Better Than the Movies

Wes: Movie at Michael’s tomorrow. Are you still in?

I looked up from my phone to make sure the teacher was still lecturing and not looking at me as I broke the rules. My foot accidentally kicked Joss’s chair in front of me as I held my phone down by my lap and texted: Definitely.

Wes: I’ll pick you up at 6 so we can grab food on the way.

I glanced up for a second. I’d been going over my recent interactions with Wes in my head, and I needed to shore up our boundaries. All of our nice moments as of late were muddying the waters, and I needed to keep it together and focus on my goal.

The last thing I wanted was to mess everything up by having a silly flirtation misconstrued. It’s not a date, right?

Wes: Ewww, Liz.

Me: Just checking. Can’t have you getting attached.

Wes: As hard as this might be to believe, I’m having no trouble fighting the feels, you nice little weirdo.

That made me snort out a little laugh.

“Oh my God.”

I glanced up, and Jocelyn was turned all the way around in her chair, looking at me with a huge grin on her face. She whispered, “You’re texting him, aren’t you?”

I cleared my throat. “Who?”

“You know who.” She glanced over at the teacher before turning back and saying, “Bennett.”

I inhaled through my nose before saying, “Yes, but we’re just flipping each other shit. Totally platonic stuff.”

“When are you going to admit that you like him? I’m not saying it’s love or whatever you write about in your secret diary, but you genuinely enjoy the boy.”

“Enjoy the Boy. Band name—called it.”

“Damn you.” She giggled and turned back around. Another point for me in the game we’d been playing for over a year.

I looked at the back of her head as the now-familiar feeling of guilt filled my stomach. I mean, technically she wasn’t wrong; I was enjoying Wes. In a friend way, he was quickly becoming one of my favorite people.

But it was kind of bothering me, not knowing what was going to happen after tomorrow night. Would we still be friends once this all came to an end? Did he have any interest in that at all?

My phone buzzed at that very second. As if he knew I was thinking about him.

Wes: Meteor shower tonight, if you’re interested. I’ve got Swishers, fyi.

I squeezed my lips together in an attempt not to smile, but it was no use.

Me: Who cares about meteor showers? If you bring the cherry ciggies, I’m so there.

Wes: You’re such a shit. See you there.

“I was merely hiding it amongst your nerd books so I didn’t get caught. I wasn’t terrorizing you.”

“Not buying it.” I turned my stick so the marshmallows rotated in the fire. “First of all, you didn’t have to decapitate the little cherub thingy at all. Second, you put red paint around the mouth and eyes and set the head up so it was staring out at anyone—namely me—who dared to access that little free library.”

“I forgot about the paint.” He smiled and put his big feet up on the side of the firepit. “Maybe there was a little terroristic intention.”

“You think?” I removed the mallows from the fire and blew on them before pulling one off the stick. “Time has softened your memory of your old self. You believe—unless you’re straight-up faking—that you were simply a rambunctious boy with no ill will toward me at all. And that is categorically untrue.”

His eyes followed the squishy mallow that I shoved into my mouth. As I chewed, I realized that I was completely un-self-conscious around him. Instead of worrying that I looked like a pig, I said through a mouthful of marshmallow, “Admit it.”

He looked at me filling my mouth for another few seconds. Then he said, “I will do no such thing. I will, however, admit that you were a lot of fun to mess with. And still are.”

“Well, I didn’t enjoy it back then, but now—now I can take you so it’s cool.”

“Please stop with the big talk.” He grabbed the bag of snack-size Hershey bars, unwrapped one, and tossed it my way. “You cannot—and will not ever—take me. At least not when it comes to messing.”

I caught the chocolate and sandwiched it with the other marshmallow between two grahams. I was holding the world’s most perfect s’more. “You sure you don’t want me to make one for you?”

“No, thanks, but your form is impressive.”

“Not my first time, sunshine.” I smiled and took a big bite. “Mmm—so good.”

Wes chuckled his deep chuckle and looked up at the stars. He hadn’t pulled out any cigars since I’d gotten there, so I wasn’t sure if he was no longer in the mood or if he was holding off out of courtesy for me. He’d made fun of my armful of s’more supplies when I’d showed up, but he’d also eaten about ten of my tiny Hershey bars so far.

