“No, he’ll just leave. That’s what Wyatt does. He left Nashville and took off for Tahoe without telling his own family. He doesn’t like to be rooted to one place. He never has.”
Because he’s trying to outrun the chaos.
Because he’s lost.
I don’t express any of those thoughts; I don’t feel right revealing the vulnerabilities Wyatt has shown me. I know that’s why he fled to Tahoe, though. Because his head gets too loud, and he’s desperate to quiet it, but more than that, because he’s stuck in this narrative he’s created for himself, like a car spinning its wheels in the mud.
I don’t know if he’ll ever break free of this rigid perception he has of himself, but I’ve definitely noticed a change in him. He’s not the same man he was when I arrived here at the end of May. He doesn’t chain-smoke on the dock anymore. Doesn’t pour alcohol down his throat to help him sleep. Doesn’t snap at me in frustration or insist I’m not worth his time.
These days, he sneaks into my room at night and stays sound asleep until morning. He spends hours writing music instead of fighting it. He asks for his mom’s input about his songs when before, he would’ve rather swallowed broken glass than ask for her help. He’s starting to find peace within himself, and maybe that’s all he needs to…not leave.
To stay.
After Mom says good night, I reach for my phone to text Wyatt. Even though we’ve kept our distance, we’ve still been texting all day.
I’m going to bed soon. Today was intense.
SONGBOY
Baby, I believe you’ve perfected the art of the understatement.
“The art of the understatement” would be a good name for a song.
SONGBOY
Nah too wordy.
Are you sleeping here tonight?
SONGBOY
I probably shouldn’t.
Disappointment lodges in my chest, but I understand his reluctance.
SONGBOY
It’s too risky. Your dad’s probably patrolling the hallway.
I don’t think you need the word probably in that sentence.
SONGBOY
Let’s give it a couple days? Let them get used to the idea.
Okay. Good night, songboy.
SONGBOY
Good night, freckles.
I’m about to burrow under my blanket when a knock sounds on the door. For a moment, I wonder if Wyatt changed his mind, but when the door cracks open at my hurried “Come in,” it’s Beau who appears.
He doesn’t come all the way inside, just lingers in the doorway. He’s wearing sweats, his blond hair damp from a shower. When our eyes meet, I don’t miss the glint of disapproval in his.
“Just say it,” I sigh.
“Wyatt?That’sthe guy you’re seeing? You could’ve told me that the other night.”
