Wyatt had been to a lot of therapy since. Was he an introvert now because of her? Was he so quiet because once upon a time he’d screamed for hours and nobody had come? Or maybe he’d just thought she was sleeping and hadn’t been bothered at all. He didn’t know. Nobody knew.
Lettie appeared in the doorway. “Have you seen Justin?”
“No.”
“He said there was some guy coming for an interview.” She shrugged. “I forget what time.”
“Okay, thanks.” Wyatt closed his laptop and gathered up his papers. Justin usually used the living room for interviews, and Wyatt didn’t want to get in the way.
He headed upstairs to his bedroom.
He worked on ideas for Dad’s channel for a little while longer, putting on his headphones and listening to music. He was sitting at his desk by the window when he saw the guy getting out of a car and moving closer to the house. Justin must’ve been on the porch below Wyatt’s window.
Holyshit.
The guy was tall and lean, with dark hair cut short at the sides but messy on top. The sort of messy that made Wyatt want to drag his fingers through it. He had facial hair as well, shaped close to the angular planes of his face. He was wearing sunglasses. He was lean. He was wearing skinny jeans and a button-up shirt. He walked with a swagger, like he was a bad boy rock star, or—
Wyatt’s breath caught.
Or a con.
Wyatt leaned back from the window before the guy spotted him.
Of course he was a con. Well, an ex-con, and probably one with the sort of record that would see him struggling to find work with anywhere but here. Some of their neighbors in Oak Glen weren’t too pleased that Justin hired guys with records, but some of their neighbors, Dad pointed out, were snobby assholes. Wyatt couldn’t really remember a time Justin had had to fire anyone for anything more egregious than not turning up. He was a good judge of character, and the guys who worked for him were guys who had made some mistakes but were trying to turn their lives around. And that was a lot easier, Justin always said, with a steady job. Some of them only stayed around for a few months before other opportunities came up, but a few of the guys had been with them for years now. And some of them, if they didn’t have family of their own, even joined the Abbots for holiday celebrations.
Wyatt wondered if the bad boy rock star would pass Justin’s interview.
And then he thought of whose position the bad boy might be taking and grabbed his phone to send Deshawn a text.
Hey, Deshawn. Good luck in the kitchen!
Deshawn had been hired to work for Justin, but he’d ended up asking so many questions about Dad’s work that Justin had eventually given up and invited him to dinner one night. Deshawn had been so enthusiastic about cooking that Dad had lined him up a job in LA. He’d start off peeling potatoes, but like Dad said, so would the guy with the culinary arts degree.
He didn’t have to wait long for Deshawn’s answer.
When I’m a big shot celebrity chef like your dad, you can come eat in my restaurant for free!
Wyatt laughed and sent back a thumbs up.
He’d miss Deshawn. Deshawn had been everything Wyatt wasn’t: loud, confident, and brash, but Wyatt had liked him and, weirdly, Deshawn had liked Wyatt back even though Wyatt was quiet, shy and—unless he was in the kitchen—awkward and clumsy as hell.
Before Deshawn had left, Wyatt had overheard Dad giving him a talk.
“You know that restaurant kitchens are hell, right?” Dad has asked him. “Fast paced, stressful, and the hours are shit.”
“Yeah, I know that.”
“Good,” Dad had said. “At some point, someone’s gonna offer you something to get you through a long week when you’re dead on your feet, coke or speed or whatever. I’ve seen a lot of young guys in kitchens made the wrong choice. Don’t be one of them, Deshawn.”
Dad had told Wyatt some horror stories of working in a restaurant kitchen before, but not that one. Wyatt had grown up sheltered in many respects. Justin didn’t drink alcohol because he was diabetic, and Del didn’t drink because Justin didn’t—though he had the occasional glass of wine at dinner parties with friends—and drugs were definitely out. Everyone in the family knew exactly where drugs could lead, and Wyatt sometimes read articles about the genetic disposition towards addiction and worried that he’d be the one to fail. Not Harper, who was headstrong and focused, and not Lettie who wasn’t interested in much apart from her dogs, but Wyatt, who had always tried a little too hard to fit in, and had always found it difficult to stand up to peer pressure. He wasn’t as strong as his sisters, that was for sure.
He was glad he hadn’t gone to college. His friends from school were in their second year now, and some of them were still partying hard every weekend. Wyatt wasn’t wired that way—or he was afraid he was wired too much that way that he’d fall into that lifestyle deeper and deeper until he couldn’t get out. Didn’t everyone start of thinking they could handle it? Is that what had happened to his mom?
Wyatt tore his headphones off and closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath through his nose for four seconds. Held it for seven. Exhaled through his mouth for eight, and then repeated the cycle.
His therapist had taught him the relaxation technique years ago, and he still used it when he needed.
Wyatt ran through the cycle four times before he opened his eyes again, fixing his gaze on his green bedroom walls. He had a vague memory of helping to paint the walls when they’d moved in here. Dad and Justin had helped him pick the paint, apparently steering him gently away from a lurid neon green to a much easier-on-the-eye pale shade. It was a soothing color, and it always made him feel safe and calm.
