Page 26 of Better Than the Movies
I reached for the door handle. “Forever?Not a chance.”
“You’re not listening. I’m talking about me providing my expertise in getting him to prom you up. Our current arrangement was just for me to let you ride along to a party. What I’m talking about would be me giving you insider info, working on Michael for you, giving you helpful hints, fashion advice, etcetera.”
“Fashion advice?” I snorted.
“That’s right, fashion advice. Etcetera. For example, if you’re going to a party and you want Michael to think you’re hot, dress like it instead of a waitressed Doris Day.”
“A waitressed Doris Day sounds like an excellent aesthetic, for your information, but honestly, I can’t get over the fact that you know who Doris Day is.”
“What? My grandma likesPillow Talk.”
I loved that movie. Maybe there was hope for Wes yet.
“She also likes pickled pig’s feet and attempting to escape her retirement home.”
Ah. There it was.
He flipped his keys around his finger. “So…? Are you in?”
I took a deep breath. If he could help me with Michael, I’d give him The Spot, along with the moon and the stars and possibly a kidney. I inhaled and said, “I’m in.”
“Good girl.” He got out of the car, slammed the door, andcame around to my side just as I was closing mine. He leaned down a little and murmured, “I’m going to love my Forever Spot, by the way.”
I rolled my eyes. Incorrigible boy. “You don’t have to walk me to the door, Wes.”
He took the bag from my hand anyway. “Come on—it’s not every day that a guy has the chance to carry a girl’s sack full of vomity clothes to the door for her.”
“True.” That made me smile to the point of a laugh. “Although, I sure hope I can manage to hold up my own pants without your help.”
“I doubt you can—I literally saved your ass at the party.”
He walked beside me up to my house, and I could smell his cologne. It smelled good and fresh, and an ad exec would probably say it had “notes of pine,” but I nearly stumbled as I realized that I recognized it as his. That was Wes’s scent, plain and simple. So… when hadthatknowledge occurred? I must’ve subconsciously noticed it during our parking dustups, or perhaps he’d been wearing it since puberty.
But when we got to the porch and he handed me the bag, I looked up at his face and was overcome by the feeling that I was waking from a dream or something. Because how else did it make sense that I’d just left a beer party at the mansion of one of the populars and now Wes Bennett was on my porch—and we weren’t arguing?
But the most surreal part of it—by far—was that it didn’t necessarily feel wrong. It kind of felt like the start of something.
I said, “Thanks for the clothes and… well, everything. You were way cooler than I expected.”
“Of course I was.” He gave me a smile then, a smile that was different from all the others he’d ever given me. It was a nice smile, genuine like the one he’d used with his friends at the party. I didn’t mind being looked at like that by him. He said, “Don’t forget to wash your dirty uniform before your next shift. I imagineTheDiner probably takes great pride in their employees’ appearances.”
I smiled back at him. “I’ll kill you if you ever tell.”
“My lips are sealed, Libby.”
The next morning at work, I was feeling positive about the whole outing as I replayed it in my mind. I mean, yes—I got vomited on, Mr. Right thought my adorable dress was a job uniform, and oh, yeah, he also thought I was still a “weirdy” (I hoped that was Wes’s personal term and not one that had ever left Michael’s lips in reference to me)—but those were the only negatives.
Yes, I had an outrageously unrealistic optimistic nature.
Michael had also seemed fairly interested in attending prom, so I still had a chance. Especially with Wes helping to illuminate the non-weird, once-was-a-caterpillar-but-is-now-a-beautiful-butterfly Liz.
“Jeff?” I said the name loudly, and a silver-haired customer in red suspenders and matching red sneakers walked in my direction with two books in his hand.
He stopped at the counter and held out his claim ticket. Igrabbed it and said, “We can give you twenty-four dollars for your records.”
His furry eyebrows squinched together like two caterpillars, and his lips flattened. “Twenty-four dollars? I know for a fact that the Humperdinck album is worth at least that much by itself.”
“You’re probably right,” I started, desperately wanting to roll my eyes. Old record dudes were the worst. They always knew what their LPs were worth to other old record dudes, and consistently argued with me when I offered them half of what we could actually sell them for. “But at this store, we’ll only be able to get a fraction of that for it. You’re certainly welcome to hold on to it, if you think you can sell it online for more.”
