Wesley Peterson was angry, to say the least, as he slammed the used, turd looking Volvo door shut. His nose crinkled at the withered house that seemed to cave in on itself.

"It's a sight for sore eyes, I know, but that's the best part! It's a fixer upper, an adventure! Can't you just feel the potential radiating off this thing?" His dad asked, clapping a hand on Wesley's shoulder as he extended his hand out in the cheesy gesture meant to 'open his eyes to something he never noticed'.

"It just looks like a rust bucket to me," Wesley said matter of factly, giving his new 'home' a rushed once over.

The house itself looking like it was ready to kick the can, especially with the rusting iron fence that was leaning too far forward. A curtain of moss helped camouflage the house into the weeds that ate up the lawn, and leaves were strewn everywhere as if trying to distract from the fact it looked like some hobos thrown up dinner. The house was an old Victorian style, the part his father loved most about it; what Wesley loved most was the realtor's face when his father told her to put a bid on it.

"Come on, it's not that bad," his dad tried to downplay it, but all Wesley saw was the piece of junk in front of him.

"Is it yellow?" Wesley asked incredulously as he squinted, trying to see past the moss like his father told him to.

"Was yellow. Now it's kind of like a moldy sandwich color," his dad nodded happily.

"And you want us to live here?" He asked skeptically.

"Once I'm done with it, it'll be the prettiest building on the lot!"

"Dad, can't we just go home? All my friends are there--"

"This is going to be our new home. You'll like it, just give it a chance, for me? I grew up here and I wanted to show you this part of the world--"

"That hasn't been touched by Mom," Wesley sighed in defeat, trudging up to the door, leaving his father in silence.

"Wes," his father's voice called out in a desperate attempt to try to change the mood of the conversation.

Another frustrated groan left the boy's mouth as he turned to face the man looking as withered as the house, "Yes?"

"I didn't take you here because Mom never lived here. I took you here because I knew it would be a new start we both needed. And if you still hate it here in six months, we'll go home. I promise," his dad relented in hopes that he could reach some common ground with his son. 

Wesley still stared at his dad's hunched shoulders. He noticed the way his father's nose curved ever so slightly because of the time he tripped as a kid and broke it, the way he shared his father's dark curly hair, and the way his father no longer looked like the man he knew as a kid. Instead, he saw a carcass of what his father once was. A man who knew loss like the back of his own hand. A man who would easily give in to his son's complaining because he was tired of fighting. A man who had nothing left to give or hold on to.

A man who was wishing for death.

But instead of acknowledging all of this, Wesley opened up the squeaky front door. Inside it wasn't so bad; rustic but tolerable. He knew his father would bury his savings into refurnishing everything and bringing the place back to its former glory the second he had a spare minute.

But that still didn't change the fact that Wesley hated it. 

He hated the way that right when you opened the door there was a steep staircase that turned right drastically.  He hated that the kitchen looked like one right out of the 50's movies his mother loved to watch. He hated how vast the backyard was. He hated how every room was unique and held its own special nooks and crannies. He hated how it had secret maid halls and passageways. He hated how there still was an outline of hooks in the kitchen where a chord attached to a bell would ring. He hated how perfectly beautiful the house was. He hated that he liked it. He hated that he knew the house was practically meant for his family, for what was left of it that is.

And he hated himself for hating it, especially since he knew how hard his father was trying. However, that didn't change the fact he tore him away from everything he had ever known and loved, plopping him at the end of Quinberry Lane, on the stupid frayed 'Welcome' mat that made him want to shrivel up and die.

Wesley tore out his phone, feeling the weight of his old life begging him to return, and found the number he knew by heart. The feeling of dread succumbed him when he found the number going to voicemail.

So he left a text, that way Derick wouldn't know he was trying not to cry.

(2:15) Wesley- You should see the state of this place. Looks like a rusted tin can! Can't believe Dad dragged me here, talk later?

He waited patiently for a reply, but when none came five minutes later he gave up.

