Page 75 of Blue Line

“Who says?” He lets go of my waist and picks the plushie back up. “If he makes you happy, he should go home with you.”

I take the Buc-ee from him and hug it to my chest. I take a few deep breaths, blinking away the tears that are prickling in the corners of my eyes as Wes’s words play over and over in my head. For the first time, I feel seen by the guy I’m dating.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, turning me so I’m facing him. “What happened? Did I say something wrong?” His eyebrows crinkle as he scans my face.

“N-no,” I choke out. “Nothing.” I shake my head.

“Talk to me, please,” he implores.

“I used to have a couple of stuffed animals on my bed at my first apartment. The guy I was dating at the time, not Henry, came over shortly after I moved in, and he laughed at them and told me I was too old for them. Asked me if I knew any other twenty-somethings who still had stuffed animals. He made me feel stupid for liking them. Strongly hinted I should get rid of them if I wanted to be taken seriously as an adult. That wasn’t what broke us up a few months later, but it definitely didn’t help.”

“What’s his name, and where does he live?”

I haven’t thought about that for years and have never talked about it with anyone. Because no one would have understood how I felt, until now, until Wes. I pat his chest, and before I can answer, he’s hugging me tightly. I sag into him.

“I kept them and got rid of him. They live in the closet in my old room at my parents’ house now. I hadn’t thought about them or what my ex said in a long time. I guess I got a little emotional about it.” I take a step back, clearing my throat.

“Well, we’re getting you a Buc-ee then. Want me to get one too? We’ll match. They can be friends,” he says. It’s silly but also swoony as hell. I shake my head. “Well, how about we see what else they have that we need? I haven’t been in a while to see what’s new.” He reaches for me, and I shift the stuffed animal so I can hold his hand.

This man.

How does he know exactly what to say? Every time I think he can’t be any more perfect, he goes and does something like that. It might be simple and silly to others, but after all the guys who wanted to change me when they got to know the real me, it’s nice to finally be accepted for who I am.

We spend the rest of the trip joking and having a good time, and we end up with way too much stuff. He insists I pick out a Buc-ee’s shirt, and he gets a new one for himself. When I ask him how many he already has, he gives me the side-eye. We also grab a few different types of beef jerky, a bag of their homemade sweet almonds, a pulled pork sandwich to share, since he insists I need to try it, and a few different types of gummy bears. Because Wes has a major sweet tooth.

“You’re telling me you’ve never had a slushy?” he asks as we make our way out to his Jeep, our arms laden with bags.

“No.” I shake my head, looking at the cup in my hand that’s filled with my first ICEE—a frozen classic cola. “I’m not much of a soda person.”

“Well, come on, take a sip. I’m waiting,” he says, coming to a halt in front of his Jeep and tipping his chin toward my cup.

I take a sip. “It’s good,” I say. “A bit sweet. I’m glad I got a small.”

He opens the back of his Jeep, and we put our bags in, then he helps me into the passenger side.

This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

“Thank you for taking me to Buc-ee’s. I haven’t had this much fun at a gas station, ever,” I say once he’s gotten into the car.

“Hadley Jane.” He pins me with a look that says he knows I’m messing with him.

“Fine. Fine. Weston Smith, I haven’t had this much fun in a long time. So thank you.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Not my middle name.”

I lift a shoulder in a shrug, buckling my seat belt. “Hey, you never told me your middle name. You promised.” I pretend to pout.

He glances over at me for a second before buckling his seatbelt and reversing out of the parking spot.

“Come on, tell me. Wait, I know, is it Weston Harriet? Weston Weston?” I tap my chin, trying to come up with even more ridiculous options. “Oh, I know. Weston Easton.”

“None of those.”

“Hmmm …”

“Fine, you really want to know?”

“I do. It’s killing me not knowing.” I put a hand to my chest, sighing dramatically.