Wrecked (Love Edy Book Three)

by Shewanda Pugh

  Wyatt lowered his mouth to hers, conscious even in his dreams that this would be their first kiss. But even as he had that thought, he had another. He absolutely could not wait for her. He would not wait. So he pried open her knees, clamored in between, and adjusted himself for action. God, his heart could barely stand the moment; it threatened to stamp right out his chest. Edy reached up with both hands to cup his face, causing him to bite down hard on his lower lip. In and out. That was all there was to it, right? Wyatt hovered, then shifted. Inch by inch he went. At the moment he felt a brush of quivering, sweet, softness, Edy opened her mouth and screamed.

  Wyatt jerked in confusion, until she began batting at him and shrieking, her mouth cracking open in blind terror. Viciously, she clawed at his face, drawing blood, slashing deep, before he could even throw up his arms in defense. He thought to stop her, with a kiss or a slap, and leaned in to the fray eventually with his lips. Edy froze, eyes wide in unmistakable terror.

  Were those eyes for him? Did she fear him? He needed to tell her that he would never hurt her, never allow another to hurt her, but as he leaned forward to pin her arms—she shuddered, as if gripped in a seismic, mounting terror. She had to calm down. He handed her a cup of seltzer water from the nightstand and begged her to calm down. This was Wyatt, remember? Her best friend.

  Almost immediately her eyes began to roll back to the whites and her body went rigid, muscles stiff as bone as she moaned. Briefly, she vomited. When she went still, Wyatt didn’t need to be told she was dead.

  Then he woke up.

  Wyatt’s dad, Roland, called a few days later. Though they weren’t supposed to talk, Wyatt figured that his grandfather had no way of knowing who he spoke to or when, and therefore couldn’t restrict his inheritance on those grounds.

  Roland asked how he was faring down in New Orleans. Wyatt asked him how he’d gotten his cell phone number. Roland laughed, told him he’d given Sandra a sob story, and asked Wyatt for some money. Figuring it had to be for a forgotten light bill or some groceries, Wyatt told him to name his number.

  “Oh, big man, are you? ‘Name your number.’ So big you can’t call your old man. Never mind that I raised you all those years. Think on that, why don’t you?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Dad,” Wyatt said. Though his father had been drunk and forgetful and verbally abusive, he did keep Wyatt out of the cold. And he had helped with his conception. He’d buried a lot of sullen resentment towards his dad, years of sulking and bitterness brewing. They’d have time for that though. Right now, he could simply be his son.

  Wyatt sighed. “What can I do for you, Dad?”

  “Give me about three-fifty thousand dollars for a house in Providence, Rhode Island. I want to head back home.”

  “Three-fifty thousand dollars!” Wyatt sputtered. “I don’t even have a house!”

  “Yeah, but you’re in school. You’ll get one when you’re done. What’s that you’re studying again?”

  He hesitated. He made the mistake of hesitating. Then compounding on his error with, “Dad…” What he should have said was that he was undecided, not hint that he wanted his father to stop talking.

  “Are you even in school, Wyatt?”

  “What? Yeah, of course,” Wyatt said.

  “Because I know you followed the Indian boy and that black girl down there. I told you, I worked your cousin over, told her I was worried and all that. She told me everything I needed to know. Now I’m just wondering if you’re a student,” he said.

  This was his father. Not only was the man skilled at bullshit himself, but he knew Wyatt well enough to know when he was attempting it.

  “I’m in school,” Wyatt said simply.

  “All I can say is that I hope she’s playing the Indian boy for a fool, because if you’re not getting any ass after all this work—”

  “Dad, I should go,” Wyatt said.

  “About that money—” his father said.

  “I don’t have that much!” he cried. “Lottie’s been down here bleeding me dry. She’s supposed to be helping me, but—”

  “Lottie? I thought I told you to stay away from that girl!” his father said.

  “Dad, listen—”

  “No, you listen. I never wanted you near the girl, but you’ve always wanted what you can’t have. So she became your favorite cousin. It’s no wonder why. The damned girl’s even crazier than you are.”

  “You believed I hurt her,” Wyatt said.

