22. SUBJECT: MY DATE WITH WES

CW: There are implications, though not direct mention, of sexual violence/trauma in this chapter as well as some light sexual contact.  'In Your Own Words' is intentionally non-graphic, but if you are someone who finds this kind of content triggering, I implore you to proceed with caution, stop reading, or message me for a chapter summary should you like to finish the story with some distance between you and the subject matter.

Texts sent March 30, 2017 at 5:12pm:

Weston Maguire: Do you have a restaurant preference?

Cassie Belford: Not really, I just can't do sushi or seafood.

Cassie Belford: Shellfish allergy.

Weston Maguire: I remember. Cassandra Belford, 21, likes blue and is allergic to shellfish.

Cassie Belford: Actually, I'm 22 now. My birthday was a few weeks ago.

Weston Maguire: How the hell did I miss that? We talk multiple times a week.

Cassie Belford: I didn't want to make a fuss. Besides, do I strike you as a birthday person?

Cassie Belford: I didn't mention it in any of my emails. Don't worry about it.

Weston Maguire: Still. I can't believe I missed your birthday.

Cassie Belford: It's not a big deal, everyone has them. There are probably millions of birthdays today that we're missing.

Cassie Belford: What time were you thinking for tomorrow?

Weston Maguire: Peter's lending me his car, so I'll get you at 5:30pm?

Cassie Belford: 5:30? Are we seniors in college or seniors in life?

Weston Maguire: We've got other stuff planned for later, so it'll be an earlier dinner.

Cassie Belford: Oh. Okay.

Weston Maguire: Really? You're not going to ask questions or fight me on it?

Cassie Belford: Not this time.

Weston Maguire: Jesus Christ, I'm floored.

Cassie Belford: Watch yourself. I'll see you tomorrow.

Weston Maguire: Yes ma'am.

. . .

to: simon.idzik@baderu.com

from: cassandra.belford@baderu.com

subject: My date with Wes

sent: April 1, 2017 at 12:02am

Simon,

I know you're at Sarah's faculty event, and that you won't be checking your email anytime soon, but you're the person I want to talk to about this. Even if you can't talk back right now. I'm sure you'll come home in a few hours, and then you'll listen to me and hold my hand when I start to cry. But I need to do this now, before I lose my mind.

I really liked him... I still really like him. But it didn't matter. You were right---I wasn't ready.

He was seven minutes late to pick me up, but I didn't care. I waited outside on the steps of our building and tried to settle my nerves. I guess I was a little anxious.

He got out of the car. "How long have you been waiting?" he asked.

"Not long," I said, and then I stood up to meet him.

"Hey, we match!" he grinned. He'd worn dark jeans, a light blue button down, and a charcoal blazer. I was wearing a blue dress that Sarah got me for my birthday. It was almost the same shade as his shirt.

"I thought of everything," he said, and turned to rifle through the backseat of the car. He popped back up holding a bundle of lavender. "My sister said you might like these better than actual flowers. They're dried out, so they last longer."

I smiled and accepted the dead flowers.

"Oh, right, look!" he unbuttoned his blazer to reveal his belt. "No braids."

He remembered the date I'd had with Sir Lucas the Winker.

I told him to wait while I put my present upstairs. I hesitated. "Unless you want to come up?"

He shrugged and locked the car.

We climbed the stairs in silence, and he kept his distance when I opened the front door. He let out a low whistle when he saw our place.

"You guys have a great apartment," he said, looking around. I was stunned by how small he made our home look. There was so much of him.

"It's really Simon's," I admitted.

"Swanky," he said, still taking it in.

I put the lavender on the kitchen counter, checked I had everything in my purse, and looked up at him. "Ready?" I asked.

He nodded. "I, uh, made two reservations. Lena suggested both of them." He'd consulted his sister and his friend before our date. I thought that was cute. "Abruzzo's and Bluestone."

I brightened. "I like the lasagna at Abruzzo's."

"Lasagna it is."

Our table was in the middle of the restaurant, right next to the piano.

Wes wondered out loud if anybody ever plays it or is if it was just decorative. I told him about that man who played it for his wife when we went there last year.

It felt like the whole restaurant was staring. But not at me. At Wes. At least five people came by to say hi or congratulate him about hockey. I knew he was a big deal, but I didn't realize how big a deal. He'd make a really good celebrity. He was so nice to the people who came up to him.

Everything about Wes was nice.

He was a perfect date; thoughtful, charming, funny, and undeniably beautiful. He asked a lot of questions about me, but some of them were fairly random and led to follow-up questions.

"Okay, it's my turn," I said, cutting him off. He'd asked me why I picked Ida B. Wells for a history project in eighth grade.

"Oh, shit. Sorry." He smiled wolfishly. "I'm not letting you eat, huh?" He had inhaled his meal in between questions, whereas I'd only gotten in a few bites.

"How are you doing with classes and the hockey stuff?" I asked, and finally got to eat while he responded.

I chewed my lasagna and watched him explain his position in hockey. I'd stopped listening to what he was saying (sports are boring), but I couldn't ignore him. He'd clearly combed his hair before he picked me up but had since pushed his hands through it so many times that it looked just as messy as every other time I'd seen him.

