“Then why do you still want to keep up this charade? Let’s just tell Dev and our friends the truth. My therapy, our past. Everything.”
“Cora, Hope, and—”
I interrupt her protest. “I could tell them. This way, you won’t breach your non-disclosure agreement.”
Ellie forces my arm to make her spin, and I wonder whether she’s buying time before answering.
Once we’re face to face again, she asks, “Why is it so important for you that they know?”
I stare into her eyes. “Because a future can’t be built on a lie. Because I want my best friend to know that I…that I like his sister.”
She tilts her head to the side, scrutinizing my gaze. “Like?”
I slowly nod. “Yes. For lack of a better word.”
Ellie lowers her head.
Our feet keep moving so we’re swaying around in the circle with the others, but it’s as if time stands still.
I wait for Ellie’s verdict, with my heart vibrating in my throat.
Despite my sober word choice to cover up my first phrase’s intensity, my tone remained too revealing of my attraction to her.
But I couldn’t help it. Looking into Ellie’s green eyes is like standing on a dangerously high cliff where you know you shouldn’t peer down, but you still let your gaze drift into the abyss.
She slowly lifts her chin. Just before her green irises meet mine, her gaze stops on something behind me.
Her body goes rigid, and her eyes widen.
“Ellie, what is it?” I inquire.
She doesn’t answer immediately, but when she does, her soprano is so low, I need to lean closer to hear her.
“Wyatt, I think you should turn around,” she mumbles. She clears her throat, and her next words come out stronger. “Now, please.”
Chapter 29
(Ellie)
The moment I notice Wyatt’s mother and realize who she’s with, my blood freezes.
What should I do?
“Ellie, what is it?” Wyatt’s face moves into a worried glance.
He must think it’s the emphasis he put on “like” that’s freaking me out. To be fair, his half-confession is probably part of the equation.
But while I’m confused about what he hinted at—or more precisely about the sensations his word unleashed in me—that puzzlement dwarfs beside the panic I feel at the thought of how Wyatt will feel once he sees who his mother is sharing a pack of popcorn with right now.
For a second, I contemplate distracting Wyatt with a kiss.
This would keep him from seeing his parents and have the added benefit of satisfying the longing brewing in my body.
But tasting his lips would be reckless. It’d cripple my reason, and I can’t have that. Not when I’m with Wyatt.
Besides, it was my own suggestion for Wyatt to talk to his mother about his childhood, and a kiss would only delay the inevitable. Wyatt’ll eventually realize his father’s back in town and busy rekindling things with his mother.
I draw in a breath and snap my gaze to Wyatt.
The strength of my voice matches my desire to put Wyatt through this—barely a whisper. “Wyatt, I think you should turn around.”
He bends to me, and his breath heats my neck.
I steel my nerves and add, “Now, please.”
Wyatt gives me a curious brow lift but obeys my command.
As his eyes lock on his mother, his shoulders go rigid. “What the h—”
Wyatt’s yell gets swallowed in the clapping of the dancers, or maybe I can’t hear the rest of his words because he’s already darted forward. I scurry behind him as fast as possible because I don’t want him to face this situation alone.
Cristina and Mason Harrison are still standing in front of the Kettlelicious Kettle Corn where I first spotted them—entirely oblivious to the external world or what’s coming at them.
Despite my best effort, I can’t keep up with Wyatt’s trained legs, so I don’t hear his first words as he reaches his parents, but judging by his mother’s horrified expression and the popcorn bag that lands at her feet, Wyatt didn’t start the conversation in a particularly neutral tone.
Cristina’s glance is bouncing between her husband and Wyatt when I arrive. She has her son’s blond hair, only hers is tinted with a few grayish strands. She still keeps her soft waves in the same elegant chignon she used to when we were kids.
Wyatt’s father is the source of those lucky genes that predestined Wyatt to be an athlete, and when he straightens his back to meet his son’s gaze, his build becomes almost as intimidating as Wyatt’s.
