by Annie Kelly
He shakes his head. “Nah. We were together for years, but only married for about nine months. It was a problem from long before we said ‘I do’ but I was too blind to see it.”
“Yeah.”
I get what he’s saying. I’ve been in relationships that ended long before they actually ended. Which is half the reason I started having the kind of relationships that never really begin in the first place.
“How did you meet her?”
He shrugs, then takes another swig of his beer.
“She was a bandmate’s friend—friend of his girlfriend, actually.”
“So a groupie?”
He shrugs again. “We were playing in shitty bars at that point, so there wasn’t much to be groupie-ing for. We clicked. She loved our music and she was supportive. A musician’s lifestyle—well, it isn’t for everyone. Definitely not for most girls I’ve met.”
“Yeah, I could see that—late nights, travel . . . that kind of shit.”
Wyatt nods, leaning back against the wheelchair’s seat. “Honestly, it’s not that different from shift work, like being a cop or a firefighter. The problem isn’t the hours, though, it’s the lifestyle.”
I nod. God knows, I know exactly what kind of lifestyle he means.
“But Jill could hack it. She liked being there to cheer me on. But, then again, she was also smoking or snorting everything that would stand still long enough. After . . . after the shit with your brother, I tried forgiving her but after my accident, I had to admit it was over. I filed for an annulment soon after.”
A waitress stops by then with our burgers and fries and I help myself to a handful, despite the still-scalding oil coating every inch. Once Wyatt’s finished chatting with the cute brunette, he rubs both hands together in an anticipatory gesture.
“God, I’ve been craving this. You have no idea.”
I arch a brow as I grab the bottle of ketchup.
“You haven’t been hitting up Dino’s with Cyn’s dad?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m loyal to my favorite dives. Not to mention—this is actually my first beer since I got out of the hospital.”
I stare at him as he takes another swig from the can. My concern must be obvious because he barks out a laugh and shakes his head.
“I’m allowed—it’s not illegal. I’ve just been on high doses of painkillers for so long, not to mention antibiotics and prednisone. It’s too much to be mixing that shit with booze.”
“Yeah, sounds like it.”
I slap the bottom of the Heinz bottle until a dollop of ketchup plops indelicately out onto my plate. I hand the bottle to Wyatt, who proceeds to do the same as I did. Well, he tries to, anyway.
For the first time, I notice that tremble I’ve heard Cyn mention. His hands are shaking as he attempts to get the bottle in his grip and his angle is far too parallel to the table to get anything out. I feel a clench around my heart, as though someone’s got their fist around it and are squeezing as hard as they can.
“May I?”
I say it softly, but I know he hears me because he hands over the bottle. He won’t meet my gaze and busies himself with spreading his napkin over his lap. Quietly, I pour the ketchup onto his plate, then set the bottle as far from Wyatt as I can as though it would possibly offend him a little less at a distance.
I take another fry from my plate and watch a wisp of steam curl up into the air from the still-scalding surface. Over the steam, I meet Wyatt’s gaze.
“Hot.”
Brilliant, Carson. Just brilliant.
Wyatt doesn’t say anything—instead, he leans forward a bit, purses his lips, and blows at the steam. His eyes never leave mine and I legitimately think I might swallow my tongue.
“Thanks,” I manage to stammer. He cocks a half grin and shrugs.
“Anytime.”
For a few minutes, we’re both quiet as we eat our food. In the background, there’s the sound of a bar back restocking glasses and the muted conversation of other lunch-goers. I try to focus on eating, but I can’t help but notice Wyatt’s hands—the way they tremble slightly as he holds his drink, the way he continues to readjust his grip on the bun of his burger.
He clears his throat and I glance up at his unexpectedly earnest expression.
“I was wondering . . .” he says. I blink at him.
“What?”
“What was it about drugs that was so appealing to you? I mean, you seem like you have your shit together.”
“Do I really?” I ask, eyebrow arched. Wyatt is watching me closely and I give a little shrug.