I heard the first few notes of “Forrest Gump” by Frank Ocean come out of Wes’s Bluetooth speaker, and I smiled. Such a great sit-under-the-stars song. I hummed along with the intro and felt spring-giddy as the lyrics dripped over me like starlight.

My fingertips and my lips

They burn from the cigarettes

“What are your plans next year, Buxbaum?” He was still looking up at the sky, and my eyes lingered on his profile. Even though he wasn’t my type, that strong jaw, prominent Adam’s apple, and thick hair made a pretty, pretty picture.

I ignored the knot in my stomach at the mention of next year. “UCLA. You?”

That made him look over at me like I was crazy. “Seriously?”

“Um… yeah…?”

“Why UCLA?”

I tilted my head. “Do you have a problem with UCLA?”

He had a weird look on his face. “No. Not at all. That was just… really unexpected.”

I squinted at him in the darkness. “You’re acting really weird about this.”

“Sorry.” His lips slid up into a half smile. “UCLA is a great school. What do you want to study—unrealistic romantic films?”

I rolled my eyes as he grinned a self-satisfied smile. “You think you’re funnier than you actually are.”

“I don’t think so.” He gestured with his hands for me to go. “Plan of study, please.”

I cleared my throat. I hated ruining the night’s vibes with talk of college. Talk of next year always left me feeling devastated because I knew firsthand how fast everything changed. Life pressed forward with a burning velocity that left all of the beautifully-pressed details quickly forgotten.

Once I went away, nothing would ever be the same again. My dad, the house, her rosebushes, our daily talks; those things would all be different when I returned. They’d fade into the past before I even had a chance to notice, and there would be no getting them back.

Even Wes. He’d been there since the beginning, living his life parallel to mine, but next year it would be different.

For the first time, he wouldn’t be next door to me.

I cleared my throat and said, “Musicology.”

“Sounds made up.”

“Right?” I felt like I had UCLA’s catalogue verbiage memorized after reading it so many times. “But it’s legit and a really, really good program. I can minor in Music Industry and get a certification in Music Supervision.”

“What job do you get with that after college?”

“I want to be a music supervisor.” Usually when I said that, I was met with a screwed-up face and the one-syllable Huh? But Wes just sat there, listening. “It basically means I want to curate music for soundtracks.”

“Whoa.” He gave his head a little shake. “First of all, I had no idea that was a thing. But second—that is the perfect job for you. Holy shit, you already do that all the time.”

“Yep.” I took another bite of my s’more and licked off the marshmallow dripping onto my fingers. “And you have no idea; I have shelves full of soundtrack notebooks. I cannot wait to get started.”

“Damn.” He gave me a serious look that I felt in my belly. His voice was so deep in the dark of the Secret Area that anything other than silliness felt intimate. “You’ve always kind of done your own thing, Liz, and it’s cool as shit.”

Was it weird that his compliment sent warmth from the tips of my toes all the way to the squint of my eyes? All of the stresses were pushed away with that one cool as shit comment. “Thanks, Wes.”

“That’s Wessy to you.”

“Yeah, no.”

The moment was broken, but the warmth under my sternum remained, rendering me relaxed and blissfully content to thoughtlessly ramble. “What about you? Where’s everybody’s all-American going to college?”

“No idea.” He leaned forward and moved the fire around with the s’more stick. “Baseball is just getting started, so it’s still up in the air.”

“Oh—so you want to play in college?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re good enough…?”

“Yes, I’m good enough, Liz.” He coughed out a laugh. “Well, I hope.”

“I don’t mean that as a slam, by the way. I’ve just never gone to a game. What are you, like a hitter or something?”

“Okay—we are not talking baseball until you’ve actually watched a game. That was pathetic.”

“I know.” I brought my legs up to the chair and wrapped my arms around them. “So, do you think you’ll go away to school or stay local?”

“Away.” He looked into the fire, and the shadows from the flames danced on his face. “I’ve already had offers from schools in Florida, Texas, Cali, and South Carolina, so why would I want to stay in Nebraska?”

