Page 4 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“Stop,” he said.
“Where are you taking me?” I shrieked as he dropped me into the passenger seat of his rusty F–150. “I have got a cell phone with tracking enabled on it.”
“Jacqueline Kelly, you’ve known me since we were six weeks old,” Wes said as he slid behind the wheel and shoved his keys in the ignition. “I’m not a serial killer.”
“Take me home,” I commanded him.
“You smell like you fell into that keg,” he reminded me.
Good point. My mom would flip if I came home like this.
“I’m taking you by Queenie’s. You need something in your stomach.”
I didn’t try to argue with him, and when we pulled into Queenie’s drive-in, the familiar scent of fries and burgers made my mouth water. Wes ordered enough food to feed the football team, but when it came I ate more than I thought possible.
“This is so good,” I told him, my mouth half full of french fries.
“There are a lot of great places to eat in New York,” Wes said, “but I’ve never found a Queenie’s.”
“In-N-Out is pretty good, but nothing touches Queenie’s,” I agreed.
“So about the party—” Wes began.
“Ohmigod!” I shook my head. “Please do not sully Queenie’s with my idiocy.”
The effects of the booze were starting to wear thin. I knew I was still drunk, but my head was less fuzzy now, and the last thing I wanted to do was relive that moment, especially what I said to Wes.
“The last time I saw you, you were drunk.” Wes was clearly not going to drop this. “Do you drink like that at UCLA?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “This was my first real party of the semester.”
Wesley snorted and turned his attention to the window. “So what does it mean that the last two times you’ve seen me, you’ve gotten wasted?”
I froze, my lips poised over the straw of my milkshake. I didn’t really have an answer for him.
“Because to me”—Wes twisted in his seat to face me, dropping his eyes to meet mine—“it feels like you have to be drunk to be near me.”
I wasn’t sure if that was true. I hadn’t really thought about it. “We spent a lot of time together studying and hanging out,” I reminded him. “I wasn’t drunk then.”
“Yeah, but that was before.” He settled back, drumming the steering wheel with his thumbs. “Before we decided on that stupid plan.”
“That plan wasn’t stupid,” I blurted out. “I’m still a virgin, you know!”
“It’s not a terminal illness,” Wes said.
“It feels like it sometimes.” I finally took a drink of the milkshake. The alcohol still buzzing in my brain made it hard not to say whatever came into my head, and try as I might I couldn’t hold back the one question I was dying for him to answer. “Are you?”
“A virgin?” Wes paused before he answered, but then he shook his head slowly.
I felt the most peculiar urge to throw up, cry, and laugh at the same time. By the time, I realized which bodily movement was going to win out, I’d managed to yank open the door and aim my Queenie’s at the parking lot.
“You’ll feel better now,” Wes said, skirting around our previous topic of conversation and handing me a cup of water. He threw the truck in reverse as I slammed the door, and rumbled down the street without another word. A minute later we were parked in front of the Stop-N-Go. Wes disappeared inside the store and came back with a bottle of water and a travel toothbrush set.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Maybe it was the booze, but hot tears were creeping into the corners of my eyes. It was such a Wes thing to do.
I brushed my teeth while hanging out the window of his truck. It’s amazing how something as simple as minty toothpaste can change your outlook on life.
“You up for some driving or are you ready to go home?” he asked me as we turned down a gravel road.
