Beau looks down at Wyatt as he passes, and suddenly it all makes sense. Wyatt's need to be in the middle of everything in town, his desire to be important, to run across the street and confront the men yelling at the pregnant lady. When you don't feel significant to the people you love, you look for it elsewhere.
"Don't listen to him, Wyatt." Wes's voice is gruff. He picks up a stick and pushes aside the logs on the fire. "He's stressed and in a bad mood."
"For my whole life, you mean?"
Warner speaks up for the first time. "Knock it off, Wyatt. Don't act like you got the short end of the stick around here. We were raised by the same parents."
Wyatt stares into the fire, his lips pursed. He gets up suddenly, striding off across the yard and into the trees.
I stand too, smiling apologetically at Tenley and Dakota, and start after Wyatt.
"He's going to his house," Warner calls, and I stop. "Take your car. If you go after him now, you'll likely get lost. He knows his way in the dark."
I murmur my thanks and make my way back to the homestead. Beau and Juliette must have already gone to their room, because there's nobody in sight. I retrieve my purse and walk out front. I take two steps when Jessie says my name.
I turn and see her dark figure off to the right. She's balanced on the porch rail, one foot crossed over the other, her back pressed against a stone column.
"Jessie, hi. I can't talk right now, I'm trying to—"
"Go after Wyatt?"
I blink. She wasn't outside just now, so how does she know what happened?
"I was coming around the side of the house when my dad started up," Jessie explains. "I'm sorry you had to see that."
"Yeah," I say, coming closer. "Does that happen often?"
"Does my dad act disappointed in Wyatt often?" She chuckles, the sound holding no mirth. "Too frequently, for sure. I know Warner thinks they were all raised the same, but that's just not true." Her head shakes slowly back and forth. "I didn't see it until a few years ago. I wasn't grown up enough to see the big picture like that."
"Why do you think your dad sees Wyatt differently?"
She shrugs. "I think it's because he's different from Wes and Warner. They are cut from the same cloth as my dad, but Wyatt is… softer, somehow." A grimace twists her lips. "That's not the right word, but I can't think of a better one."
I'm not sure what else to say, so I thank her and continue down the porch stairs. I'm almost to my car when she yells after me.
"Sensitive."
I look up at her. She's backlit by the light shining through the front window, her face in near darkness. "He's sensitive," she continues. "And that trait's not only under-appreciated out here, it’s also seen as a weakness."
My heart folds in on itself. This is the brokenness I saw the first time I laid eyes on Wyatt, all those years ago.
I nod at her and wave, then drive to Wyatt's cabin.
I findhim on his small back patio. He's sitting on one of two chairs. A bottle of amber liquid sits on the bistro-sized table set between them.
I take the second seat. He hasn't turned on a light, but the moon is full and bright, peeking over the canopy of trees. Just enough light slides across the land, giving me a general sense of Wyatt's emotions.
He's well on his way to being drunk.
His eyes flicker over to me when I sit down, then back out to the darkness. There's nothing to be seen out there, but maybe Wyatt's seeing something that's only visible to him.
The quiet is loud. The cicadas have long since stopped their keening.
"I'm sorry you had to see that." His voice is heavy, tinged with shame and another emotion I can't identify.
I long to touch him, to reach over the bottle he has just pulled away from his lips and run the tips of my fingers over the planes of his face. "Every family has their shit, Wyatt."
He nods slowly, his lips pushing out. "Did you know my dad had a brother?"