“Wow.” How good was he? And even though I was planning on going away, why did the thought of Wes not being here—forever in the house next door—cause a tiny little heart pain? I studied the fire and asked him, “Doesn’t UNL have a really good baseball team?”

“They do—I can’t believe you know that, by the way.” He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes and he didn’t look away from the fire. “I’m just ready to leave Nebraska behind. There’s really nothing here for me, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know.” I unwrapped my arms from my legs and put my feet back down on the ground, bothered by what he’d just said. “I hate leaving it behind, but my dreams are all in California or New York.”

He looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Are you mad?”

“No.” Maybe? I rolled my eyes. “I mean, you do you. I just don’t understand—”

“Libby?” My head whipped around at the sound of my dad’s voice. There he was, standing in the clearing in his pajama pants and DINKER’S HAMBURGERS T-shirt, looking at me as if I were break-dancing naked on top of the fire. “What in God’s name are you doing out here at eleven thirty on a school night?”

I thought back to Wes’s original sneaking-out text. “I came out to see the meteor shower, and then Wes yelled over the fence for me to come over.”

“Ooh—I forgot about the meteor shower.” He came over and sat on the empty chair between Wes and me, plopping down on the cushion before casually rubbing the top of his curly hair. “How is it?”

Wes and I looked at each other then, because neither of us had really remembered the shower once we’d gotten out there. I said, “It’s just great.”

“Hand me a mallow, will you, sweetie? I haven’t had a s’more in years.”

Wednesday dragged by, mostly because I spent all day obsessed with two things. First, I was still bothered by Wes’s comment the night before. There’s really nothing here for me. Why would he say that? Did he really feel that way? I still didn’t know that much about his whole, big life, but for some reason that hurt my feelings.

Maybe it was because I’d been having fun getting to know him, and I’d thought he felt the same way.

But when I forced myself to stop dwelling on that, I got super excited about the night to come. As I listened to Mr. Cooney drone on in trig, I decided I was going to wear the green top I’d bought with Wes and straighten my hair. I’d actually told Joss about it—yay, tricky honesty—so I was able to get her opinion on my outfit.

While Mrs. Adams encouraged the class to explore our inner writers in Lit, I popped in my earbuds and explored my inner daydream. I put “Electric” by Alina Baraz and Khalid on repeat, the perfect song to accompany my imaginings of the evening.

Darker than the ocean, deeper than the sea

You got everything, you got what I need

Only, the song kept making me think of Wes instead of Michael, which frustrated the crap out of me. No matter how many times I started thinking about what the night would bring, my brain flipped it and I was thinking about dinner with Wes.

Because I’d never eaten an actual meal with him. Well, not since our moms had given us both ham sandwiches at the Parkview Heights annual neighborhood picnic, but that didn’t count, just like our s’mores last night didn’t count either.

Did he eat a lot? Did he go all datey and pull out chairs for his female dinner partners?

It didn’t help that Joss thought I was excited about going out with Wes. All through lunch, I babbled about how I was going to do my makeup, and her collusion made it kind of feel like I was excited about going out with Wes.

My lack of sleep the night before was clearly making me confused.

As soon as the final bell rang, I nearly ran to the car. My phone buzzed as I walked across the parking lot.

Wes: Okay—weird question.

Me: All questions from you are weird.

Wes: Ignoring that. Actually I have two questions. First—did I piss you off last night?

Kind of, but I didn’t want it to spoil the impending evening so I responded with: Nope.

Wes: Liar. Tell me.

Like he really wanted to know. He just wanted to leave it all behind because there was nothing here for him. I rolled my eyes and texted: Get on with your question, Bennett.

Wes: Fine. Do you like dive bars with good food? I kinda feel like you’re too ruffly for greasy burgers on napkins.

I unlocked my car and opened the door. Thank you for calling me ruffly, but I’m actually a shameless carnivore who’d sell her soul for a good burger.

Wes: Thank God. I’m jonesing for Stella’s and I thought you might not be down for it.

He’d just bumped the already-appealing night up to wonderfully mouthwatering. I freaking LOVE Stella’s!

Wes: I’ll pick you up at 6. And FYI—“ruffly” wasn’t a compliment.

I smiled and got into my car. Sure it wasn’t.

