The silence is deafening. I look out over the flowers and bushes that grew from the horrifying filth we cleaned out of the barn. Feels like a metaphor for something, but I can't quite figure out what it is.
The reality of the situation is that I know I broke my own heart when it came to her. I saw the way Wyatt loved her. I knew it wouldn’t work out the way I wanted it to. I couldn’t help the way I felt about her, and I know if Wyatt had been open to it, I would have grown to love him too.
Come to think of it, I’ve been talking to these people who have no clue, and he’s probably the only guy who has any idea what I'm feeling right now.
I know from our last breakfast that Desi's father had a bad fall and Desi is in Dallas arranging for his care. Trip and Sam are also there at Señor Navarro’s request, and I’m hoping that means good things.
Without thinking about it too much, I pick up my phone and hit his number.
“Wick? Is everything okay?”
Feeling like an exposed wire, I don’t have it in me to sugarcoat. “I need to talk to you about Renée.”
There's a pause on the line, long enough for me to look at the phone and make sure it’s still on.
“Come over,” he says eventually. “We'll get drunk together and talk about our girl.”
It’s ten o’clock in the morning, and I appreciate his sense of occasion. Thirty minutes later, I pull up to his and Desi’s house, again admiring how pretty it is against the sweeping backdrop of the Central Texas Hill Country.
Wyatt opens the door as I walk up, gesturing me inside.
“What happened to your chin?”
“Got drunk and fell in the bathroom. Colt and Joaquin glued me back together.”
I remain king of saying a partial truth while lying by omission.
“Am I supporting a bad habit, then?” he asks, grinning at me.
I shake my head. “Nah. I just need to drink on this one or two more times, and I’ll have it squared.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
We make our way to the back of the house, where they have a big kitchen overlooking the living room. He's got tequila setups on the bar, with two shots already poured.
“Oh, you meandrunkdrunk,” I say, cracking a smile.
“It's what she would've wanted,” Wyatt responds with a grin and a shrug.
He's right, of course. That woman…damn, she’d get tipsy on one beer but could put back tequila like nobody's business.
“It doesn't make me drunk,”she’d say, completely and utterly wasted.“Makes me bulletproof.”
I chuckle and lick my hand, adding salt. We silently lift our shot glasses in the air, lick, drink, and suck on the lime. One eye winks involuntarily while I swallow the smooth liquor.
“Now that's what I'm talking about,” I say, holding up my empty shot glass for another.
We do another round and then another. The warmth of the top-shelf liquor slides down my throat into my chest and belly, loosening my shoulders.
“I might've needed that more than I thought,” I say, grinning at Wyatt, even with the heavy sadness in my chest.
“Me too, probably,” Wyatt says, wearing the same sad smile as me.
“We'll never get over her, will we?” I ask, stupid tears spilling down my cheek.
With shiny eyes, he nods. “You don't get over Renée Goodnight. You just learn to live with the hole she left behind.”
“How did you figure out how to love again after that? How do you love around such a big hole?” I ask, snickering over my use of the wordhole.
