl who would just spread ’em for anyone? Jeez.”
“Son, I hate to break it to you, but no girl looks like the type when they’re soaking wet, unless of course they’re wearing a swim suit.”
“We are not having sex.”
“Well then, maybe that’s your damn problem.” My dad grins while he rubs the stubble on his chin. He pushes himself off the fridge and checks his watch. “Look, date Molly or don’t date her, but once you start getting off track…” He runs his hand across his throat in a you’re cut off motion. “And for God’s sake, don’t let anyone else influence you, unless it’s your Mom or me.” He laughs at his own joke. “Oh, and Weston? Stop being such a little prick around here. You’re driving us nuts.” He grabs his keys off the counter and walks into the living room to bellow up the stairs. “Kendall, let’s get rolling. You have soccer in twenty.”
And that, folks, is about as warm and fuzzy as it gets with Brian McGrath. He and Kendall leave, and I’m still standing in the kitchen in the same spot where he left me. I run a hand over my face just as my stomach growls.
Resigned, I sigh loudly, dig my cell out of the back pocket of my cargo shorts, and text the only person I can think of who will be around.
CHAPTER 29
MOLLY
“What you put up with, you end up with.”
– Mrs. Wakefield
I am starving.
And pathetically, I am at the one place where I shouldn’t be. Not only that, but I’m alone. Completely and utterly alone. I couldn’t even convince Jenna to take pity on me enough to come along. That traitor.
She tossed me over for Alex, who has a band concert tonight.
Yeah, that’s right, you heard me correctly.
A band concert.
What’s even worse: Alex doesn’t even play a manly instrument. Nope. He plays the clarinet, and hey, no offense to any of you clarinet players, but come on, he’s a guy. Although now that I think about it, the guy does wear skinny jeans…
Whatever, Jenna hates noodles anyway.
I pull the romance book out of my bag—it’s been weeks since I’ve had time to read anything—and slap it on the table, followed by my iPod and cell phone. Tucked away in a corner booth, I don’t know how I ended up at Kyoto, but my Jeep—of its own accord, mind you—seemed to be on autopilot, because before I even knew what was happening, I was driving myself here. Call me crazy. Call me a glutton for punishment. I just couldn’t seem to help myself.
So here I sit, admittedly a little glum. Cracking open my book, which shall remain nameless—the title is simply too embarrassing to reveal—I lean back and settle in, forking my plate idly to let the steam out of my heaping pile of veggies and noodles. The steam rises to drift up to the hanging lamp above, and I can’t resist musing that if Weston were here, he wouldn’t hesitate to shove a forkful into his impatient mouth.
I smile ruefully as my phone pings and the new text, not surprisingly, is from Jenna.
Her: Help. Seriously. I want to poke my eyes out.
Me: Awww, what a good gf u are
Jenna: This isn’t funny. Omg did u know rachel davenport plays the tuba? Shoot me now.
No, actually I didn’t know Rachel Davenport played the tuba. Yeah, it is a rather odd choice for someone so short, but what do I care?
Me: U really should be paying more attention. Tsk tsk
Jenna: I hate you.
Chuckling, I get back to my book and give my noodles a little poke every now and again, my stomach growling in protest. It wants to eat. Huffing a sigh at myself for my own impatience, I lean forward and pick up my fork. As I’m slowly twirling the long whole-wheat noodles around the tines, I glance up briefly toward the door and swear my eyes are playing a horrible, hideous trick on me. Since God has never answered my previous prayers about opening up the earth and letting it swallow me whole, I don’t even bother chanting the request in my head.
I look up at the door again and rub my eyes with my free hand.
Nope, this is not a dream.
It’s a nightmare.
Weston and his buddies are most definitely standing in the entry of the restaurant’s dining room, scanning for a free table. At the front of the group, Derek Hanson elbows that guy, Adam Something-or-other, and they both stare in my direction. I slink lower in my seat, grasping and fumbling for my ear buds and shoving them into my ears, hitting the power button on my iPod in a futile attempt to drown out any conversation of theirs I might pick up on.