Page 66 of A Bittersweet Summer

“Hey.”

Wes appears behind me at the bottom of the porch steps, wiping his hands on a towel. “Mud needed more tick treatment,” he says. “I pulled at least ten off him yesterday.”

I chuckle, lifting the pan of brownies a bit. “I brought treats,” I say. “Roe said you might be interested in—”

Wes walks up the stairs in two strides, standing one step below me so we are eye level. The only thing keeping him a safe distance from me are the brownies, and I now wish I had never made them if only because they’re separating us from getting closer.

His eyes scan my face, golden in the afternoon light. The cowboy hat he’s wearing is a nice break from the ballcap he’s opted for the past few weeks.

I nod toward him, just slightly. “Nice hat, Cowboy.”

Wes grins.

“Do you want to come inside?” he asks. “I was just about to eat lunch, and I’d love to have some company.”

Warmth blooms in my stomach, boundless like a field of blooming dandelions in spring. “Sure,” I say with a smile. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Good.” Wes brackets my hips, turning me around until I’m facing the back door. I note the worn paint on the house’s siding, the bugs stuck to the screen door, and Mud’s tracks across the porch that break beneath the threshold—slipping right under the door.

Wes’s grip is soft but commanding, and I can feel his breath on my neck. “Go on,” he says. His voice is slow and sticky like the summertime. I want to bottle it up along with all my other memories. “I’ve got you.”

He follows me into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind us. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the house—since the pond, actually. It looks more or less the same, save for Roe’smuddy tennis shoes kicked off halfheartedly in the center of the kitchen.

Wes walks to the refrigerator, kicking the shoes aside on his way before pulling a plastic container from the bottom shelf. “My contribution to yesterday’s dinner,” he supplies, throwing me a devastating smile. He grabs two bowls from the cabinet, biceps flexing in his t-shirt as he moves.

“What’s for lunch?” I ask.

“Stew.” Wes tosses me another grin. “The veggies are from the garden—well, most of them. The thing isn’t exactly flourishing yet. I don’t get much time to tend to it.”

I set the brownies down on the counter next to where he ladles soup. “I could help with that.” I look up at him while I plant my elbows on the surface. His hands are sure as he moves around the kitchen.

It all feels so domestic; it sends warmth spreading from my chest all the way to the tips of my fingers. I like this version of Wes. It feels like I could ask him anything, and he would give me the truest answer.

In the back of my mind, I know we should talk about yesterday, but I don’t want to be the first person to bring it up.

My mom’s words circle around me like vultures in the sky while we stand in silence. They eye my insecurities, highlight them, and then invalidate them the way she invalidated the challenges of my childhood.

Wes pops the bowls into the microwave and moves to the bread box.

“Roe made sourdough,” he says. “I guess there are some perks to her moving home. She and Lennon would have a lengthy conversation about it, I’m sure.”

I chuckle, tapping the countertop with my pointer finger. “Why did she come back?” I ask.

Wes shakes his head, using a serrated knife to cut off two large slices. “My mom isn’t…” He heaves a sigh. “She’s not very supportive of the whole music thing Roe has going for her. I’m starting to think, after years of successful rebellion, Roe has started to get disheartened by it all. The family pressure, maybe.”

I track his movements, turning until I’m leaning against the counter behind my back. “That’s…” I take a deep breath. “My mom called today. I can understand difficult parent relationships.”

Wes steps closer, discarding his hat on the counter behind me. The microwave beeps, but he doesn’t move. His arms bracket me, palms pressed to the countertop as he levels me with his gaze.

“What did your mom say?” he asks, finally, andGod, do I want to tell him.

My eyes sting. I’m not used to this sudden urge to spill all of the personal details of my life. Sure, I talk a lot, but my family has always been a private matter. Of course, there’s always been the issue of Gus, but more than that, I’ve also avoided discussing my parents. Maybe I’m afraid of pity, or maybe I just don’t know where to start.

But with Wes, it all seems to be easy. Iwantto confess the best and worst parts of my day to him. It feels so easy. Italwaysfeels so easy.

“Nothing good,” I whisper, and Wes stands straighter, his hands no longer resting on the counter. “I feel silly for being so hurt.”

I close my eyes, my tears gathering like fat raindrops. The weight of them releases, and one trails down my cheek. It isn’t until I feel Wes’s warm thumb swipe over the moisture that I open my eyes.