"Wes, want to help with the boxes?" His father grunted out, partially carrying and partially dragging a massive frayed box. Wes complied with little protests, helping his father drag in the new furniture and their boxed up belongings.

"Lets unpack tomorrow. There's this great place down the street. I used to go there all the time as a kid, and I think--"

"Thanks, but I'm not very hungry," Wes cut him off curtly, ending the conversation abruptly. 

His father's green eyes, the only difference between the two, flashed with a mixture of hurt and guilt.

"That's okay. Stupid idea anyway. Well, I guess I'll give you some space," his dad coughed, trying to shrug off the idea, something he did to keep him from crying.

Wes knew that cue because he watched his father do it at the hospital when he told Wes they were going to be okay. He knew he should've felt something when his father did that, but he was numb with confusion and anger.

"I'll be upstairs," he muttered, knowing his father probably didn't hear him as he went to exit the kitchen by taking the hidden servant stairs. 

It would only be a matter of time before his father would find a liquor store, and then he'd be gone for good inside his rewired head.

"I'm trying Wes," he heard the man whisper. When he looked back over his shoulder, he couldn't recognize the man standing by the kitchen table. This man was much older and looked more exhausted then the father he knew.

"I know," Wes muttered, stopping on the stairs. He felt himself swallow the own lump in his throat; he was done crying, had been for a long time.

His father's glossy jade eyes found Wes', "I'm proud of you Wesley. You need to know that. I'll call in a pizza or something, and if you get hungry the oven still works. There doesn't appear to be a microwave, but I could reheat it--"

"Okay dad," Wesley interrupted, before continuing his ascent on the stairs. He turned his back on his father, not wanting to see the man's weary expression as he grasped for the right things to say. For Wes, there wasn't a word that existed that would be just what he needed to cope with the mess that was becoming his life.

The wooden stairs were rickety and creaked with every step. Luckily, his father knew how to fix those kinds of things. Who knows, maybe he'd add carpet. It was significantly warmer upstairs, and Wes found himself cursing that they had no air conditioning.

There were five rooms upstairs. A guest room, he could assume, a public bathroom, an office space, and two bedrooms. Wes could've sworn there was another room above that floor, but it probably was just an oddly placed window. His father raved about how some houses had extra, randomly placed windows to allow more light in, especially in older models.

The office, he knew, would be taken up by his dad. It would be where his dad would launch the renovation business he always dreamed of. His dad promised that it would be a hit, especially here where most of the older houses were either being torn down to make more modern houses or being renovated.

The office was to the right of the hallway, next to it was the master bedroom. Wes already knew without a doubt neither of them would be using it. It would remind his dad of his mom, and his dad would say Wes didn't need that big of a bedroom. The public bathroom was between the master and the guest room. The last room, as if isolated from all the others, was at the very end of the hallway. It looked like a mistake to Wes, since the others were evenly about five feet apart, whereas the final room was wedged at the end of the hall. 

The door opened easily without a noise. He felt like that was weird, since every door needed to be oiled in the musty house. The room looked like it had never been touched. Whoever was there last didn't take anything with them, and he assumed whoever toured the house never ventured this far. They probably gave up on the first landing.

But what puzzled him was the fact that his dad never went up there. If his dad had, he would've definitely told Wes about the architecture in the room. The ceiling dipped up high, and the room was a pale teacup yellow. The white French trim would've made his dad faint. Bookcases lined the walls, and frames of bugs sent chills up Wes' spine.

Whoever lived in this room probably didn't have a social life if they deconstructed various bugs in their freetime. Some of the butterfly wings, he had to admit, looked cool, but he still found it all morbid. He knew his father would make this room Wesley's, so he figured he might as well make it less like it belonged in a freak show and more like it was his.

Before he could rid the room of the traces of insects, he sat down on the bed and checked his phone. To his dismay, there wasn't any new messages. Instead of drowning in self-pity, Wes got to work. He started by taking the creepy frames from some preposterous person's collection and stacking them in the closet.

