Page 62 of Better Than the Movies
Wes: And the answer to your question is that I’m out back, in the Secret Area.
The Secret Area. I hadn’t thought of it in years. Wes’s house had a bit of land behind their fence that had never been developed. So while the rest of the houses on this street backed up to other backyards, Wes’s had a tiny little forest behind it.
In grade school, during peak hide-and-seek days, we’d dubbed it the “Secret Area.” It was where we’d explored, pretended, started unapproved campfires… It had been incredible. I hadn’t been back there since the summer before middle school.
Me: Why?
Wes: Come see why.
Did he really want me to come hang out? Hanging out by ourselves, in a way that had nothing to do with Michael? My mom had cautioned against dating flighty boys, but it was okay to be friends with them, right? I texted: My dad and Helena are already asleep.
Wes: So sneak out.
I rolled my eyes—so typical. Unlike you, I’ve never snuck out. It seems ill-advised.
I couldn’t, but part of me felt like I could hear him laugh at my response. After about a minute, my phone buzzed.
Wes: “Ill-advised.” Buxbaum, you never fail to make me laugh.
Me: Thank you.
Wes: Not a compliment. BUT. You’re looking at this the wrong way.
Me: Oh? And what is the right way?
Wes: You—a very well-behaved teenager—simply want to get some fresh spring air and look at the stars for a couple minutes. Instead of waking up your parents, you decide to quietly slip out for a few minutes.
Me: You’re a sociopath.
Wes: Dare you.
I glanced in the direction of the hall as those words—“dare you”—brought back so many memories of Wes goading me to do things I shouldn’t, like climbing onto Brenda Buckholtz’s roof and ding-dong-ditching Mr. Levine’s house.
Before I could respond, he texted: I’m shutting off my phone so I won’t get your excuses. See you in five minutes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I like you very much. Just as you are.”
—Bridget Jones’s Diary
I couldn’t believe I was doing it. I stepped over the creaky floorboard in the hallway and quietly crept toward the sliding glass door in the dining room. It was risky, but for some reason I needed to do this.
Iwantedto hang out with Wes.
It was probably just that his understanding of my grief made me feel a camaraderie with him. I’d always felt like my visits with my mom were freakish, but I’d also felt like something inside me would break if I had to stop.
That theory would be tested in the fall, though, wouldn’t it?
Regardless, finally sharing it with someone felt almost like a release. It didn’t make sense that he was the one—of all people—for me to share it with, but I was starting to move beyond questioning it.
It also felt nice to not be fighting with Wes for once. Which was weird, because that was our thing; he messed with me and I got pissed. Rinse and repeat, for our whole lives. But now I wasdiscovering that he was hilarious and nice and seemed like more fun than pretty much everyone else I knew.
I slowly pulled open the door, listening for any sounds coming from the other end of the house as Mr. Fitzpervert snaked in between my stockinged feet.
I stepped out onto the deck and slid the door closed behind me. It was a chilly night, with a clear sky and a bright, high moon that lit up the town. I could see moon shadows everywhere, which were beautiful and eerie at the same time.
I crept down the stairs, and once I hit the cold grass, I jogged across the backyard and over to the chain-link fence that separated our yards. It suddenly felt like it had been mere days—not years—since I’d climbed that fence as a kid, and I was over it and in his yard in seconds.