When I got home, I ditched my school outfit—a supercute dress that was covered in bright red poppies—and took a second shower. After shooing Fitz off my clothes, I blow-dried and spent an eternity straightening the hair that wasn’t meant to be anything other than kinky-curly. I even took extra time getting my eyeliner tails on point.

By the time Wes texted that he was about to ring my doorbell, I felt like I looked pretty good in an I-look-like-everyone-else kind of way. I quickly texted him: Don’t ring. I’ll be out in one minute.

Wes: I feel like you’re ashamed of me.

Me: I so am.

Wes: Well if you aren’t out in thirty seconds, I’m going to start honking the horn.

I threw open my bedroom door and ran down the hallway, zipping my cross-body bag as I flew down the stairs.

“Ooh—someone’s in a hurry.”

I stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked over at Helena, who was reading a book on the living room sofa and smiling at me as if I were entertaining. Things had been super awkward since dress shopping, but then yesterday it was like she’d decided to forget it. She’d picked up pizza for dinner and acted like my assholery had never happened. Thank God, because I really felt bad but wasn’t sure how to apologize without eliciting further discussion.

I said, “I already told Dad that I’m going to Michael’s with Wes. For movies. You weren’t home yet when we talked about it.”

She turned the book over and set it on the end table. “He told me. So… Wes is still helping you land the Michael, then?”

I could totally read on her face that she thought there was something going on—emotionally—with Wes. “Yep.”

She looked at her watch. “It’s awfully early for movie night, isn’t it?”

“Wes and I are going to Stella’s before we go over there.” I didn’t smile, but I felt like she could see the changing truth in my eyes. I waited for a comment.

“Well, isn’t that just tasty?” She grinned, and we kind of had a whole conversation with our faces before I said—

“Whatever, dork.” I ran a hand over my smooth hair and said, “You’re just jealous that I’m going to Stella’s and you aren’t.”

“God, I would lick the floor for one of those burgers right now.”

I laughed. “I get that.”

“Seriously. If someone said I could have a Stella burger this very minute if I licked the kitchen floor, I totally would.”

That made me snort and I asked, “Do you want me to bring one back for you?”

“Oh my God, yes, please!” She leapt up and ran to her purse on the counter. “Are you serious?”

“Yes—” I started to answer when I heard the first honk. Oh, good Lord, Wes was honking. “I’m serious. But it’ll be pretty cold by the time we’re home.”

It felt good to do something for her after the weirdness on Monday, but I kind of wished she’d come right out and asked me to get her one. Did she feel like she couldn’t? I felt bad if that was the case, and there was a very large part of me that wished we were closer.

I was such a conflicted mess.

She pulled out a twenty and shoved it in my direction. “Don’t care. Get me a double hamburger with everything on it.”

“No way can you eat all of that.”

“Bet.”

I shook my head as I took her money. “I’ll be home by eleven thirty or twelve, ’kay?”

“Be good, kid.”

Wes laid on the horn then, and Helena said, “He’s doing that on purpose, isn’t he?”

I glanced at her over my shoulder, picturing Wes pushing me into the seat that ensured I was sitting next to Michael in the minivan. “I’m pretty sure he does everything on purpose.”

I ran out the door and got into Wes’s car. “I can’t believe you honked.”

“You can’t?” He smiled over at me and waited while I buckled my seat belt. “It’s like you’ve never met me. Nice shirt, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I buckled and tucked my hair behind my ears. “Someone told me that green is my second-best color.”

“That makes sense, with your red hair and all.”

I rolled my eyes again. “That isn’t a thing.”

“How can you not know the rules? I mean, Style 101.”

“And you would know this how, Mr. Jockshop?”

“Because I’m smart.” His mouth slid into a smirk as he put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. “Obviously.”

“And you do this why?” Wes asked.

I smiled as I wrote my initials with ketchup on the napkin, encircling them with a big heart. “Tradition. Growing up, whenever we came here, I always wrote things with ketchup on the napkins while I waited for our food.”

“That’s weird.”

“No, it isn’t.” I surrounded the big heart with smaller hearts. “You have to try it and see. There’s something about the squirty ketchup tip that makes it great.”

“Um, I’m good, but thanks.”