Wes jumped, dropping some of the frames when he saw a creepy stuffed animal guarding a stack of journals. He then noticed the absurd clothes coated in a protective layer of dust that threatened to give an asthmatic's inhaler a run for its money still neatly hung. Ignoring all the abnormalities, he quickly shut the closet not wanting to open it again.

"Stupid realtors, never doing there job," he muttered, shuddering, as he tried to distract himself from the contents of the closet. 

He definitely would be hanging his clothes far away from the junk that reminded him of gadgets that belonged in asylums. As for the books, he decided he'd keep them, figuring they might be worth reading in one of the many nooks in the house. Hearing a buzz, Wes felt for his phone in his pocket where he last put it. It wasn't there. He retraced his steps, looking on the bed, in the closet, and by the bookcases. The buzzing of an incoming call causing his search to become more frantic.

He was channeling his inner detective with a search warrant and ransacked his room. He raked a hand through his already disheveled hair, and Wesley cursed under his breath when he heard the ringing stop. In a fit of anger, he tossed himself onto the bed, wanting to scream into his pillow. Why'd he have to move here of all places? He rolled over.....only to find his phone right next to his head.

Not caring he already looked there, he grabbed it checking to see who called him. Hoping it was Derick, he looked at the screen and saw no new messages. No missed calls. He couldn't have imagined the phone ringing? Could he? 

He nearly pissed himself when his phone lit up with a text from Derick. Taking a deep breath before checking, he felt an uncontrollable smile take over his features.

(5:30) Derick- That sucks! Sorry, can't talk later. Have stuff, FT tom. ?

(5:30) Wesley- Seven?

(5:31) Derick- Can't at seven, got Pre-Season. Ten morning?

(5:32) Wesley- Can't got school. U don't start for another week, right? 

Derick never responded, and Wes found himself sinking back into the pit of disappointment he was slowly getting used to. Of course, no one could let him wallow in self-pity for too long, for a timid knock interrupted his train of thought.

Wes groaned before shouting, "You can come in!"

Whoever it was knocked again.

"YOU CAN COME IN!" He said louder, not wanting to walk towards the door. The knocking continued, and Wes muttered things his mother would've slapped him for saying, if she was still alive, as he trudged to the door.

"Are you deaf?" He asked angrily, swinging the door open only to find the hallway empty.

Wes blinked twice before shutting the door and opening it again. Still, no one was there.

"I'm going insane," he muttered to himself, shutting the door again. "What is in Fairview water?"

He couldn't have imagined the knocking, could he? Still unsatisfied, Wes yanked open the door one last time. Screaming, Wes and his father jerked backward. 

"Jesus Wesley! You sure know how to scare an old man," his dad laughed, eyes crinkling with a little amusement that seemed unnatural on his father's face.

"Right," Wes trailed off, feeling uneasy as he looked down at his feet.

"Whoa, this room is cool. The lady didn't show it to me, but I guess she didn't know about it. It's kind of hard to see when you walk up the steps. But--LOOK at that crown molding!" His father gushed, waltzing in as if he owned the place, suddenly distracted by the character of the room. Technically he did, but Wes found himself growing slightly annoyed.

But, unusual for his father, he stopped. He turned around looking at Wes, before he rambled something that resembled an apology, "Hey, sorry about that. You know, for nerding out on you. I just get excited, and forget I'm completely invading your--zone. Dr. Richmond has been talking to me about that. Anyway, my therapy is besides the point of what I wanted to talk to you about! Same with the molding, even though it is absolutely remarkable. This room practically oozes charm and just--potential."

Raising an eyebrow and sighing, Wes muttered, "Okay--get to the point."

His father nodded, ignoring his son's attitude, "Right! I was thinking Derick could come over this weekend, and you two can hang out. I know it's not perfect, and I know you didn't get to say goodbye, but I just thought it would be nice for you to see an old face."

Surprisingly, when Wes looked at his father, a small smile adorned his face, "Thanks. I'll ask him."

