Chapter 9
Everything that Wyatt had told himself about Izzy—about how Izzy was wrong for him, about how he was dangerous in ways that weren’t Izzy’s fault but were Wyatt’s—went straight out the window when Izzy kissed him in the kitchen. Suddenly it didn’t matter what Izzy had done to get sent to prison, or that he used drugs, or that Wyatt didn’t really know a thing about him, because he wanted Wyatt the same way that Wyatt wanted him. And it was selfish maybe, and stupid maybe, but he could be careful, right? Wasn’t it possible that he could have this, and not have it blow up in his face?
Was that what addicts told themselves?
Wyatt’s heart beat fast just thinking about the hundred different ways it could go wrong. And the scariest thing was, he didn’t care, because he wanted Izzy so much. Wyatt had never had anyone want him like that before. He’d never lay in bed stroking himself frantically, sucking in ragged breaths as he balanced right on the edge of coming, and it was the thought that right now Izzy could be thinking about him in the same way that finally pushed him into one of the most shattering orgasms he’d ever had. It left him panting for breath, feeling like his skin was tingling and his bones had melted, and he barely had the energy to clean himself up before rolling over and falling asleep to dreams of Izzy.
In the morning, as he set the table for breakfast, his body thrummed with the sort of nervous energy he was more than familiar with, though for once it wasn’t anxiety setting him on edge. Well, it was anxiety, but a different sort of anxiety. A good sort, somehow. It took Wyatt a while to figure out exactly what he was feeling, but this wasanticipation. He couldn’t wait to see Izzy again, and maybe kiss him again, and maybe do more than that.
Izzy had…Izzy had called him non-binary. Wyatt knew the term, but he suspected it wasn’t quite nuanced enough for him. He thought that maybe he was genderfluid. He wasn’t just some point in the middle of a line where male and female were at opposite ends. He shifted up and down the line. And maybe it didn’t matter—maybe all that mattered was that Izzy liked him for who he was, whatever that was—but the people who said labels didn’t matter were most often the people who didn’t have any trouble applying them.
When Wyatt had first stumbled across the term genderfluid, he’d felt a rush of relief that there was a word that explained what he sometimes felt, and if there was a word for it already then that meant he wasn’t the only person in the world who was like this. He didn’t know how he would feel using label aloud, but at least it was there, sealed away in a secret place inside of him, an unspoken promise that he wasn’t alone. So labels didn’t matter too much, except when they did, and the difference between non-binary and genderfluid didn’t matter too much—but the fact Izzy had gone and discovered the term non-binary did. He’d looked for a label, and not just for Wyatt but for himself too. He didn’t shut down and deny it when he’d felt an attraction that was new to him. He’d looked for a way to understand it.
“I think I might be pansexual,” he’d said.
Izzy hadn’t blamed Wyatt for causing these new feelings in him. He’d rolled with it, and that was something that Wyatt would never have expected from him. So maybe Wyatt had some prejudices of his own that he needed to work on, right? He and Izzy were both new at this, but maybe they could figure it out together.
His gaze fell to the family photograph on the wall. It had been taken shortly after they’d arrived in California. Dad’s hair had been a lot darker, and Justin looked not much older than a kid. Lettie was a grinning toddler in Justin’s arms, Harper was beaming brilliantly between them and there, in Dad’s lap, was Wyatt. Small and dark-haired and dark-eyed. Wyatt’s smile was tentative and shy, like maybe even back then he’d been unsure about everything. Maybe he hadn’t been born that way, but it had been so ingrained in him already by the time he was four or five that it was impossible to shake now.
He remembered sitting on the couch, or thought he did, but he didn’t remember if he knew that Mom was dead or if he’d just thought she was sleeping.
Wyatt shook himself, and looked at Dad and Justin in the picture. They’d had more than their fair share of obstacles, hadn’t they? Dad was almost twenty years older than Justin, and Justin had once said that they’d met plenty of people along the way who’d taken a look at them and assumed it wouldn’t last on that alone. And that was before they even added three kids to the equation. But here they all were, a family, and if Dad and Justin had done it, then why not Wyatt and Izzy? Not that Wyatt was thinking of happy endings and forever afters right now, but it didn’t have to be a disaster, did it?
Because if Izzy could accept who Wyatt was, then couldn’t Wyatt accept the same about him?
He stared at his own face in the photograph, so small and shy and big-eyed.
Or was he only kidding himself in thinking there was any way he could ever trust himself to reach for happiness and somehow not stumble and shatter himself in the process?
* * * *
Lettie missed the school bus, so Wyatt drove her to school in Dad’s car. It was only a short drive, and Lettie was content to ride in silence and stare out the window. She offered Wyatt a stick of gum when he pulled up out the front of the school.
“I’m good,” he said. “Have a good day.”
They fist bumped.
Wyatt stared at the high school for a moment. He’d been a good student, but he hadn’t enjoyed school. The few friends he’d had back then had been the same as him—quiet. They’d moved on to college now, and Wyatt still talked to them a bit on social media, but they weren’t close. He wondered how often they even thought of him now they were away at different colleges.
Wyatt headed to Walgreens to pick up his prescription for Ativan. He wasn’t on it regularly anymore, like he had been at several points through high school, but he wanted to fill the prescription before it expired. With Izzy, and with Dad and Paris and everything, Wyatt was worried he’d stumble into that place where his anxiety became an issue again.
He was leaving Walgreens when he saw the premises for lease on Yucaipa Boulevard, and suddenly imagined what it would be like to open a small bakery right there. Maybe it was a silly fantasy—Wyatt had no idea of what rent and overheads would be, or of what other businesses were already established in the same vicinity, or what sort of research he’d have to do before even applying for a business loan—but it was a fantasy, and none of that mattered right now. He just liked the idea of having a place close to home where he could bake cakes and bread and simple things. He liked the idea of coming in early when it was still dark outside, and starting on the dough. He liked the idea of a quiet life that was a little out of sync with the rest of the fast-paced world: working when the rest of the world was sleeping, at his own pace, lost in his own thoughts.
He thought about what it would feel like to own his own bakery, to have that sense of accomplishment. It was so small compared to what he’d wanted once, to what Dad thought he could do, but at the same time it was almost too big to imagine.
Wyatt was a baker at heart, not a pâtissier. Just a baker. It wasn’t a question of skill—Wyatt knew he had skillset to be a pâtissier, both the knowledge and the practice—but it wasn’t for him. It didn’t feel right. It felt too much like forcing himself into a suit that didn’t quite fit, just like so many other things in his life.
He thought of what Izzy had said that night at dinner, about how much he loved the smell of bakeries and how they always made him smile.
Izzy had a beautiful smile.
Wyatt glanced at the building one more time before heading home.
* * * *
Wyatt headed over to the greenhouses around lunchtime.
“Shoplifter!” Patty yelled when Wyatt helped himself to an apple from the stall, startling some actual customers. “I’m kidding!” she assured the customers. “He’s family. How are you, my sweet, sweet boy?”