“A lot of the appeal was in the self-medicating aspects. That and being able to hide. Hiding and running, all at the same time.”
“From what?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Running from what? Hiding from what?”
I exhale hard, then look down at my hands.
“Myself. My fear. My anxiety.”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then two. Finally, I look back up. His gaze meets mine and I want to flinch at what I see there. I’m pretty sure it’s pity. Someone who lost a best friend and a wife both in the same year? Yeah, he doesn’t need to be feeling sorry for me.
“Y’all need anything else?”
I’ve never been as happy to see anyone as I am to see Deena standing at the side of our table. She’s got a set of reading glasses pushed up into her curls now and Wyatt grins at her.
“You still hitting the books behind the bar, D?”
She puts both hands on her hips. “I’m two classes away from finishing my certification, baby. You’re looking at an almost ultrasound technician.”
Wyatt holds up a hand and she slaps it in an enthusiastic high-five.
“That’s amazing,” I say, smiling at her. There’s something endearing about her, and she clearly cares a lot about Wyatt.
“So, inquiring minds wanna know, Wy.”
He cocks a curious brow. “Oh do they? What do they wanna know?”
She leans forward, bracing both hands on the table’s edge, and gives him a pointed stare.
“They wanna know when you’re gonna start playing again. When we’ll see you behind that drum kit.”
Up until now, at least over the course of the last few weeks, Wyatt has been open and honest. Almost frank about stuff with his wife and his desire to finish school. But this question? I watch some kind of shutters come clattering over his gaze and he starts picking at his fries.
“No date for that quite yet,” he sort of mutters.
But Deena isn’t having it. She lowers down, leaning back on her haunches. I can tell she’s done this posturing before with a child because she lowers her voice and softens her tone.
“Look, Jack and Bentz want to see you. I know they’ve been calling—they told me you won’t answer and you won’t see them.”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything and for a long, uncomfortable minute, we all just sit there silence—Deena watching Wyatt, Wyatt staring at his plate, and me, forcing myself not to pick at my napkin to attempt to bear the nervous tension.
“Alright, honey,” Deena finally says. She raises back up and pats Wyatt’s shoulder. “I know you need to take your time. But we all love you. And we miss you.”
She walks away, but Wyatt doesn’t change his focus from his food. Instead, he reaches forward and grabs a handful of French fries. Unsure of how to proceed, I do the same. I try to ignore the tremor of his hands, all the more obvious now. He’s clearly upset and I’m clearly ill equipped to assist him. Instead, I chew and swallow and do my damndest to tamp down my tutor tendencies. I want to help him, and I know I will be helping soon—at least when it comes to school.
But, see, that’s the thing here. Somehow, there’s something about Wyatt that calls out for more than just an academic intervention.
Something about him—his still-healing body and still-grieving heart—well, it’s begging to be fixed. It’s begging to be saved. And I’ve alway
s been a sucker for the down and the damaged.
What can I say? I guess it takes one to know one.
Chapter Seven
“So?”
I can tell by Cyn’s voice that she’s chomping at the bit. I haven’t seen her all week and I know she wants to ask about Wyatt. About me. About Wyatt and me. And I just really want to watch The Real Housewives.
“So what?” I sigh, flopping down on the couch and propping my flip-flopped feet up on the coffee table. Cyn comes to sit next to me, tucking her legs up underneath her. She shakes her dark curls away from her face and her eyes are bright. And inquisitive. And annoying.
“So, how are things going with Wyatt? How was meeting with his advisor? Do you think it’s going to work out?”
“Really, Hyacinth?” I ask, giving her a pointed look. Using her whole first name usually has an easy chastisement effect. Not so much this time.
“Oh, come on! Spill.”
I shrug and start picking at the pilled surface of my fleece blanket.
“It was fine. It looks like I’ll be able to help him get most of his work done—it’ll need to be dictated, so in-person sessions are pretty essential, unless he wants to record himself and send me audio files. But, I mean, all in all—yeah. It was good.”