His father nodded awkwardly. They both knew it was the moment in a Hallmark movie where they were supposed to hug it out and have some 'manly' version of a heart-to-heart about all the chaos that was unraveling their lives. However, this wasn't some Hallmark movie where their problems could be easily fixed with a hug. It probably would've been a good start for the two Peterson's, but neither was brave enough to dive head first into the uncharted waters.

"Well, I guess I'll leave you to it," his dad smiled, rubbing the back of his neck before walking out. Wes only texted Derick when he was positive his dad was already down the stairs.

(5:45) Wesley- dad says u can come over this weekend. What ya think?

When Derick still didn't respond, Wes sighed and trudged downstairs.

"Dad." 

"Dad!"

"DAD!"

"DAAAD!"

He started to sound like the obnoxious Pelicans from Finding Nemo.

"Outside!" His dad's familiar voice called.

Wes sighed, and followed the sound to the back porch where his dad was fiddling with the grill they brought.

"I need advice," Wes muttered, slightly embarrassed.

"What about?" His dad was busy kneeling over the grill, partially paying attention to his son.

"What does it mean when someone doesn't reply right away?"

"Reply to what?" His dad scratched his dark curly hair, and stood up from his crouched position. His full attention was now on Wes.

"Never mind, forget I mentioned anything," Wes muttered, turning to leave. He knew it was a waste of time to try to talk to his dad about it. 

He felt his dad's hand desperately grab his shoulder in order to stop Wes from leaving. "What? Texting?"

When Wes didn't respond his dad nodded, mulling it over.

"It means that either their phone died, or they have a life outside of it. Come on Wes, what's really going on?" His dad's jade eyes were urging Wesley to fill him in like he used to, but Wesley just couldn't.

"Nothing, just--it's nothing. I'm just being paranoid," he turned to leave, not wanting to create even more awkward tension. 

"Oh! We're hosting a barbecue this Saturday--"

"Wait, I thought you said Derick could come over this weekend," Wes halted, feeling his heart drop to his toes. It was just like his dad to make plans with someone without telling him, and then expect Wes to drop everything he had already worked out so his father could do what he wanted. 

"He can still come. I was down at the supermarket, and I ran into an old friend of mine. Susanne Boulangère, you have to remember Susanne. She has a son, Jordan? He used to come over all the time. Anyway, I ran into her and she said that they have annual Barbecue's the weekend after the first week of school. So I said we'd host, that way we could meet new people. And hopefully, I'll have the house done by then!" His dad smiled excitedly, which caught Wes off guard. He wasn't used to seeing his dad looking forward to something, especially since his mother died. It was like the old spark died along with the woman's pulse. 

"You think you can finish this by the weekend?" Wes asked dubiously, staring at the mess.

"Yeah. I'm using the money I got from my last project, $2 million dollars to fix the Creekside Hotel. Now that was a project! Family spent 26 mill on getting the place fixed up. Turns out it's now one of the most popular places to stay in the East. Anyway, I'll use that money to fix it up. I'm great at budgeting, and you could help me out from time to time. It'd be like a bonding experience," Dad offered, almost beaming at the idea.

It'd been a long time since Wes had seen his dad smile, and he was tempted to ask if he was feeling alright. But he didn't want to see the sad, embarrassed look his dad had earlier. He figured he'd give his dad something positive to talk about with his therapist this week.  

"Sure, why not. And maybe tomorrow you can show me that place you wanted to show me today," Wes shrugged, trying to act nonchalant as he found a middle ground. At the news of the offer, his dad surprised him with an awkward hug.

"Thanks for trying," his dad whispered, before letting him go.

"When do we start?"

"We can start now! Basically, all I want to do is trim back the moss. But you can help by shoveling the leaves!" His dad tossed him a rake, before running off to who knows where in order to find a ladder.

"Raking leaves it is," he mumbled to himself as he started with the first pile, shaking his head as he cursed himself for what he signed himself up for