But when Mason speaks, his tone contradicts his posture. He sounds almost apologetic. “This is a public dance, son. Anybody ca—”
“Anybody but you,” Wyatt says. “Didn’t I write to you to leave us alone? To never ever contact Mom again?”
His voice is categorical, though less out-of-control than I’d have expected. His chin quivers as he stares at his dad, but his fingers are relaxed, and I don’t see any throbbing on his temples.
Pride settles in my chest because I realize just how far Wyatt has come.
He might be speaking in an icy tone to his father, but before starting our therapy, he probably would’ve launched himself at Mason and handed him a jab far worse than that wide receiver had gotten.
“It’s me who called up Mason, not the other way around,” Cristina intervenes.
Wyatt’s jaw drops as his gaze darts to his mother. “Have you been with Dad all day? Is that why Martha acted so weird when I asked her where you were? You didn’t go to Prescott with Wendy, did you?”
Cristina’s hand fiddles with the top button of her red shirt. She looks so embarrassed at her son’s question that I immediately feel sorry for her.
“I didn’t want to deceive you, son, and neither did Martha. She probably didn’t know what to tell you but wanted to stay loyal to me.”
This makes sense. It’s the kind of lie Cora or Hope would tell for me. But I wonder if, in her heart, Martha wanted Wyatt to discover his father’s return, and if that’s why she looked so torn when she spotted us at the dance earlier.
Wyatt narrows his eyes at his mother. “You promised me you’d stay away from him.”
Cristina shakes her head. “No. I only promised that I wouldn’t be sucked back into the same nightmare again. And I won’t. Your father has changed.”
Wyatt pulls in a loud breath. “You let me assume you wouldn’t speak to him.”
“Son,” Mason interjects, “I was near Kingman when your mother called, so I—”
Wyatt throws a sharp glance at his father. “I’m talking to Mom.”
Mason ignores his son’s frosty remark. “I’m a changed man, Wyatt. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I am. I’ve completely sobered up. I’m—”
“I don’t care.” Wyatt shakes his head. “Just because you don’t drink booze, it doesn’t make you a better man or a worthy father.” His voice is filled with resentment, but there’s a clear, painful edge in it, too, as if he’s sorry for feeling the way he does about his father.
“You’re right. Absolutely right,” Mason mumbles. He rubs his cheeks with both palms, and his fingers leave faint white lines on his freshly shaved skin. His eyes wander to my face, and he lowers his hands. “Oh, hi, Ellie. You’ve grown up.”
“Yes, I did,” I mumble because I’m not sure what else to say.
Cristina’s glance also moves to me, as if she’s also just noticed me.
“Hi, Cristina,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to intrude.”
Wyatt’s Mom gives me a wary smile. “I know, sweetheart.”
My cheeks heat, and I’m torn about what to do.
Wyatt told me that his mother never wanted outsiders to know about her marriage’s real issues. She might not be happy that I’m a silent spectator to their family drama.
At the same time, I’m Wyatt’s therapist, and I can’t leave him alone without knowing whether h
is coping skills have grown strong enough.
I exchange a glance with Wyatt and the grateful glint in his eyes—almost as if I’m his safety line in this unexpected situation—is enough for me to ignore my fear of being his supporter. I’m staying.
Wyatt turns back to his mom. “Don’t you remember how you were after Dad left? Or how he behaved when he was still with you?”
Cristina sighs. “I do. Of course, I do. But Mason changed. He cleaned up and he regrets his past behavior. He would like a chance to demonstrate his good will to us. To become part of our lives again.”
“I. Don’t. Want. That.” Wyatt’s voice increases in intensity, loud fury and silent hurt percolating from his words.
I’m just about to lift a gentle hand to put it on his arm to remind him he needs to be more mindful when I see him adjust his weight and shrug his shoulders. Almost as if… Yeah, as if he’s positioning himself into the centered-tree posture I taught him.
My eyes flick to his lips. They’re moving ever so slightly with no sound.
My heart leaps.