When I look back up at Cyn her eyes are narrowed. She waits a beat, then two, then opens her mouth and bellows, “Rainey! Get your ass in here!”
I groan. “Dude, what the hell?”
Rainey pokes her head out from her bedroom door. She’s still wearing her YMCA staff T-shirt and she looks uncharacteristically stressed. I know that she’s been working her ass off trying to get grant funding for more kid-centered programs. Despite the education degree, not to mention a very wealthy family—or maybe because of those—Rainey seems more interested in helping the community than getting a decent paycheck.
“Hey, Cyn!” She smiles, although I can see the dark circles that are now a prominent and permanent fixture on her face. Two weeks at Dino’s was the first time we’d actually gone out in weeks. I barely see her now.
“What’s going on?”
Cyn shifts over on the couch so Rainey can sit down next to her.
“So, Carson here had a close encounter of the tutoring kind with Wyatt and she refuses to spill the beans.”
Rainey frowns. “You mean yesterday?”
Cyn blinks at her, then at me. “Yesterday? You saw him yesterday, too? That means you saw him—what? Twice this week?”
I hold up both hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay.”
I reach for the remote and push mute, then shift over to look at both of my best friends. There was a time when all three of us lived together. There were impromptu slumber parties on the living room floor, there were late night laughing fits, there were quiet, honest conversations. I know I can trust these women as much as I always have. I’m not sure why I feel the need to hang on to my experiences with Wyatt. It’s like they’re just mine. Just Wyatt’s and mine. Just ours.
“Yes, I saw Wyatt twice this week—once for tutoring and once for a meeting. And then lunch.”
“Lunch?” Cyn almost squeals the word. “So, was it like a date?”
I shake my head.
“Look,” I say, biting my lip. “It’s a job. A job I need desperately. Is he hot? Absolutely. But I’m still attempting to get myself in a place of stability—and a new relationship is the last thing I need right now.”
Rainey raises an eyebrow at Cyn, then at me. “I don’t think anyone is suggesting you get in a relationship with Wyatt.”
“No?”
“No, not at all.” Cyn’s eyes have a wicked glint. “I just figured you guys could fuck like bunnies and blow off some steam.” For a long second, I stare at her, then I bark out a laugh.
“You know, I like Smith’s influence on you. You’re far less uptight.”
“I’m serious,” she says, sort of pouting. “I mean, yeah, Smith has made me a little more . . .”
“Limber?” Rainey suggests.
“Not what I was going to say, but thanks.” Cyn shoots her a glare, then looks back at me. “Look, all I’m saying is that Wyatt’s an amazing guy.”
“You’ve only known him for a few months.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But I think there’s a lot you can tell about a person when they’re in a world they didn’t intend to end up in.”
I swallow hard. “Well, look—all I’m saying is back off a little on the ‘let’s get Carson laid, specifically by Wyatt’ campaign. I need to focus on work. On finding more work and on making more money and on not getting high.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence and I look down at my hands. I probably shouldn’t have thrown that shit out there. It’s not like they don’t know about it—Rainey and Cyn were the ones who saw me at my very worst. But now that I’m clean, the reminder probably isn’t necessary. It certainly doesn’t make me feel any better.
Rainey slides a hand over mind and squeezes.
“Fair enough. Sober Carson doesn’t like dick.”
Cyn shrieks a laugh, then claps a hand over her mouth. I shake my head, but I’m grinning.
“Exactly. You nailed it.”
“Sure did.” Rainey grins. “But that’s a damn shame, man. He’s sexy. And, hell, I mean—don’t you want to be the first chick to make sure all his junk still works?”
I close my eyes and inhale through my nose. I love Rainey, but her mouth is going to get her in trouble one of these days.
Cyn glances at her phone, then pops up from her seat.
“Shit—I’m totally late to meet Smith.” She comes over to me and grabs my face with both hands. I can already tell by the look in her eyes that she’s about to go all Cyn-serious on me.
