Chapter Text
The roof tiles were searing under where his crossed knees lay stiffly on them. The air was hot and dry, but gentle gusts of a breeze blew through his hair every so often. His fingers occasionally flipped a yellowing page of Parallel Lives as the soft smells of sun-dried weeds and lilac.
Wesley didn’t go outside very often. He preferred the clean and controlled isolation his attic bedroom provided. The outdoors was sticky and unpredictable, a mixture of hot sun and pollen that never quite left his skin feeling clean. Regardless of how often he left his bedroom, Wesley knew the neighbors, (specifically lack thereof) down to a T.
The Stuart family, who lived exactly 4.6 miles south from his mailbox drove a maroon Ford F-600 with a back right tire that was smaller than the other ones. Because of this, the car made a noise whenever it drove down the road that Wesley could easily identify.
The Penters didn’t own a car, they rode bikes everywhere they went. Janet and Walter, the married couple that owned the falling apart farm the Penters lived on had five children. More times than he could count the Penter children would bike up to his house, dopiest grins Wesley had ever had the misfortune of seeing plastered on their chubby-cheeked faces, would beg him to play.
“I do not want to play with you,” Wesley had said to them one time.
“Come on James,” the youngest, Peter, said. His front tooth jutted out over his mouth whenever he spoke, and it made Wesley’s lip curl in annoyance.
He steadied himself and tucked his hands behind his back, a formal pose his father had beaten into him whenever he addressed someone beneath him and raised an eyebrow.
“Remember your dog, Jasper?” Wesley said to Peter.
“Yeah, he ran away,” his face fell.
“Well, I decided he looked like he would taste good with garlic butter and a baked potato.”
Peter and his siblings ran away screaming, and after that Wesley was never bothered by them again. He hadn’t actually eaten the dog, of course, actually, the dog was emaciated and riddled with fleas and ticks so he had taken it to the animal shelter on his last bike ride to town.
Wesley preferred the Bakers the best, not because they didn’t have annoying children (which contributed), or because their car actually worked and didn’t scrape on the road. He liked the Bakers because the old grandfather that lived there used to be a university professor, and on occasion, Wesley had been able to sneak over for tea while he learned the languages of Mandarin and Japanese from the wise old man.
“or though all persons are equally subject to the caprice of fortune, yet all good men have one advantage she cannot deny, which is this, to act reasonably under misfortunes.
He turned his attention back to his book for a while, and when the sun had eased off its scorching heat Wesley tucked it under his armpit and went inside.
At the kitchen table sat his brother, Bruce, alone, sipping a beer while digging his finger into a chip in the wood.
“Hey, Wes,” he said, a half attempted smile on his face. His eyes had bags underneath them, dark and round but no more than usual.
“Where is-” Wesley began, but his brother’s gaze was out of the window to the stable on the back of the property.
“Upstairs, with Mom,” Bruce filled in for him, taking a sip of his beer. Wesley nodded and started up, avoiding the second and fifth stairs which creaked if he stepped on them.
His room was clean and perfect. Everything had a spot, and unless it was in use, it was never moved from it. He wanted to crawl into bed, forget everything that had happened this morning, and drift into the nothingness that sleep provided. Wesley was only thirteen, and he felt like the world rested on his scrawny shoulders.
He set the book down in the third slot of the second shelf of his bookcase and removed his sweaty t-shirt and socks, placing them in the hamper. Wesley had learned it was best to walk to the bathroom for his shower with his shorts still on and secured the hard way.
Wesley returned to his room smelling of lavender soap alone and unscathed. In the hall, he heard the soft murmurs of his father speaking in his parent’s bedroom.
Most kids Wesley’s age had made some friends by this point. It was only natural human behavior, he supposed. Friends were a commodity, something that could be used and relied upon. It was wise to pick some that were worth what you could return to them. So far, in rural Virginia, Welsey had yet to find anyone worth his time. And if he’s being honest with himself, no one has found him worth their time either.
His father hadn't taught him much besides how to stand straight, follow orders and be proper. The man was distant and cold, simply expecting his sons to fit into a mold he had handcrafted in his basement woodshop that always smelled of tobacco and sawdust.
“Listen here James,” he said with a glass of scotch sloshing in his hand. Wesley flinched at the use of his real name. He hated it, it always sounded too immature, too unprofessional on anyone’s tongue.
“I’m going to teach you about economics.”
Wesley squinted through his wide framed glasses and didn’t speak.
“It’s very simple, really. Someone gives someone an item or a service, and that person returns in a way both agree upon,” he took a sip and smacked his lips, “That make sense to you?”
Wesley nodded fiercely, proud that he could understand what his father was telling him.
“Not so stupid after all then huh,” he chuckled and Wesley’s cheeks flushed red. “Every relationship you’re ever going to come across is going to be a trade-off. There is no such thing as a selfless act, there is always something in it for the person that performs it.
“What about love?” Wesley asked.
His father scoffed, “What about it? It makes no difference. Love is a commodity.”
Wesley’s brow furrowed in confusion, “But what about you and mom?” he asked tentatively, “Wouldn’t you love her no matter what?”
“Yes and No,” he said, scratching the stubble on his chin, “It would take a lot for me to not be satisfied with our relationship, and I’d probably love her even after, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. I’d expect her to say the same thing.”
Wesley stared at his father with eyes that were starting to lose their youthful shine, “What about me?”
“The same thing,” he shrugged, “There are certain things you could do or tell me that would make our relationship not worth the effort anymore.”
Now Wesley looked himself in the mirror and sized up what a commodity he was worth, how much value he held. He didn’t see much staring back at him.