I glance at Wyatt. "You decide. You're the wine expert now."
He fakes deep thought. "Let's do the short ribs, sub the polenta for gouda mashed. And add truffle mac on the side. For her."
Why does he have to remember everything?
I shift in my seat.
He murmurs, "You underestimate me. But I remember everything about you."
"Sounds good. I'll be right back with your wine," Margo announces, scribbling on her notepad before walking away.
As soon as she's out of earshot, I glance at him. "Pinot noir?"
He picks up the empty wineglass. "Tastes better when it's across from you."
Over wine and the best short ribs I've had in a decade, I ask the question that crumbles our walls. "How did everything get so messed-up? You had everything."
"I didn't have you." He pins me with a regretful look.
"You know what I mean," I insist, trying to brush past his statement, and wanting to know the truth.
He swirls the wine in his glass like he actually knows what he's doing. He doesn't. But he always tried to do what he thought would make me happy.
I study him over the rim of my glass.
Ten minutes pass, and he doesn't eat or drink.
I wait him out.
He finally speaks, the words coming out low and raspy. "I remember the moment everything changed. It was a Tuesday." He smirks without humor. "That's the part that kills me. Not even a dramatic day. Just a Tuesday."
I stay silent.
He continues, "I was sitting in a hotel room outside Rock Springs, ice on my knee, trying to decide if I was more pissed that I lost another ride or that the pain didn't scare me anymore. I used to ride for something. For pride. Legacy. For… Well, you." His voice hitches, but he swallows it back. "But that night? I rode because I didn't know how to be anything else."
I exhale slowly.
He looks at me, eyes darker than I've seen in years. "It all slipped through my fingers. Sponsors bailed. Agent dropped me. The phone stopped ringing. Friends no longer were anywhere to be found. And the worst part? The silence wasn't just in the arena."
He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. "It followed me home. Echoed in every room. I kept thinking,This isn't how it was supposed to go.But I couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't call you."
"You could've," I whisper thickly.
He shakes his head. "You never picked up when I tried."
"I told you why."
He scrubs his face. "Yeah. I understand that now, but I didn't then."
My hand tightens around my wineglass. The hurt creeping up my throat, screaming it has unfinished business.
My will to keep my wall up dissolves. I admit quietly, "I tried to forget. I wanted to bury every memory of you. So I went to work. Built something. Traveled. Dated guys who had zero risk of breaking my heart because they didn't even know how to touch it."
His eyes flicker, and that old storm of jealousy and possession arises.
My lips tremble. "None of it worked. I'd see a worn leather cowboy hat and think of you. Someone would call me 'sugar' and I'd want to punch them in the throat."
He softly chuckles, but it fades fast.
