Way Back When

Wes thought back to the day earth changed:

Wes POV 9 Years Old

The Volkswagen Grand Wagoneer moved steadily down the road, its obsidian-black paint reflecting the glow of passing streetlights. The evening air outside was crisp, hinting at the slow approach of winter, and a thin layer of condensation clung to the windshield edges. Inside, the car was warm, the heated espresso-brown leather seats radiating a steady, comfortable heat. The scent of polished wood, fine leather, and traces of his mother's floral perfume filled the cabin.

Wes Carter sat in the third row, arms crossed, fingers lightly tracing the stitching on the seat. His jet-black hair was slightly messy, his hazel-green eyes sharp, catching the dim glow of the dashboard lights. His skin was paler than Chad's, his features lean but defined—a reflection of his mother's.

Beside him, Chad, his half-brother, a year older, sat with one leg stretched out, the other bent against the seat in front of him. His golden-brown skin contrasted against the dark leather interior, his dark curls slightly tousled. His honey-colored eyes flicked toward the passing streetlights outside, his expression unreadable.

In the middle row, strapped into her car seat, Wes's two-year-old half-sister kicked her feet rhythmically against the cushioned base. Her dirty blonde hair curled softly at the ends, fine and wispy. Her bright blue eyes, wide and curious, reflected the streetlights flashing past. She gripped a worn stuffed animal in her tiny hands, twisting the fabric between her fingers. Her fair skin and delicate features were all Simon's—she looked nothing like Wes or Chad.

Next to her, Charlotte, Simon's niece, sat in the other captain's seat. She had auburn hair, neatly pulled back, and fair skin that seemed to glow faintly under the reflection of her phone screen. She barely moved, her fingers scrolling slowly as she rested her elbow against the window.

Their mother, Sharon, drove with a firm but relaxed grip on the wheel. The soft glow from the dashboard illuminated her sharp features—the same high cheekbones and striking hazel-green eyes that Wes had inherited.

She had always been striking.

An All-American gymnast in college, tall for a woman, just under six feet, with long legs and the kind of athletic build that never completely faded. Even years later, after college, after motherhood, she still kept herself in shape—not obsessive, just enough to stay toned, stay sharp. She had good genetics, good habits. Even now, with minimal makeup and a casual outfit, she was a looker. People noticed her.

After marrying Simon, she had stopped working. With the kind of money he made, she hadn't needed to. Now, she was a stay-at-home mom, taking care of their house, their family, their lives.

It hadn't always been like this.

When Wes was little, it had just been the two of them. His father, a soldier, had been killed in Afghanistan before Wes was even born. His mother never talked about him. Not once.

They hadn't been poor, but they hadn't been comfortable either.

Then, when Wes was in preschool, everything changed. She got into pharmaceutical sales—big-name products, high-dollar commissions. She was good at it—one of the best. She had always been smart, always ambitious.

With success came money.

They moved into a nicer apartment, then a townhouse, then a house in a gated community. Wes went from public school to private school. Their life got easier—but she was gone more.

That was when his grandmother stepped in.

His father's mother—the only connection he had to the man he never met—became his anchor. She told him stories, filling in the gaps his mother refused to talk about. She let him know who his father really was, beyond the uniform and the folded flag.

His mother's parents had passed years ago, both of them gone before Wes was old enough to remember them. His grandmother was all he had from that side of the family.

And then Sharon met Simon.

A big-time surgeon. Wealthy. Well-connected.

They met at a hospital function, a fundraiser. A few dates turned into something serious.

Wes hadn't been sure what to think at first.

His mother had never really dated.

Not in a way that Wes ever saw. If she had, it was always quiet, private, distant. She never let anyone get close, never let anyone into their world, into Wes's life.

She had protected him—whether from bad people or just from the unknown, he didn't know. But she had always been reserved, always careful.

Then Simon came along.

A year later, they moved across the country.

Simon hadn't hesitated to buy the house next door for Wes's grandmother. She had done too much for them to leave her behind.

Good man.

Good husband. Good stepfather.

One day, before he and Sharon got married, Simon sat Wes down, just the two of them.

