Wyatt is the last to join. His eyes are bloodshot, he's yawning, and wearing last night's shirt. He takes the only available seat, about four down on my right.
I'm willing him to look at me, meet my eyes, share a furtive glance,anythingto silently acknowledge what went on between us.
He doesn't look up from his menu. And when he does, it's only to order from the server. She bends over like she's trying to hear him better, giving him an opportunity to look at her ample cleavage. To his credit, he doesn't take the bait.
Nor does he take any ofmybait. Not that I'm any good at setting it. I can't flirt, or manufacture opportunities, to save my life. Which is what makes last night's encounter a miracle.
Kyle leans back in his seat and wraps an arm around Corrine's shoulders. Gaze directed across the table at Wyatt, he asks, "What did you get up to last night? You left the pool and that was the last we saw of you."
He went to the little sundry store that was two minutes from closing for the night. Bought a bottle of Gatorade. Ran into me. Pulled me behind an ivy-covered wall and kissed me senseless. Told me he could already tell I was going to be the best thing he ever tasted, and I melted like the ice in my tea on an August afternoon.
Wyatt shrugs. His full bottom lip juts out slightly, the tiny line that runs down its center becoming more pronounced. "Not much. Went to my room. Passed out."
Kyle shakes his head. "You were hitting the liquor pretty hard last night."
Wyatt grimaces. "Little too hard. I'm lucky I made it to the right room. I don't remember much past leaving the pool."
Conversation moves on around the table. Laughter, discussing the funny things that must've happened after Wyatt and I left. Nobody seems to piece together that Wyatt and I were missing at the same time. Not that anybody would find it suspicious. I'm known to be the first of us to leave, and Wyatt is known to do whatever suits him at any given moment. He is an enigma, as equally perplexing as he is interesting. I've spent years in Wyatt's orbit, but never really crossing. Until last night, when we finally collided.
Breakfast continues, and Wyatt looks my way only once. He does what he always does when he sees me. A lift of his chin, eyebrows raised. Fleeting recognition of my presence. No warmth in his eyes, no barely perceptible smirk, literally nothing that implies he knows what I look like without clothes on.
He doesn't remember last night.
My heart sinks. Anger bursts into my chest, coming from some combustible part of me. I'm mad at him, and I'm even more upset with myself. I knew he was hammered. I didn't sugarcoat the situation, thinking our hookup would instantly make him fall in love with me. I knew there was a high probability this wouldn't be all roses. But when you love chocolate cake, and someone serves you the most decadent, moist slice you've ever seen, how do you pass that up?
You don't.
Good thing learning my lesson the first time is my specialty. Wyatt will never get under my skin again.
My longtime infatuation with the annoyingly handsome, infuriatingly mysterious, emotionally unavailable cowboy is officially over.
6
Wyatt
In a little old house,almost at the edge of town, lives a little old woman I've come to love.
Carol Calhoun.
She's funny. Feisty. Sweet as pie, and she doesn't take shit from anybody. Telemarketers beware, because Carol Calhoun won't be fooled by anyone.
Or so she says. Mrs. Calhoun's health has diminished rapidly. The time she used to spend in her front yard gardening is now spent sitting in her front porch chair. Words that came easily sometimes struggle to find their way into a cohesive thought.
I've been trying to figure out a way to get her the help she needs, but all I can think to do is hire a nurse. I can't put her in a home, where her needs can be met twenty-four hours a day, because I'm not family.
As far as I know, Mrs. Calhoun doesn't have much in the way of family. Her son isn't alive anymore. Neither is her grandson.
Thanks to the Hayden family.
That's not to say either one of the Calhoun men were innocent. Especially her grandson. Mrs. Calhoun being left without family was collateral damage. Doesn't make it okay, though. And that's why I'm here, and why I've been coming around for a while. Reparation.
Mrs. Calhoun's in her tan wicker chair, like always. Her white hair is combed, her clothes are clean and ironed. If I walk into her house, it will be immaculate. Completely out of date, but cleaner than any room at the homestead has ever been.
I pull up and get out, walking to her. She smiles when she sees me. I've seen pictures of her from back in the day. She was beautiful. She is now, too, but in an entirely different way.
"Hi, Mrs. Calhoun."
She nods at me. "Hello, young man."