Wyatt is counting. He’s practicing a self-soothing technique.
I capture Cristina’s gaze and give her an encouraging smile. I tilt my head imperceptibly toward Mason to show that if there was ever a moment for Wyatt’s father to present his excuses, this might just be it.
Cristina lays a hand on Mason’s shoulder. “Tell Wyatt what you told me.”
Wyatt’s father draws in a big breath and takes a small step toward his son. “I’ve been on a strict program for over two years now, Wyatt. I waited this long before contacting you because I wanted to be sure I cracked all my nasty addictions. I’m free of my slavery to imbibing, and I understand now how I mishandled you both.”
“Mishandled?” Wyatt interrupts. His voice is cool but composed, reassuring me that he recalls not only how to act when his anger rises, but that the exercise works for him. “That’s a funny way of saying abused.”
“You’re right, son.” Mason’s face contorts into a grimace of shame. “I did abuse you, and I’m truly sorry for that. But I’m here to try to work on that. I’m ready to do whatever you and your mother require of me to make you see I’m not the same man I once was. I… I followed all your games, and I—”
“Ah, and that’s supposed to make it all okay?” Wyatt crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You watching me on TV? You think that makes you a good father?”
Cristina shakes her head. “Son, the Bible teaches us that when people repent of their sins, we should forgive them.”
Wyatt’s face steels. “I’m not sure that’s possible for me. There are just too many times to forgive.”
His mom bends forward and squeezes his hand. “Do you remember what Jesus answered to Peter when he asked how many times sinning brothers or sisters should be forgiven?”
Though she asked Wyatt, it’s Mason who answers.
“Jesus said ‘not seven times, but seventy-seven times.’” He blinks at his son and taps on his own chest. “I’m only asking that you forgive me once. If you can do that, I promise you I’ll never again do anything to hurt you or your mother.”
Wyatt snorts. “You’re not only sober but also a devoted Christian now? Oh, please…”
“Wyatt,” Cristina snaps, “don’t be—”
I shake my head, and she catches my glance and stops.
Mason puts a hand on her shoulder. “No, Cristina. Our son has every right to doubt me. I’ve made giant mistakes. I was a terrible husband and an even worse father. The only thing I can do now is to ask Wyatt’s forgiveness and wait patiently till he’s ready to give it to me.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up. You might just wait until forever,” Wyatt murmurs, but his tone has lost a few grades of iciness.
“I’m ready to do that as well,” Mason answers. “Anything to redeem myself to you. Your mother and Ellie be my witnesses.”
He glances at me, and as our eyes meet, I realize for the first time that Wyatt and his father have a very similar eye color. As a child, I always thought Mason’s irises were hazel, but now, tinted with sorrow, they dance in the same toffee hue as his son’s.
Mason turns to his son, he and Wyatt gape at each other.
The weight of their silence is accentuated by the cheerful Cowboy Cha Cha the band is playing.
Cristina’s eyes move to me and she frowns. “What now?” she mouths.
I know she’d like to speak some more to try and convince Wyatt to keep an open mind and heart to his father, but I think it’s best to end this chat here. Mason has stated his case. Now the ball is in Wyatt’s court. If Wyatt is forced to give his father an answer now, it won’t be what Mason and Cristina hope.
Give him time. I try to channel my silent message through my gaze to Wyatt’s mom, and she seems to understand me, because she nods ever so slightly.
I clear my voice and say out loud, “All right. I think this is probably enough for tonight. It might be better if we all go home and think about what’s been said.”
Cristina immediately agrees. “Ellie’s right. It’s getting late, and I’m pretty tired. I think we should call it a night. Right, Mason?”
Wyatt’s father breaks eye contact with his son and blinks at Cristina. “Sure. It’s probably been a lot for everyone.”
Wyatt continues to glare at his father, so I nudge his back to bring him back to reality. “Shall we go home?”
He flinches, then nods. “Yeah, okay.”
“Aren’t you sleeping at my house?” Wyatt’s mom asks.
