Happenstance 3 (Happenstance #3)(23)
Author: Jamie McGuire

“I love you,” Weston said simply. His voice was even. It didn’t seem like the start of a more difficult or serious conversation. He just wanted to say it out loud.

A grin stretched across my face.

A few months before, Weston had just been a wish, out of reach, but now, I was in his arms. The desperate words he’d said to his parents earlier played over in my head like they had been all day. Between the handshakes and pictures, the reality of being loved—by Weston, by Sam and Julianne—and the responsibility that came with it had become clear. Love in any capacity required understanding, a give and take, conciliation and compromise. Love was a lot more work than being alone, but it was completely worth it.

I peeked over at Weston. He needed me. He was the boy who I’d stolen glances at, waiting for the next time our eyes would meet, as I’d hoped he knew that making his cherry dip cone extra tall somehow translated into a proclamation of love. Now, I was the one person he was desperate to keep, the one he needed in his future. Whether or not we were supposed to love each other that much didn’t matter as long as our love played into the continuous forward movement of the infinite span of time ahead.

“I love you, too,” I said.

A car driving toward us from down the road, not on the interstate below, piqued my attention, and I lifted my head to see a pair of headlights approaching the overpass from the east road.

“What if it’s the sheriff?” I asked.

Weston seemed unfazed. “He’ll tell us to move it along. No big deal.”

As the vehicle came closer, I saw it was a pickup, and it slowed to a stop just before it reached the bridge. I held my hand up to shelter my squinting eyes from the bright lights. All four doors of the crew cab opened, and several dark forms stepped out.

Weston sat up then, too, and hopped down to the dirty cement below. “Shit,” he hissed under his breath.

“You’re missing the party!” Brendan stepped out of the path of the headlights just enough so that he was no longer only a silhouette. He was holding a can of Natural Light in his hand, shifting his weight from one leg to the other just to stand upright.

Brady, Andrew, Micah, and Tyson were standing across from him, all holding beers of their own. Tyson seemed a bit unnerved. Andrew’s eyes were glazed over, and he was clearly focusing just as hard as Brendan to stay upright.

“Looks like y’all are about done for the night,” Weston said. His tone was guarded. He was trying to sound unaffected, but there was a tinge of nervousness in his voice.

“Want a beer?” Brendan asked, tossing a can toward Weston.

He let it fall to the ground near his feet. “Not really.”

“What’s your deal, Gates?” Andrew asked. “You never come out with us anymore. You’ve lost your sense of humor since you’ve been with her.” He pointed at me, his aim a little off.

“Pack it up, Erin. We’re going to find somewhere else not so crowded,” Weston said.

I closed the ice chest and began to fold the blanket.

“You really do think you’re too good to hang out with us, don’t you?” Brendan said. “What a fuckin’ douche bag you’ve turned into, Gates.”

Weston held out his hand and helped me down from the tailgate. Then, he pushed it up, and it latched with a click. “We’re going to head out, boys. Have a good night.” He pulled his keys from his pocket.

Brady took a step forward. “You’ve practically spit on Alder’s grave, the way you’ve been hanging all over this skank since they died.”

Weston protectively angled his body in front of me. “Why does it upset you so much, Brady? You know how I felt about Alder, how I didn’t feel about her.”

“I knew,” Brady said, his words slurred, his glossy eyes tightening. “Because I was your best fucking friend. And I don’t even know you anymore, man.”

“So, what? You want to hit me? Did you bring these guys to help beat the shit out of me? What is that going to solve?” Weston asked.

Tyson shook his head. “I’m not hittin’ Weston, man. This ain’t my fight.”

Brady sneered at him. “Pussy.”

“Fuck you,” Tyson said. “Wes is my friend. I’m not helping you jump him because you—”

“Shut the hell up!” Brady yelled.

Weston narrowed his eyes at Brady. “You were in love with Alder. That’s why you’re so angry.”

Brady chucked his can of beer at Weston, and he covered me with his body. It narrowly missed his shoulder and hit the ground, darkening the dirt on the bridge in a fizzy small black pool.

“You don’t know shit,” Brady said, taking a step. “You never deserved her. Now, she’s dead. And you’re banging this skank whore!” he yelled the last word, pointing at me with four fingers.

“C’mon,” Weston said, gently grabbing my arm. “Let’s go before this gets ugly.”

“Too late,” Brady said with a guffaw. “You brought ugly with you.”

Weston flipped around, but I grabbed his T-shirt. He leaned forward, stretching the white fabric.

“You wanna go?” Brady asked, holding out his hands. “Let’s go.”

“You’re still pretty banged up from the last time I got a hold of you. You sure about this?” Weston asked.

“Weston, please. Let’s just leave,” I said. My hands were trembling.

Even if Tyson weren’t going to help, it would still be four against one.

“Shut up, Skittle tits. I have had it up to here with you,” Brady said, holding his fingers up to his forehead. “You move into Alder’s room and play house with her parents. It’s fucking gross how they’ve just forgotten about their daughter and let you take her place like she never existed. You’ll never be Alder. No matter how much high-dollar soap you use or how many brand-name jeans Julianne buys, you’ll still be the secondhand, socially backward spawn of a crack whore, pretending to be one of us.”

Weston’s hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Please, Weston,” I begged. “Please take me home.”

Weston shook his head as he took a step despite the fact that I was pulling back on his shirt.

“I don’t know how, but I’m going to prove this was a mistake,” Brady said. “Alder’s parents are going to be ashamed, and that gutter slag will go back to where she belongs.”