“Listen to me. You are a rock star. Have you backslid a little in the past? Sure. But we all have. And now you’re coming out fighting because that’s not just what you do—it’s who you are.”
She blows a curl out of her face and smiles. It’s so endearing—so genuine—that I can’t help but smile back.
“The reason I’m asking about Wyatt? The reason I want to know all the deets? It’s because he’s a fighter just like you are. And—I don’t know . . . I guess I think you could be good for each other, that’s all.”
She leans up to hug me, then bounces to her feet. I’ve never seen Cyn this happy. Smith has taken the weight of the world that she’s been carrying on her shoulders and shouldered much of the burden himself. I’d imagine it’s an amazing feeling. It’s like you have a partner to help you along.
Maybe that’s what she wants for me when it comes to Wyatt. Hell, maybe it’s what I want for myself. I don’t even know anymore.
At this point, whenever I’m with him, the last thing I can think about is tutoring him. In fact, the only thing I seem to think about now is touching his body and falling asleep in his arms.
***
Dr. Evans gave me a basic calendar of due dates and all the copies of the course syllabi, so I spend the next week putting together a more extensive schedule of what Wyatt should be doing. I email him twice—once with the calendar I’d created and another time to confirm our next tutoring session, but I never hear back. It isn’t until Friday morning that I get a text from him saying that he wants to meet in his apartment this time instead of the common area. That idea alone gives me heart palpitations for most of the day.
By the time I show up at Holly Fields that evening, though, I’ve managed to talk myself down a bit. Wyatt is just a guy—a hot guy, but a guy all the same—who needs some assistance. He’s just another client. He’s just another student. I’m nothing but his tutor and it needs to stay that way. Business relationship only. Otherwise, I’m no better than I used to be—breaking rules and ignoring what’s best for everyone involved.
Which is what I’m thinking the entire time I’m walking through the lobby, checking in with the front desk, and riding the elevator up. It’s what I’m convincing mysel
f of when the double doors open and spit me out into the quiet hallway where Wyatt’s apartment door stares me in the face.
I knock quietly.
No answer.
I knock a little louder. And a little louder again.
Nothing.
For a second, I think I might have gotten the apartment number wrong. Then the door flies open and I’m standing toe-to-toe with quite possibly the most terrifying-looking woman I’ve ever seen. She’s large, blond, and tan, like a bodybuilder, and when she smiles at me, it’s more like a grimace.
“Can I help you, honey?” she asks in an unexpectedly deep Southern drawl.
I blink at her, forcing myself not to glance behind me or at the door number again.
“I’m here to meet Wyatt?”
I say it as though there are multiple Wyatts and I know I sound like a moron. Still, Abominable Blondie starts nodding and motioning for me to come in.
“Of course—he’s just finishing up PT. Gimme a sec and I’ll grab him.”
“Uh—okay.” I follow her into the foyer of the apartment.
“Hey, Wy?”
She disappears around the corner and I stand there, my bag gripped in both hands, feeling beyond awkward. Glancing around, I can see some details in the apartment that I didn’t even notice last time. There’s a hall closet that got it’s door halfway open and I can see several guitar cases and amplifiers stacked inside. Over on the other side of the room, I notice something I’m positive wasn’t there before—Wyatt’s drum kit, all set up, against a back wall. I wonder if that means he’s playing again.
“Hey. You’re early.”
I turn toward the sound of Wyatt’s voice and, oh sweet fucking Jesus, he looks amazing. He’s clearly been exerting himself—his white T-shirt is soaked through with sweat and he’s wearing mesh shorts and running shoes.
“Do you want me to come back?”
He shakes his head. “Naw, you’re right on time to see me make an ass of myself.”
My brow furrows. “Seriously, Wyatt—I can come back in a few minutes.”
“No, no—I’m almost done for the day anyway. We’ve got one more thing to take care of. Come on.”
He motions for me to follow him. Hastily, I drop my bag next to the open closet door, then hurry behind him.