Page 9 of The Last Special Thing

He let her focus as he pulled the car out of her long driveway, lined with trees, and toward Max’s apartment for a Fourth of July party.

San Diego was a military town, home to multiple bases across different branches. As such, the 4th of July was a big deal, no matter where you went in the city. Initially, Amelia assumed she and Madisson would hang out at the Yacht Club with her parents, as they had for the last three years, sneaking vodka into their Cokes and watching the fireworks from the dock, arms slung around each other, blissfully singing along to the radio.

While Amelia had enjoyed their tradition, the way Madisson spoke about the apartment complex party — older guys, excessive alcohol, and beach vibes — swayed Amelia. It was exactly what she had been manifesting for her summer. She invited Weston along, still dancing on the line of together-or-not with him.

When the next song ended, she stole a glance at him. He was focused on the road, slowing as he approached a tight corner. There was a safety in being with Weston that she both appreciated and resented. She liked being cared for, but also wished for more: stolen kisses, darkened hours, exhilaration.

Amelia had grown accustomed to Weston being the driver. She had driven them a handful of times at the beginning of the relationship, and he had sat white-knuckled and pale. Letting him drive was better than his irritated and dramatic response to her driving. There were perks to being chauffeured. Amelia flipped down the visor and pulled out a small compact of glitter from the center console. She dipped her red nail into the silver sparkles and applied them to the crease of her eyelids.

“You look good,” Weston said without taking his eyes off the road. Amelia knew she did, but it still felt nice to have his validation. He wasn’t one to pay a compliment unless he meant it. She wore a red-and-white striped top with a corset back. It was paired with a navy blue maxi skirt, featuring a high slit that ran up her waxed leg. Accessorizing the outfit, she added dangling star earrings and wedges. Her dirty-blonde hair was pulled into space buns.

For his part, Weston wore a button-down shirt. The left half was blue with white stars, and the right half had red and white horizontal stripes. Throughout their relationship, every dance, every pep rally, every spirit day, one look would confirm that they were together. Amelia may have been the one to reach out to Weston about dressing up for the Fourth of July party, but he enjoyed it as well.

As the beach was the most popular spot to be on a holiday, parking was scarce. Weston found a space a considerable distance from the apartment. Amelia stepped out of the car and put her fingers up as a visor, blocking the direct sunlight. The day was already warm, and she was looking forward to a cold drink.

They talked as they strolled, swapping plans for the week. Amelia had her usual share of workouts, voice lessons, and hopefully, more time with Madisson. Weston had plans to get high and see an animated movie with his friends.

Amelia let her hand brush against his. Their knuckles touched, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She hated trying to read him, so she crossed her arms as if touching him was never her intent.

“Do you think Max will already be drunk?” Weston asked. Maybe he didn’t even notice her casual attempt at holding hands. She shifted her focus to his question, rather than overanalyzing his noncommittal movements. “What time is it?”

“It’s-” he started.

“Doesn’t matter, yes, he’s drunk,” she cut off.

Weston laughed, and she smiled at the sound as they stepped into the street to avoid a crowd huddled on the sidewalk. For a split second, she considered pushing the group into the bush, but thought better of it. She was trying to work on her temper. The last time she lost control was during her play finale when her opposing lead forgot his lines. She broke character, eyes narrowed at him. He struggled to find his line, and she repeated his lines to him through clenched teeth.

“That won’t work in the real world, Amelia,” her stage director warned after the show.

“What the fuck was I supposed to do?” Her voice echoed through the empty theater.

“Help him. Prompt him. Be a partner. Acting is not for the selfish.”

“Acting is not for the weak,” Amelia snarled. “It’s a cruel world. Only the best will make it.”

Horror crossed the older woman’s face. She said nothing else after that, and Amelia sank into bed that night with an unease she couldn’t place.

Amelia and Weston stepped into the courtyard of the apartment complex. Folding white tables were set up for beer pong. An ice chest overflowing with cheap beer sat near a column, and a grill with a propane tank was off to the side. Guests Amelia didn’t recognize clustered in groups. She checked her Cartier watch. She was twenty minutes late, but apparently, others would be even later.

As her eyes swept the yard, she noticed Art, standing a full head above everyone else. He carried an armful of beers and set them on the plastic table. He wore a blue striped shirt and black cargo shorts—possibly the most festive he could come up with for the holiday.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. The color of his shirt accentuated his eyes. Bending over the table, he arranged the cups into perfect lines with his firm hands. She had never seen someone so focused on something that would be wrecked within minutes.

He looked up from his cups as she and Weston approached. “You have a car?”

“I do, yeah,” Amelia said.

“We gotta go get hot dogs,” Art said, straightening up.

“You don’t already have hot dogs?” Weston’s eyes scanned the setup.

Amelia could have sworn annoyance flashed on Art’s face as he gave Weston a fake smile. “No, I don’t.”

Amelia knew a thing or two about fake smiles.

“I’ll get the hot dogs. Can you see if Madisson needs help?” Amelia asked Weston. “I’m sure she’s already here.” Then added with an empty laugh, “Hell, I’m not sure the last time she even left.”

By “help Madisson,” Weston would go smoke again with Max, which was fine with her. If there were other guys at the party and Weston wasn’t even trying to hold her hand, it would be better if he were high and out of the way.