BY THE END of the day Wesley was sure that things with Wyatt had to come to an end, and the fact that he didn’t want this made it all the more necessary. As he fastened the knot of the apron around his waist and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, his mind worked through all the possible ways he could say goodbye, and their consequences.
He could ghost, slow his replies and have them stop suddenly without explanation, but he had never been the kind to run away from problems and he wouldn’t start now. Besides, the open-endedness of this solution sounded like straight-up torture.
Plus, knowing Wyatt, he would feel bad for a while, maybe even torn up. But if the opportunity came up, he’d move on faster than the speed of light and Wesley would be just another footnote in his story, not even a page. After all, they’d met when he was trying to get over an asshole, and he didn’t even seem sad about the way things between them ended.
He could try explaining why he needed space, but he didn’t want his pity. He wanted his adoration untainted and refused to settle for less.
The sound of things frying in the background tethered him to the present as he dipped his hand into the sink full of foam, scrubbing at the ceramic plates with a wrinkled yellow sponge.
Sometimes he wished that he could will things into existence, because in that moment he could only focus on the mental image of a dishwasher that he would conjure up to take his place, so that he could head over to the back and calm the thunder in his head.
All this because of the kisses they’d shared, and how in the moment after his senses woke up, hungry, intense in the way of throat hits whenever he smoked a Red Marlboro. It felt like coming from a long dream: being present, alive, existing in a single moment.
He could love Wyatt but he wasn’t ready to, and pretending otherwise would be unfair to the other boy, who from all indications had already began to feel more for him than he felt comfortable with. He wasn’t a player. In fact, with every person he’d ever been with he’d made sure there were no misconceptions as to how long things would last, and while some could be more difficult than others, they always understood.
So when it came down to a question of what happened with a love you weren’t sure you wanted or even knew what to do with, the answer was simple: you returned it.
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“There’s a crazy hot guy outside,” Destiny announced over the noise of the bustling kitchen, coming to rest against the sink that he was stood at, “Says he knows you.”
At seventeen she could’ve passed for twenty-three in her platform combat boots, fishnet leggings and the haphazardly arranged head of dyed green hair. They were class mates, and she’d spoken to the manager on his behalf, but that didn’t mean they spoke all that much. In fact, their interactions stopped at a few shared cigarettes and that one time they’d hooked up.
“I’m working,” he said distractedly.
“Says to tell you his name’s Wyatt.”
Wesley’s hands came to a momentary halt which lasted all of three seconds before he returned to scrubbing at the dish he’d been working on, but Destiny’s keen eyes took in everything.
“I’m working.”
“Oh, OK,” she murmured with feigned disinterest. “I’ll just tell him you’re busy.”
She hadn’t taken three paces when he spoke up. “Don’t worry, I’ll go. Cover for me?”
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“Hi,” Wyatt greeted.
“How did you know where to find me?”
He watched the shorter boy’s eyes slightly widen at his curt tone, and felt a sliver of guilt run through him.
“You mentioned it in passing on our first date,” he explained as his expression turned slightly guarded. “Said it was a Thai place, not too far from the diner we met up at, actually. I asked around.”
Inwardly, Wesley cringed at his carefree use of date but maintained his blank expression, studying Wyatt.
It took a second to notice that he was in uniform: a navy blue sweater one size too big, plain blue slacks, and a pair of expensive-looking leather shoes. His hair fell into a mass off curls over his shoulders, and as dusk approached, parts of his face remained shadowed so he looked like art, ethereal and completely unattainable. He’d kissed this boy a couple of hours ago and still found the concept a tad difficult to wrap his mind around.
“I came to return this,” he continued, pulling Wesley out of his musings―who snatched the book out of his hands as soon as his eyes landed on it―“which you left in my room.”
“Thanks,” he said, running his fingers protectively over the cover.
It was a testament to his dilemma that he hadn’t noticed the absence of what could very well be his lifeline, and this settled things. Wyatt Carter was a liability he couldn’t afford to have at this point in his life, a fact further proven by the next thing he said.
“I’d like it if you met my dad,” he began fast, throwing the words out of his mouth like hot coal. “And maybe I'd meet your foster parent too, if that’s cool with you.”
It took a moment to parse out the meaning of his statement, and when he did Wesley laughed, more harshly than he had intended to, but still enough to convey the message. He led Wyatt to the back of the restaurant, and sat on a stoop.
On his part, Wyatt stuck his hands into his pockets and shuffled from side to side.
“We need to talk.”
YOU ARE READING
Still Point ✓
Short Story'I want you to want me,' the text read, and he smiled as he shot off his reply. 'You have no idea how much I already do.' Wesley Chao doesn't believe in love and Wyatt Carter wishes he wasn't always in it, until they both meet at an art exhibiti...
