“Hey! I have an idea, C,” Wes shouted eagerly.

“What? You want to do her other ass cheek next? Her tits? Her cooch? What Wes?” I turned around, throwing my arms to my side.

“Cooch?” His eyes were wide and smug smile leered on his face.

“Whatever.” I turned around and ripped the paintbrush from the tray.

“What I was going to say before you interrupted me with your dirty mouth,” he said, humor tinting his deep voice, “was that I should paint a tat on you. That way you can see what you would think of a real one.”

“You want to paint on me?” I asked whirling around.

“Yeah, why not? We already have paint all over ourselves. Let me turn the mistakes into something intentional, something beautiful,” he said with softness to his eyes.

What did a girl say to that? Abso-fuckin-lutely. “Maybe another time? I have a date tonight. I need to get going.”

Now I was the asshole who was late. Shane took me out to a seafood restaurant in Point Loma last night, and while the ambiance with a view of the ocean was amazing, the date was average. He looked good dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans and a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his bare forearms. He was a sweet guy, and he had a gentle vocabulary. The conversation rolled smoothly as we talked about school and our interests. To be honest, I found myself bored.

I’d bid him farewell with a brief hug in his car. He’d asked to see me again, and I’d agreed, even though I had no plans to. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, though. I’d gotten home fairly early, but I’d found myself perched on my chair at my desk with my paintbrush comfortably in hand until the early morning hours. Once I was satisfied with how the marlin tattoo on Wes’ bicep had turned out, I’d fallen into my bed and didn’t wake up until an hour after my alarm had gone off.

I blew into the youth center like a bitch at a Bloomy’s sale. “I’m so sor—” I stopped in the middle of my apology I had rehearsed on the way over when I saw Wes with his head hung low, staring at a piece of paper.

He was standing on the step stool again and released one hand from the paper to run it stiffly through his hair. I paused in the doorway and studied him. His broad shoulders stretched and rolled lazily with his movements. The gap of exposed skin between the waistband of his boxers and bottom of his fit, well-worn tee shifted effortlessly and fluidly when he released his hair and grabbed the floppy end of the paper again.

I felt comfortable here watching Wes. I guess you could say admiring him from afar was one of my favorite pastimes. Some might call it stalking. I liked to call it paying attention to the Wes no one else thought to look for.

In high school, I’d do my homework sitting up in my window and watch for when he’d show up to hang out with August. He never had a backpack, just a binder he carried in one hand and a dense cloud of tension surrounding him. I’d watch as he stood off to the side of my dad’s shed where he thought no one could see him and smoke a quick cigarette. He’d lean back and relax into the stucco. With a run of his hands through his longer hair, he’d suck in a long drag and exhale a lazy stream of smoke. I swore I could see the air crack and soften around him in those moments just before he’d come into the house. I felt like I saw a side of Wes from up in my bedroom window that no one ever got to see. It was too bad they were stolen moments. He’d never given them to me.

I always thought he kept that time to himself intentionally, though. I’d known Wes since I was a kid, and I’d never once seen him ask anyone for anything. My parents always took care of him like he was one of their own, but he’d never asked them to. He also never asked for anything from August, especially after he’d had, and then lost, Ella. In fact, Wes was August’s biggest source of strength. My parents worried less about August knowing Wes was looking out for him in his darkest days. I know I did.

“Hey,” I said tentatively emerging into the light of the gym.

Wes wobbled on the stool and regained his balance. “Capri,” he said in an irritatingly regal tone. He folded the paper quickly and shoved it deep into his front pocket.

I dropped my purse by the door and approached him with a squint. “Everything good?”

“How was your date?” he asked, his nose high in the air as he wiped his hands with an old shop rag.

“Ah, I see,” I said pretending to check out the mural while trying to hide my smile. “It was okay.” I shrugged.

“Just okay? Sounds like you shouldn’t go out with him again then. Okay is boring.” Wes picked up a paintbrush and tried to act nonchalant. He tapped the handle of it on an empty paint tray, but the brush stumbled from his grip and fell crashing to the ground, filling the room with an irritated echo.

“I agree. I won’t be seeing him again,” I said smiling over my shoulder at Wes, who had no clue I was watching when he did a silent fist pump into the air.

“Is there anyone from the shop you could set me up with?” I crossed my arms over my chest and turned to him with a smirk.

“What?” his voice bellowed through the gym.

“I have a thing for tattoos lately,” I said honestly. Though, lately was a stretch. I’d always had a thing for one particular guy with tattoos.

“No. I’m not setting you up with any guys from the shop, C. Or any dudes at all.” Wes threw his brush into the messy pile he’d created on the floor.

“No? Why is that, Wes?” Crap, Miss Sassy was in full swing today.

“Why?” he asked, looking off into a far corner of his brain. Then his eyes snapped back to me when it seemed he had the answer and they seemed to say so much, but I couldn’t figure out what.

Determination?

Concern?

Hesitation?

Then he blinked, and it all disappeared.

He cast a sparkling glance at my chest. “Ladies.” He bowed and turned his back on me, walking toward the door. I looked down. Shit. I forgot a bra.

“C’mon, C. We’ve gotta go to the hardware store for some more paint.” He shouted behind him, and just like that, the gym was silent.

The incoming storm reflected off the dashboard of the ’57 Chevy. I now knew exactly what Wes’ car was because I’d asked him how his Mustang was holding up when he held the door open so I could slide in. He’d placed his hand over his heart and winced in pain at my error, quickly correcting me.

The reflected clouds dripped themselves across the dash. Their distended curves appeared dark and withdrawn, but the outstretched edges pulled toward me over the curved fiberglass. A shiver rolled through me, and I reached over to crank up the window.

“Hey, Wes,” I said looking toward the passing palm trees. He and I hadn’t spoken a word since leaving SYC to go to the store. The only communication we’d had was when he tossed me a zip-up sweater to put on over myself.

“Yeah?” Wes said with a casual upward nod of his head, but the usual confidence in his voice wasn’t there.

“What was the paper you were looking at when I came in?” I asked him curiously. If they were new ideas for the mural, I hadn’t seen them yet. I wanted to make sure to get my hands on it soon in case there were any color changes I needed to go over, but judging by his unusual silence, I doubted that was what it was. Whatever was on that paper left him somber.

“Nothin’.” That was all he said.

“Well, if—” I started to ask if it was anything regarding the mural, but he cut me off quickly.