“Oh my God, you’re too cool to write with ketchup?”

“Well, yeah—for sure I am.” He reached across the table and took the condiment from my hand. “But for the sake of being a good dinner partner, I will try your childish pastime.”

“Good.” I pulled some napkins out of the dispenser and laid them on the table in front of him. “And it isn’t wasting, because you can dip your fries in it.”

“I don’t like ketchup on my fries.”

“I don’t even understand you, Wes.”

He started making something on the napkin, and I noticed that Wheel of Fortune was on the TV behind the bar as Tom Jones’s cover of “Kiss” wafted out from the antiquated jukebox. Stella’s was a greasy bar that had formerly been a house, and even though they served the hamburgers on napkins and the place was entirely lacking in atmosphere, you considered yourself lucky if you were able to get a table during the lunch rush.

My city appreciated a good burger and hand-cut fries.

I looked back at his napkin, and he’d totally drawn a cartoony dude. It was a face in ketchup, way better than the childish letters I’d made. “So how was baseball today?”

He kept working with the ketchup. “Why are you asking me that?”

I watched his face as he concentrated. The length of his dark lashes was totally unfair. “Because now I know it’s important. Like, not just a hobby. So… did you hit a homer? Or bunt a dinger?”

His lips turned up. “Stop it.”

“Or are you a pitcher? Did you slide a curve ball?”

“You have to stop, Buxbaum.” He gave me a good smile, and I curled my toes in my funky brown booties. “Either learn about the game, or never speak of it again.”

The waitress appeared with our food (and Helena’s in a to-go box), and we were alike in that our whole focus turned to the greasy offerings. No more small talk, no more banter. Our eyes were for food only.

“OhmyGodthisissogood.” I swallowed my first bite of burger and reached for my soda. “God bless you for bringing me here.”

“I selfishly wanted it. You’re just collateral damage.”

“Don’t even care.” I dipped two fries and shoved them into my mouth. “All that matters is that my mouth has these delights inside it.”

“Eww.”

That made me snort. “Right?”

“Don’t be snorting while you eat. If you aspirate food, you could get a lung infection and die.”

I swallowed. “I have no idea how to respond to that statement.”

He said, “ ‘Thank you so much, Wessy, for looking out for me.’ That is a perfect response.”

I grabbed another fry. “Thank you so much, Wessy, for entertaining me with your inane conversation while we eat. This is definitely not boring.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

We got quiet while we ate, but it was a comfortable quiet. I was lost in the food until he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you eat like a man.”

“Sexist much?”

“Let me rephrase.” He cleared his throat, wiped his hands on his napkin, held up a finger, and continued with, “Society—wrongly—expects a pretty girl to eat a salad and pick at her food, but you wolf down a burger like a person who’s been starved for weeks. And probably raised by wolves.”

It was ridiculous that his usage of the word “pretty” set my nerves on edge. He thought I was pretty? “I like food. Sue me.”

He sat back a little in his chair and cracked the knuckles on his left hand. “So what’s your plan tonight? How are you going to win over Mikey if I get you a one-on-one?”

Record scratch—Wes was a knuckle-cracker, wasn’t he?

Knuckle-cracking was one of those things that I wouldn’t call a pet peeve of mine, but whenever I heard that sound, I immediately jolted into a doglike sense of alert, looking around to see where the sound was coming from. It usually set me on edge.

“Well,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin before reaching for another French fry. “I’m going to give him the one-two punch. First, I’ll start by hitting him in the sentimentals, bringing back the cicada songs of his childhood with my soul-stroking reminiscing.”

“Not bad,” he said, and cracked the knuckles on his right hand. “Stroking is always a winner.”

I looked at his half smile and wondered why his knuckle-cracking seemed right. Like, it somehow went with his face or something. “You know, I think I’ll keep the rest to myself.”

“Oh, come on.” He reached out a hand and tugged at the tendril of hair by my face that stubbornly refused to straighten. “I’ll be good.”

Why did his physical nature and the way he had no problem with close contact—the hair tousles, the tugs, the nudges—always make my stomach go wild? I smacked his hand and grabbed one of his fries, saying a very calm “No, thank you.”