  “Between you two anything was possible, including that. Yeah, I’ll say it.”

  “You said I went off the rails! You said I better not go off the rails again!”

  “You’re the reason I don’t own a gun anymore. You waving it at my boss’ son, half the kids from Cobblestone, and then sticking it in your own mouth is why we had to make goddamned tracks. Thank God I didn’t keep the thing loaded.”

  Wyatt held the phone for a while. “I tried to shoot myself?” He hated his life, yes, but why would he choose to end it over an act he agreed to feign guilt over? Granted, he hadn’t known the consequences of going along with Lottie would be so high, but it was often that way with Lottie. She was so beautiful and innocent-looking. Her slight size and soft speech conjured an instant protective need and, Wyatt was discovering more and more, it was a need best left unfollowed.

  “Look, I don’t have the education of your precious black girl’s family, but I’m no fool, either. I know a few things. I know that Lottie’s a little older than you and a lot more experienced in the ways of life. I know her dad used to brag about raising her the British way or some shit, and giving her equal involvement in her upbringing. She used to watch HBO and Cinemax and all them types of shows too, and not just the daytime ones either. Her daddy talked about it over coffee with the others—not me, of course, I was too lowly for something like a straight conversation, even though our kids were first cousins. Anyway, he let her watch what she wanted when she wanted and called it learning about the world. He said folks who care about ratings are helicoptering, whatever the fuck that means. Anyway, the girl knew a lot more about the world than you, so I wasn’t too keen on you being around her… figuring she’d take advantage of you easily. But you know how you are.”

  “Tell me about my shooting myself. Or trying to. I don’t remember it. Why don’t I remember it?”

  “Hell if I know. You acted a right damned fool. I had to rush down from the plant to the house, through all those crazy ass teenagers. Some of ‘em were throwing rocks. All of that to get to my son still holding a gun. But by the time I got there, you were just holding it loose by your side, like. I didn’t understand the look in your eyes. Like you’d went to visit somewhere in your damned head or something. Off the goddamned rails.”

  Something tightened in Wyatt’s chest. He strained to remember this day, though he did so with fear. What if he reached for death again once he recalled the anguish he felt? What if a kitchen knife became handy? Or he opened the oven and stuck his head in?

  No. Whatever else he could have said, he was not that same hopeless boy. He had known some happiness now. He had danced at a party. Kissed a girl. Shared cocoa on the roof of another beautiful girl’s home and stared at the stars. He was rich now, too.

  Was he happy enough to remember? Secure enough in his mind?

  Wyatt doubted it. So he shoved the want away.

  “I should go now,” he said quietly.

  “Hey! Are you gonna give me the money for the house?” his dad said.

  “No! Maybe when I’ve invested some of it, you know. Turned a bit of a profit.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  “You rotten little shit.”

  Wyatt disconnected the line.

  So, his dad had been as worried about Lottie being around him as he was worried about Wyatt being around Lottie.

  If the earth quaked beneath him, he couldn’t have trembled more.

  The next evening, he sent Edy a text messag
e. He didn’t trust his voice not to shake, so he couldn’t, of course, call her. He’d spent some time considering his words and what she would respond to now, as well as his need to keep her around long enough to serve her a drink after she arrived.

  Then he had the problem of the motorcycle guy. What if he wanted to come? How could Wyatt control all these variables? He put his mind to it, considered it, and considered what he knew about Edy. Then he came up with a solution.

  IT’S ME. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU. IT’S ABOUT THE DAY I GOT SHOT.

  Her answer took longer to come than before.

  WHAT IS IT?

  He had considered which way to go with this for a while, wrestling with several possibilities before settling on his answer.

  JUST SOME FOLLOW UP QUESTIONS MY THERAPIST HAD. I KNOW YOU’LL PROBABLY SAY NO, BUT IS IT POSSIBLE YOU COULD STOP BY? JUST FOR A FEW MINUTES? IT’S EASIER, THAT’S ALL. IF IT MAKES YOU MORE COMFORTABLE, WE CAN STAY ON MY PORCH.