Wyatt seems to be in a bit of a trance, so I shake my head and answer for him. “I offered Wyatt to stay in Dev’s old room. I hope that’s okay.”
I don’t even bother adding an excuse, like how I feel scared on my own in a big house. I couldn’t care less if Cristina or Mason thinks it’s weird that I want their son to sleep at my parents’ place. They can even tell Martha, and she can spread it over a loudspeaker to the entire town. The only thing I’m concerned with right now is bringing Wyatt to a safe, quiet space where this encounter can sink in. Where he can ponder whether he feels ready to accept his father’s apology or not.
Cristina smiles. “Of course, whatever Wyatt prefers.”
“Where are you staying?” Wyatt asks his father.
The implication of his question is clear, and his mother blushes while his father fingers the collar of his shirt.
“I’m sleeping at MacLoyd’s Inn,” Mason says. “I’ve booked myself a room for an indefinite amount of time. So, in case you wanted to talk some more, you could—”
“Let’s see about that later, shall we?” I intervene in a forced, cheerful tone. “Poor Cristina’s barely keeping herself on her feet.”
“Indeed,” Wyatt’s mother says and adds a theatrical yawn.
“Okay, let’s go then,” Wyatt says. “Sleep well, Mom. We’ll come over tomorrow—” He gives a pointed glance to his father. “—before heading back to Phoenix.” He leans in and kisses his mother.
I say goodbye to Cristina and Mason.
As I shake his father’s hand, he bends closer to me and whispers, “You’re a good girl, Ellie. Thank you for being there for Wyatt.”
The tone of his last words, more than anything else he’d said, makes me hope that his promises to his son aren’t just empty bubbles. They brim with affection and warmth that only someone who cares about the other can have.
Wyatt is waiting for me, his eyes on the dancers.
When I step beside him, he takes my hand silently and pulls me toward the parking lot.
I look back, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Martha scurrying over to Cristina and Mason before the crowd closes up behind us, obscuring my view.
Before I can ponder about the two women’s likely exchange, we reach the poles with the giant Boot Scootin’ Bash sign, and Wyatt lets out a loud sigh.
I peer up at him and notice the exhausted expression on his face.
“You did very wel
l back there,” I whisper softly.
His lips pull into a small smile. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Absolutely. I saw your emotion swelling, but you controlled it just like we practiced.”
“Yeah,” he says, rolling his neck. “I wasn’t sure it would work, but as I counted, the anger slowly deflated from my chest, like air from a balloon. But now I feel like I’ve just completed the Western States Endurance Run after playing two football games without ever stopping.”
“Come, let’s get you home so you can rest,” I say and drag him to his car.
He pulls out the keys, and his Corvette opens with a beep.
I go around and open my door, but just before I get in, I hear a quietly murmured, “Bye, Dad.”
My eyes flick to Wyatt.
He stands with his back to me, facing the dance.
A smile jumps to my lips. I sprint to his side and snake my arm around his.
He peers down at me.
I nod at him.
He returns his gaze to the distance and we remain there, arm in arm, staring at the lights and the people, listening in silence to Kenny Chesney’s “Somewhere with You.”
I could tell Wyatt that as his therapist I think that letting his father show he’s changed would be beneficial, but Wyatt needs to mull over what happened at his own pace. I’ll wait for his sign to know when he’d like my opinion on his father.
Wyatt might have hired me to help him, but I can’t act with him like I would if he were just an average patient.
Not when he is more to me.
I take a quick peek at him, and my heart flutters.
As if I needed a demonstration of just how much more it is.
Chapter 30
(Wyatt)
I turn in Devon’s old bed, and the support beams creak with noise so shrill it’d jar a bear out of his winter lethargy.
Not that it risks waking me.
I’m not asleep despite it being two a.m. My brain is apparently too busy digesting what happened last night. Though I’d love to stick only to Ellie’s image as we danced—especially that quivering spot between her collarbones—my mind is in a masochistic mood and thrusts me away from her.
Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Page 23