anywhere. I’ll help you look.”
“Birdie-”
“Non-negotiable, friend.”
It takes us almost thirty minutes, me holding the flashlight and Wes brushing aside the overgrown lawn but finally we find them behind one of the tires.
“Will he be okay?” I ask before we head to our respective vehicles. I glance at the dark house. Wes shakes his head.
“No, probably not. I can’t stand next to him and keep him from sticking the needle in his arm. All I can do is fix this part of the problem. And I’m not sure what I’m doing is helping. I’m probably doing more harm than good.” He looks down at the ground. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable. When he looks up, it seems like he’s trying not to cry. “I just don’t want my dad to have another reason to hate him. Everyone else has given up on my brother. I’m all he has.”
I don’t know the words to make it better, so I hug him instead. I wrap my arms around his middle and squeeze. After a surprised moment, his arms encircle me also and we just stand that way. I rub his back and try to impart any comfort I can.
We break away without a word, climb into our vehicles, and drive our separate ways. I don’t ask him how he’s going to get his truck from Tim’s or how he’s going to get to school in the morning. Things to be figured out later, after he has a chance to shower and wash this horrid night off him.
When I get back home, the phone is ringing. Tim’s already in his room. I hurry over and pick it up quickly to stop the noise.
“Hello?”
“Thank you, Birds,” he says and then hangs up.
Birdie
Wesley rolls over to the flat of his stomach, scrunching the blanket between us. I give a puff of irritation as I smooth the ripples with one hand, the other trying to hold the spot in my book.
“What are you reading?” he asks, re-scrunching the blanket and grinning at my wasted efforts.
“Taming the Highlander.”
He snorts. “One of those Fabio romance books? Why?”
“Mrs. Garrison recommended it to me.”
Wesley rests his ear on the crook of his elbow with his face turned slightly to look at me. His expression is contorted into mock horror. “Now we know how that eighty year old woman gets her kicks!”
I can’t stop a smile from playing at my lips. Wesley’s humorous expression mixes with joy at my smile. Those are not easily elicited and he always beams openly at his victories. “She doesn’t know you well if that’s what’s she slipping to you at the library.”
“I’ve never read one before,” I confess, closing the book over my index finger. I contemplate reaching for my bookmark. It's obvious Wesley’s suggestion for an afternoon of reading isn’t going to come to pass. He’s afforded his own novel about fifteen minutes of attention and half of those minutes were spent sneaking glances at me. “Usually in romances, the writing is lacking, the plot is predictable, and the sex scenes are graphic. But they’re apparently addictive because I can’t keep them stocked on the shelf so I thought I’d give it a fair go and see what all the fuss is about.”
“The fuss is about the third point in your assessment of romance novels. Well what do you think of it?”
I give him a sarcastic eye roll. “I’ll let you know when you let me read it.” His head shakes slowly and deliberately back and forth while his smile grows wider signaling to me that we would not resume reading. I scramble up from my spot on his truck bed and swing over the side.
“Then let’s walk.”
We amble away from our patch of claimed grass underneath an old oak and head towards the stream the town ambitiously named Lott River. The air hangs deliciously around me, hovering in that cool breezy time after the hot afternoon but before the coolness of dusk.
Wesley kicks a small stone like a soccer ball in front of us. He isn't one to simply walk. His body demands it
“Birdie-”
“Non-negotiable, friend.”
It takes us almost thirty minutes, me holding the flashlight and Wes brushing aside the overgrown lawn but finally we find them behind one of the tires.
“Will he be okay?” I ask before we head to our respective vehicles. I glance at the dark house. Wes shakes his head.
“No, probably not. I can’t stand next to him and keep him from sticking the needle in his arm. All I can do is fix this part of the problem. And I’m not sure what I’m doing is helping. I’m probably doing more harm than good.” He looks down at the ground. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable. When he looks up, it seems like he’s trying not to cry. “I just don’t want my dad to have another reason to hate him. Everyone else has given up on my brother. I’m all he has.”
I don’t know the words to make it better, so I hug him instead. I wrap my arms around his middle and squeeze. After a surprised moment, his arms encircle me also and we just stand that way. I rub his back and try to impart any comfort I can.
We break away without a word, climb into our vehicles, and drive our separate ways. I don’t ask him how he’s going to get his truck from Tim’s or how he’s going to get to school in the morning. Things to be figured out later, after he has a chance to shower and wash this horrid night off him.
When I get back home, the phone is ringing. Tim’s already in his room. I hurry over and pick it up quickly to stop the noise.
“Hello?”
“Thank you, Birds,” he says and then hangs up.
Birdie
Wesley rolls over to the flat of his stomach, scrunching the blanket between us. I give a puff of irritation as I smooth the ripples with one hand, the other trying to hold the spot in my book.
“What are you reading?” he asks, re-scrunching the blanket and grinning at my wasted efforts.
“Taming the Highlander.”
He snorts. “One of those Fabio romance books? Why?”
“Mrs. Garrison recommended it to me.”
Wesley rests his ear on the crook of his elbow with his face turned slightly to look at me. His expression is contorted into mock horror. “Now we know how that eighty year old woman gets her kicks!”
I can’t stop a smile from playing at my lips. Wesley’s humorous expression mixes with joy at my smile. Those are not easily elicited and he always beams openly at his victories. “She doesn’t know you well if that’s what’s she slipping to you at the library.”
“I’ve never read one before,” I confess, closing the book over my index finger. I contemplate reaching for my bookmark. It's obvious Wesley’s suggestion for an afternoon of reading isn’t going to come to pass. He’s afforded his own novel about fifteen minutes of attention and half of those minutes were spent sneaking glances at me. “Usually in romances, the writing is lacking, the plot is predictable, and the sex scenes are graphic. But they’re apparently addictive because I can’t keep them stocked on the shelf so I thought I’d give it a fair go and see what all the fuss is about.”
“The fuss is about the third point in your assessment of romance novels. Well what do you think of it?”
I give him a sarcastic eye roll. “I’ll let you know when you let me read it.” His head shakes slowly and deliberately back and forth while his smile grows wider signaling to me that we would not resume reading. I scramble up from my spot on his truck bed and swing over the side.
“Then let’s walk.”
We amble away from our patch of claimed grass underneath an old oak and head towards the stream the town ambitiously named Lott River. The air hangs deliciously around me, hovering in that cool breezy time after the hot afternoon but before the coolness of dusk.
Wesley kicks a small stone like a soccer ball in front of us. He isn't one to simply walk. His body demands it
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