  He waited, praying she’d simply say she didn’t have a ride instead of leaving him to ask whether she’d bring the pretty baboon with her this time. Getting rid of him would be trickier. But she didn’t have a ride and reluctantly wound up letting him pick her up in his rented Mustang.

  They sat on his porch with Matteo’s mint juleps, served up by Lottie, who wore a peculiar smile as she did so. Wyatt wished she wouldn’t.

  Edy left her drink for a long while, sitting in one of the cushioned porch chairs as Wyatt shuffled through his endless papers. That was also part of his ploy. He knew exactly what he wanted to ask and when—had it memorized, in fact—but the shuffling would leave her with nothing to do but drink. Her drink had been spiked.

  Her drink had been spiked.

  Wyatt sat back, inauthentic papers in hand, and eyed the condensation on the outside of her glass. She had been his friend. His best friend. His only friend. His friend after so much had gone wrong in his life. Would he really hurt that girl? The ballerina he used to watch from the back of the classroom? The girl he’d shared floats with and drunk cocoa with and loved with all his heart?

  No. He—he wanted the warmth that surrounded her endlessly, the warmth that beat from her very heart, so that he could wrap himself in its protection forever. He’d wanted the goodness from her soul because he had known so little. And the kindness. There had been so much want and she, Edy, had been the first unfortunate soul to replenish him. But even what she gave had never been enough.

  What he needed wouldn’t be found with Edy.

  She reached for her drink, and he watched her, as if from a daze.

  Then he remembered.

  Wyatt flailed, knocking the glass from her hand so that the drink spilled all over her blouse and shorts.

  “God, I’m so sorry. Let me get you home so you can clean up,” he said.

  “But you can give me a shirt, can’t you? We might as well finish—”

  “We are finished, Edy,” Wyatt said. “Let’s get going.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Coach wanted to see him in his office. Hassan figured it could be for any number of reasons. Something off he’d said to the press, a fan he’d flipped off, anything. So, he took his time getting there. Over to the Football Operations Center he went, jammed his Mustang between a sporty coupe and a beaten hatchback, and strode on over to the coach’s office. Hands deep in his pockets, head down, he considered his likely punishment. He’d been brazenly disrespectful, so much so that his father had called and said that Mr. Agre down the street had asked him whether the wild one at LSU was his son. Oh, that had warranted a long conversation, made longer when Hassan had taken the time to confirm that he was talking about the butcher. That earned him a scalding earful about looking down on people who were earning a decent living. Which he wasn’t. Not that it mattered.

  Hassan arrived at the coach’s office too soon. He could’ve done with another walk around the block. Just as he considered it, the door flew open and out flew Cash with a look of absolute murder. He paused long enough to consider Hassan, but there was none of the encouragement from before, none of the love. This looked as if he’d tackle him in a dark alley and slip two hands around his throat. Politely, Hassan stepped to one side. He had no idea what that was about, nor any interest in finding out. Coach wanted to see him and that was the end of that story.

  Cash shouldered past him and disappeared.

  Still rubbing his wounded shoulder, Hassan stepped into the coach’s opulent office when called and fell into the chair before his desk.

  The smoothest, darkest mahogany Hassan had ever seen comprised the coach’s desk and the cabinets behind it that held LSU’s glittering trophies of the past. He dropped his gaze back to his hands, however, and waited.

  “Pradhan,” Coach said to him, “I have news. You should be among the first to hear it.”

  Hassan looked up at his tone. He couldn’t understand it. It was… enthusiastic?

  “Let me shake your hand. You’re a Heisman nominee, kid.” And to make it all worse, he came around his desk, this man with so much distinction, with so many accolades—that man came around his desk and thrust his hand at Hassan as if they were something like equals. Hassan stared at it, blinked twice, then gave it a firm grasp. Coach laughed at the moment Hassan worked on swallowing the lump in his throat. What the hell was happening here? This couldn’t be. He had to tell them. He had to tell someone.

  “But I’m a freshman,” he managed to croak.

  Coach laughed big as the waves back home on the Cape. “I know. You’re also incredible. Thank God those idiots saw it.”

