Becoming Brett

3. Wes

I hear Wes before I see him, rounding the corner he comes into view. His tics eating him alive as he twitches and lurches and I already have a good idea what happened. I thought I saw Sawyer walking in the parking lot on my way to find Wes but I also know the baseball team doesn't practice today. Wes was late and Wes is never late.

"Hey." I say as I pick up my pace down the hallway.

I grab his bag from the floor, it hits mine and the force of the weight of both bags makes my shoulder sag more. Wes cusses, some pretty colorful things as he cradles his head in one hand staring off down the hallway.

"You okay?" I ask, nudging him slightly to bring his focus to me.

"Fuck off!" He belts then he cycles through his normal four tics. "Yeah."

Studying him for just a second I'm pretty sure he's lying but I don't press it. "Let's go."

He happily follows me out, tic-ing as he goes. The parking lot is almost empty but even with the lack of peers I still don't offer Wes comfort through anything physical. I used to, when we were younger. Before people started to look at us weird but we were just friends comforting one another. The last time I held Wes' hand in public the looks I got drove fear so deep within my soul I haven't mustered up the courage to do it again.

He cusses and shouts and goes through a large array of tics as we cross the parking lot. But he seems to be managing fairly alright. I mean, I don't think he's enjoying himself right now but I also don't think he's going to fall into one of his bad tic attacks. I think we'd be there already if he was.

He climbs into my car and I hand him his bag while I shove mine between the two front seats and into the back and as I straighten out to put my seatbelt on Wes is already buckled. Twisting the key in the ignition, my old green wagon rumbles to life, like it's awakening from a decade long slumber, dust and cobwebs choking it out. Wes starts in on adjusting the dials and I plug my phone into the aux cord.

Wes and I are a bit like an old married couple. We have a system, a way to navigate each other that no longer needs to be spoken aloud. He knows that there's some things that I don't want to talk about. He knows that when I say I don't mind, I don't mind. That when I'm quiet, it's not because I'm mad but because I like the calm that quiet presents. That I spend so much of my time living up to almost inhuman standards and so far I'm somehow maintaining them.

And I know things just have to be a certain way when it comes to Wes. That it might be easier and less time consuming to do something one way but it doesn't matter. I know that things have to be in even numbers, that routines and schedules have to be done precisely and on time and if they're not they have to be repeated. And I know the two most effective things that help Wes when he's tic-ing. Physical touch and music.

I put on the playlist that Wes and I made. All the favorites. He goes to fix the dial as the first song starts to play but he tics and his fingers spin the dial until the stereo is blaring through the car.

"What happened?" I ask, dialing down the volume to the exact spot that Wes likes it.

I'm pretty sure I'm the only person he lets fix the dials for him. And I'm definitely sure I know what happened.

"Take a guess, fuck off!" His normal tics interrupt him and I catch a glimpse as he hits himself pretty hard in the nose.

I have my own sympathy pain, scrunching my nose up beneath my glasses.

"I mean I'm bound to say Sawyer but baseball practice wasn't today." So it wasn't a mirage.

It takes Wes an unusually long time to answer and I prepare to repeat myself, having assumed he's lost his train of thought, too busy tic-ing and spiraling down the rabbit hole that is his mind.

But just before I ask again he whistles and then says "He was lifting".

Wes' tics come in rapid succession as I drive the streets through town. I've gotten used to the constant motion beside me as I drive. No longer startled by anything that Wes does.

I remember when we were young, the start of Wes' Tourette's. It was nothing compared to what he does now. He had a couple quiet motor tics in the very beginning. So minor that no one really noticed them, except for Grace. And then after a while he started to make this strange squeaking noise. A while later came the diagnosis and then it was like now that his tics had a name they came out with full force. He acquired new ones constantly and at random. At one point he started barking. I was glad when that one left before he came back to school sophomore year. Sawyer would have had a field day with it.

The thought of Sawyer always leaves me a little conflicted. I'm not sure I hate him. But I also don't like him all that much anymore.

"Sawyer's such a...He's just a..." But I can't bring myself to say anything.

I hate what Sawyer does to Wes. But I also know Sawyer has things going on of his own, like we all do. And I can't help but have a little empathy for him.

Wes shouts "Bitch!" into the open space of my car and I smile at how well timed his coprolalia can be sometimes.

"Well that wasn't the exact word I was searching for but it'll work." I say and Wes flashes me that damn smile of his.

Crushes on your best friend suck especially when there's zero chance of anything ever coming from it. I'm not going to stop hanging out with Wes but it'd be nice if my chest didn't seize up every time he smiles like that.

Besides, James.

I wait until Wes seems to have tic-ed out. Basically to his house before I say "if you're all good, I gotta split when I drop you off. Music lesson."

There is no music lesson. But there's James and by now he's probably waiting at the library for me, pretending to be studying. And I'm dying to be at our spot. Where I don't have to be what everyone wants me to be.

"Fuck!" He cycles through his normal tics and then says "I'm goo". He cuts himself off with another tic not bothering to finish his sentence as he ends it with one word. "Piano."

The piano is a blessing for Wes. Wes is sort of a blessing for the piano too. But either way, he doesn't have to fill in the blanks, I know what he means.

So when I put my car in park and Wes climbs out and says "Thanks for the ride" like he does everyday I tell him "no problem" back and then I kill the radio and head the opposite way of my house.

————————

🥳 First double update of the book ad it feels so good!

I'm so ready for you guys to be deeper into this story.