But inside, I was freaking the freak out. What in God’s name was happening? Knuckle-cracking was proven to bring on that icky this-one-is-not-right-for-me feeling; it always did. It was a straight-up eject button from any potential romantic relationship. But there I was, scant feet away from Wes and his knuckles, and I almost found his habit to be… endearing? Like, he kind of looked adorable when he smiled and cracked?

This was very, very wrong.

Because (A) Wes was the wrong guy, (B) my mother had warned me about falling for guys like him, and (C) he had no interest in me at all, hence the There’s really nothing here for me comment the night before. What on earth was I doing with my emotions?

“Oh my God, you beat me.”

“What?” I looked around, unsure of what he was talking about.

He swallowed and grabbed a napkin. “You finished your food already.”

He was right. I looked from my plate—completely clean save for some small grease puddles, ketchup smears, and tiny grains of salt—to his, which still held three bites of burger and a small grouping of fries. “So?”

“So holy shit, you eat fast.”

“Or holy shit, you eat like an octogenarian.”

That made his eyes squint. “Want the rest of my fries?”

I looked at the greasy, hand-cut fries. “You’re not going to eat them?”

He shoved the plastic bowl of fries toward me. “This little old man is full.”

I grabbed four fries and dunked them into his ketchup. “Well, then, thank you, grandpa.”

As I wolfed down those fries, it was impossible for me to ignore the fact that I was in no hurry for dinner to end. I’d been having fun with Wes. I’d been smiling the entire time (when I wasn’t rolling my eyes)—and even knowing Michael was waiting, I wasn’t ready to go.

But it was just because things were so easy between us—that was what had confused me. Our friendship was so comfortable that it muddied the waters.

Boom.

It made me think of When Harry Met Sally. Minus the ending-up-together part.

“Do you think men and women can be friends, Bennett?”

He picked up his water. “Sure. I mean, we are, aren’t we?”

“I guess we kind of are.” I was playing it cool—he had no idea what his friendship over the past week meant to me. I hadn’t realized it either, to be honest, but the fact that we’d had some seriously incredible conversations that centered on my mother made it different from every other relationship in my life.

“Weird, right?” He took a drink, his eyes never leaving me as he swallowed. “You never thought that shit would happen, did you?”

“For sure no.” I swallowed the bite of fries and reached for more. “But a lot of people say it doesn’t work. That—”

“Is this the Harry-Sally thing?”

“How do you know about that?”

“My mom loves that movie. I’ve seen it a few times.”

“A few times? See? I knew you liked rom-coms!”

“Oh, for the love of God, no.” He shook his head like I was ridiculous. “I just like Billy Crystal. If he can be Mike Wazowski, he can be anybody. It’s a funny movie and that is all.”

“And you don’t think he’s right? The fact that they get together in the end pretty much proves his theory, yeah?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He did a little shrug thing that made me notice his shoulders. Damn you, Helena. He said, “I think he has some valid points, but it’s irrelevant for us.”

“It is?”

“Sure.” He scratched his cheek and said super matter-of-factly, “We’re the exception because I’m not your friend—I’m your little love fairy godfather.”

“That sounds gross.” I made the joke, but I didn’t like that he’d said he wasn’t my friend.

He ignored the joke and said, “It’s true, though. We’re like friends, for now, but the fairy godfather is all about helping you get what you want. Once the magic starts happening, he doesn’t stick around for the fairy-tale ending. I mean, how creepy would that be?”

“Really creepy?” I fake-laughed, like we were on the same page. But was he saying that if I ended up with Michael, then we wouldn’t be friends anymore? That we really weren’t friends at all now, but merely role-players making my wish happen?

It made sense after what he’d said last night.

“That’s right, Buxbaum.” He reached across the table and touched the tip of my nose—a boop—with his finger. “Creepy as hell.”

I was struggling to keep up, to process what he was saying and what it meant for us, while also overanalyzing the fact that even a finger-boop made my stomach go wild, when his mouth turned into a smirk and he said, “Now finish those fries so we can get you to your Michael.”

“Done.” I shoved the last fry into my mouth and pushed back my chair, needing to get out into some fresh air before my brain exploded. “Let’s go, fairy godfather.”