  “You think I’m incredible?”

  Good thing Hassan was sitting, because standing wouldn’t be advisable at the moment. Had he had vertigo before? He couldn’t recall being bothered by it.

  “Pradhan, I start you in every game. You give me exactly what I ask for,” Coach said.

  “Except when it comes to the press,” Hassan said sheepishly.

  Coach whipped a look his way that warned him: he better not go there.

  The Heisman. God. Was he dreaming?

  “Coach?” Hassan said, getting to his feet. “I’m not dreaming, am I?” Because his mind was already elsewhere if he wasn’t. His thoughts were with a certain girl who’d congratulated him on winning the Heisman even when she’d been angry. And it clicked for him in that moment. She’d always been there, hadn’t she? In anger. In joy. In one sleepless night after another.

  Coach laughed at him. “No, kid. This isn’t a dream.”

  “Good,” Hassan said. “Thank you.” He paused. Looked around. “What do I do next?”

  Coach handed him a few pieces of paper. “You’ll go to New York for a ceremony and do the usual media rounds. Then there will be much pomp and circumstance before you’re honored.” He stepped closer to Hassan, much closer than he would have liked, and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. “Listen, kid. Enjoy what they do for you, because you do deserve it, eh? You’re a damned fine athlete. Don’t forget that.”

  Hassan inhaled all the air in the room and held it. Then he nodded and marched out, crumpling whatever coach had given him. He went straight to his Mustang on numb feet, pressed the necessary button to unlock his door and sped across campus. There was no thought to where he went, no concern for the stares he got as he powered through the lobby or bounded up the stairs. Hassan even banged on the door like a madman and stared in confusion, breathless and sweaty when Edy’s roommate Naomi answered instead.

  “Yes?” she said. “How can I help you?”

  “Edy,” Hassan managed. Then, “Please.”

  Naomi studied him for a moment as if considering. That exchange meant she knew all about him and them and what they were to each other. She knew he had no business being there.

  “Yes?” Edy said. She still wore her pajamas, though they were some that he didn’t know. This pair had a Winnie the Pooh Piglet stretching in a big yawn. The tank top had been coupled with a little snatch of sho
rts that had Hassan biting his lower lip.

  “I’m a Heisman nominee, Edy,” he said.

  He saw it right away, that spark of something beautiful, before her mouth opened, then closed and she had to close her eyes.

  “That’s wonderful, Hassan,” was what she said.

  “Thank you,” was what he said, while feeling like an ass.

  He took an interest in his feet. Black Jordans. His favorite pair. He’d need a new pair soon.

  “Hassan?” Edy said.

  “Yes?” He practically broke his neck looking up.

  “I’m really happy for you,” she said.

  “Oh. Yeah.” He nodded to himself. He could do this. He just got shortlisted for a fucking Heisman. He could talk to a girl, right? Especially one he’d known all his life.

  “Edy,” Hassan said, and this time it was her head that snapped up. But that didn’t make things any easier for him. Maybe it made things a bit harder. Maybe it would have been easier if she’d been looking the other way. He just didn’t know at this point. “Edy, I want you to come to the Heisman ceremony with me.”

  She frowned. “Me? Why?”

  “You know why, Edy.” He dared to take a step closer, narrowing the space between them. “I want you there because this doesn’t make sense without you. It’s all been fueled by this anger at not having you. I don’t know how to explain it. I just… I want you back. I need you in my life. Be my confidante again, be my friend. Be there for me. I need you beside me. We were everything to each other once, remember?” He flinched at her tears. Why had she begun to cry? “Cake, please don’t, cry,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I can’t help it. I’m sorry.” As soon as she wiped a trail away a fresh spill replaced it on her cheek. Hassan looked around, helpless. He’d never been able to stand her tears. He found nothing to wipe them with and decided to use the hem of his shirt. With the fabric of his tee wrapped around one hand, he stepped in and reached up, poignantly aware of every inch of her body and every breath she took. He dabbed at her face gently, wanting to cup it, to caress it, but never daring. At last his hand lowered pretty pathetically. His gaze followed and her lips captured his.