I asked him about his friends and his sister, school, and nearly everything he'd asked me about.

At the end of the meal, I reached for the cheque as per your suggestion. He waved me off just as you said he would.

"It's customary that the one who does the asking gets the bill," he said, and put his credit card on the table.

"Technically, I asked you."

He laughed. "Technically."

I grabbed his arm over the small table to check the time on his watch. "I'll get ice cream?"

"Can't say no to that."

I told him to wait outside of the ice cream store on Main St. and brought the cones out to a park bench.

"Double scoop of chocolate peanut butter ripple for you." I handed it to him confidently. I wanted to prove I also paid attention; he'd written that he liked peanut butter and/or chocolate ice cream in one of his emails.

"What'd you get?" he asked, already inches into his cone.

"Strawberry. Want some?" He looked surprised when I passed it to him.

Wes tried mine and shook his head. "That's basically a salad."

I giggled. Simon, I've never giggled in my life.

When we got back in the car, he paused before pulling out of the lot. "This is going well, right?"

I rolled my eyes at his insecurity. "Yes! I'm having fun," I said honestly. "Are you going to tell me where we're going next?"

He grinned. "Nope," he said, popping the 'p'.

It was a drive-in. Surprisingly, I thought it was endearing.

The movie was an old mob film that I'd never seen before.

"I read about it online, I think it's good?" He was fiddling with the radio, trying to tune it to the station that provided the movie's audio. As soon as he found the right setting, I took his hand, testing the waters. It was twice the size, and much rougher than mine, but it was warm. Safe. I squeezed and went to let it go, but he immediately took mine back and held it tight.

It felt nice. And I think that's what let me get ahead of myself.

We didn't talk much once the movie started, but I felt him quickly lose interest in the film. He was staring at me, instead of the screen. I turned to call him out, but he continued to stare unabashedly.

"What?" I tried to sound annoyed.

"Nothing."

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Soon."

I really liked him.

"Are you thinking about kissing me?" I sounded even less confident than I felt, but he still blushed.

"Yeah." It was funny to see his ears and cheeks flush pink like a little kid. He was biologically intimidating; gorgeous, tall, intense. But he was also so human. His face was kind and earnest. And holding hands was more comfortable than I'd expected. Maybe it was naive, but I thought that it was a sign that more would be okay. I could kiss him. I wanted to kiss him.

I took a deep breath and faced him squarely. I closed my eyes and I went for it.

You probably would have laughed at me.

I smashed my face into his, a passable attempt at a kiss, though not quite what I'd intended. But Wes responded fast; his left arm wrapped around me, and his right hand cradled my neck, keeping my mouth pressed to his. I relaxed. He didn't feel anything like anyone who'd kissed me before.

"Ah, fuck!"

"Sorry!" I'd gotten overzealous and bitten his lip.

"All good." There was no blood, but I'm sure it hurt more than he showed.

He pushed the center console between us back before he pulled me into his lap. Then he kissed me again.

I could feel him smiling against my lips. It was good, I was happy.

He brushed his hand against my chest, and I nodded. It felt okay.

We kept going.

I could feel him underneath me. That was fine, too.

Then he hesitated and reached under my dress and between my legs. I nodded, again. But as soon as he pushed my underwear aside and touched me, I froze.

He noticed immediately and pulled his hand back right away. But it was too late.

"Cassie?"

I opened his car door and got out, quickly. He was right behind me, struggling to adjust himself. "Cass, fuck, I'm sorry." He was. I could hear how sorry he felt.

I nodded, trying to keep my face angled away from him. I was crying. It was so embarrassing. My breathing was uneven, my hands were shaky. He must have thought I'd gone insane.

"It's fine. I'm fine. Just give me a minute," I said. My voice cracked. He didn't move.

"Shit, are you okay?"

"Wes, get back in the goddamn car!" I screamed shrilly.

But he still stood there.

I wiped my face on my sleeve and walked the long way, around the back of the car, to get into the passenger seat, avoiding him completely. I tried to shut the door behind me, but he caught it easily, and held it ajar. I saw that he was careful not to crowd me, but determined to talk. His face was apologetic and confused.

"Cass---"

"Take me home, please." I wasn't crying anymore but based on the smears of makeup on my sleeve, I didn't look good.

"Can we talk?" he asked, imploringly.

I shook my head and he didn't argue. He gently shut my door the rest of the way and got back into the driver seat.

The drive was quiet. When we pulled up in front of our building, he turned the car off and sighed. "I'm sorry. I fucked up, I shouldn't have rushed it."

I didn't meet his eyes. "No, you didn't fuck up." I would have scoffed if I'd had proper control. "I'm just... I'm the one whose fucked up." It was the truth.

He protested, but I ignored that. "What are you talking about? Please just talk to me." He was so desperate for answers. He's such a good person. A good guy who was trying his best to keep up with me, and who liked me.

I left him in the car, questions unanswered.

You were right, Simon. The whole thing was a mistake.

Cassie

I'm happy to answer questions or respond to your thoughts. I will always put someone's comfort above spoilers, and I'm more than willing to have those conversations with anyone who wants to chat.

Thank you!