Page 33 of Better Than the Movies
“Holy balls, it’s like a giant version of your closet.”
I knew he meant it as a dig, but as I headed toward the sale racks in the back, I said, “Thanks.”
“I meant that this feels like a nightmare.”
I ignored him and started flipping through the racks.
“Like an actual nightmare. Monsters and goblins and god-awful flower dresses.”
“Shhh. I’m trying to shop.”
I found a sale shelf and started digging while he leaned against the wall and looked at his phone. Part of me wondered if his incessant teasing was his way of flirting. I mean, from another guy it so would be, but this was Wes. He’d always teased and tormented me, so why would I take it any differently than I had in the past?
It was his way.
“Wow. That dress is so Liz Buxbaum.”
“Hmmm?” I glanced up, and he was pointing at a mannequin.
“That dress. It is so you.”
I followed his point to the mannequin and was totally taken aback. Because to clarify, he wasn’t pointing at just any mannequin. He was pointing atmymannequin, the one who was wearingmyhoundstooth sheath, the dress I’d fallen instantly in love with when it had arrived two weeks before.
The one I’d looked at online no less that twenty times since then.
It was pricey, so I was forcing myself to wait until I could ask my dad to buy it for my birthday, but there was something about the fact that Wes looked at it and thought it was “me” that was… something. It made me happy.
“I actually love that dress.”
“See? I’m incredibly intuitive for a fairy godfather.”
I readjusted the shoulder strap of my bag and said, “Let’s go before I throw up onyouruniform.”
As soon as I got into his car, my phone buzzed. It was a notification that Insipid Creation’s new album had just dropped. I must’ve made a little sound of excitement, because Wes said, “What?”
“Nothing. I just saw that the album I preordered is shipping today.”
“Shipping, grandma?” He put his key in the ignition and said, “You don’t stream music like the youths?”
I slammed my door. “Of course I do, but some things are meant to be played on vinyl.”
He glanced over as he started the car, and I buckled my seat belt. “Have you always been so into music? I mean, I think I see you with headphones on more often than not.”
“Pretty much.” I shoved my phone into my purse and looked out the window. “My mom put me in piano lessons when I was four, and I fell in love with it, and then she used to play this game with me where we created soundtracks for everything.”
“Seriously?” Wes looked over his shoulder before backing out of the parking spot.
“Yep. We would spend hours and hours selecting the perfect songs to go along with whatever event we were soundtracking.”
I realized as I said it out loud to the interior of his car that I’d never told that to anyone before. It was a memory that’d solely belonged to her and me, and I’d always found it to be terribly sad that I was the only one on the planet who knew about it.
Until now, I guess.
I smiled but sounded like a frog when I said, “I made one for summer camp, for Christmas vacation, for the six-week swimming course that I hated and never passed; anything and everything was worthy of a soundtrack.”
Wes looked away from the road long enough to glance at me, and then it was like he sensed I didn’t want to talk about my mom anymore.
“So that’s what it was!” His mouth slid up into a grin. “You made a soundtrack for you and Michael.”