He told him he wanted to adopt him. Not to replace anyone, but because he was already there, and always would be.

Wes hadn't expected it. Hadn't known how to respond.

And he cried.

Because Simon had been the first father figure in his life. From the moment Sharon introduced them, he had accepted Wes without hesitation. Treated him as his own, never as an obligation. He taught him things, showed him how to carry himself, how to handle things the way a man should. A steady presence he hadn't even realized he needed.

Wes never gave an answer that day.

He didn't need to.

And Chad—Chad had known his mother, remembered her.

Sharon never tried to take that from him.

She told him, simply, she'd never replace his mother.

But when he was ready, she'd be there.

They were a family. Sure, he and Chad tussled from time to time, but it had settled into a full-blown brotherly rivalry.

That was why his mom wasn't talking. Why the air in the car felt thick.

Wes was in trouble.

It had happened earlier that day at school.

Chad had a slight lisp. Noticeable, but not terrible. If he spoke too fast or got frustrated, it crept in, twisting certain sounds just enough for people to pick up on it. Most people ignored it. Wes barely noticed it anymore.

But some kids—Chad's classmates, kids his age—had caught it.

Chad was a genius. His mind worked in ways most people couldn't keep up with—computers, engineering, programming—he saw things in numbers, patterns, and blueprints. But he wasn't a fighter. Never had been. Even though he was taller, even though he was bigger than Wes, he didn't carry himself like someone looking for a fight.

He let most things slide. Didn't get caught up in petty arguments, didn't waste time on people who didn't matter. It was one of the things that made him different.

But when Wes saw the look in his eyes—**just for a split second, the flicker of hurt before Chad schooled his face into something neutral—**it set Wes off.

Then one of the kids said it.

"Maybe he's one of those special retards. You know, the really smart kind."

His grandmother always said he had good instincts.

Wes didn't know if that was true.

But he won a lot.

Football, track, baseball—he picked things up fast. And wrestling? That was his thing.

Wrestling in American high schools wasn't for the weak. No pads, no teams to rely on—just two people on the mat, locked in a battle of strength, speed, and endurance. No luck involved. No easy way out. Just skill, discipline, and knowing how to take someone down before they took you.

And today, Wes wasn't walking away.

Wes didn't hesitate.

No words. No warnings. Just action.

His fist slammed into the first kid's chest, knocking him off balance. Not a clean hit, but enough to send him stumbling.

A second later, a punch swung at Wes—too slow. He ducked, came up with a sharp shove, driving his shoulder into the second kid's chest. The kid staggered back, but before Wes could follow up, pain flared in his ribs—a fist catching him from the side.

Didn't matter. He kept moving.

He snapped a quick punch to the gut, then a fast right hook to the first kid's head. Not enough to drop him, but enough to make him think twice.

Then, Chad moved.

Chad wasn't a fighter. Not because he was weak, but because he never saw a reason to fight.

But now, he stepped in.

Not throwing punches. Not like Wes.

Instead, he grabbed the biggest kid—the one still waiting to jump in—and held him back.

The kid tried to yank free, tried to push Chad off, but Chad was solid. He had good genetics, Simon's frame, naturally strong without ever really trying. Not a fighter, but not someone you could shake off easily, either.

On camera, it looked like he was breaking up the fight.

In reality, he was keeping the biggest threat off Wes's back.

That took the pressure off Wes.

The second kid rushed him—Wes sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and shoved him hard into the lockers. Another wild punch came from the first kid—Wes caught it on his forearm, then drove forward, knocking him back again.

Then—a voice cut through the chaos.

Teachers.

Hands grabbed him, yanking him backward.

The fight was over.

But Wes wasn't done.

He shrugged off the teacher's grip just enough to turn back, his lip curled in a smirk, his hazel-green eyes flashing with something almost daring.

"Call my brother a retard again. I dare you."

The three kids—bruised, hunched over, catching their breath—stayed quiet.

It had been a big deal.

Bullying. Violence. All the things the school pretended didn't happen but cracked down on when they did.

Wes was pretty sure he was going to have to sit through some conflict resolution counseling.

But it was worth it.

And honestly?

He enjoyed the fight.

Not that he'd say it out loud.