I know exactly how he feels. I’ve felt the same crippling anxiety about my future for most of my life. But unlike me, Wyatt hastalent. How does he not realize this gives him an edge? A real shot at greatness.
“Look, I know you said you don’t want to use your mom’s connections,” I hedge, but I don’t even get to finish that thought.
“Drop it, Blake.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, his features creasing with frustration. “Do you think it’s easy being Hannah Graham’s son? One of the best songwriters of her generation? You think it’s easy beingGarrettGraham’s son? Mr. Perfect? It’s so much damn pressure. And the only way I’m going to rise above that pressure is if I do this on my own. Otherwise it won’t feel earned. Ineedto write a song this summer. A fucking good one.”
I’m startled by how forthcoming he’s being. Usually getting Wyatt to open up is like pulling teeth.
Worried I’ll scare him off by pushing too hard, I put on a careful tone. “Is this really about a song?”
I regret the question, as his expression instantly clouds over. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. It’s a waste of time.”
“I’m not. I’m just trying to—”
“Distract me,” he cuts in. “That’s what you’re always doing. Fucking distracting me.”
I’m taken aback by his sharp tone. “Wyatt—”
“Whatever.” He abruptly gets to his feet. “I’m not having dinner. I think I’ll go out instead.”
“Where?”
He doesn’t answer. He just grabs his guitar and heads for the stairs, leaving me alone on the dock.
Wyatt’s gone for hours. Even though he doesn’t drive, ordering a car instead, I still almost call Gigi a dozen times to ask if I should worry.
Just past eleven, the rumble of an engine and the slam of a car door break the silence of the night. A burst of relief flickers through me. He’s back.
Downstairs, the alarm beeps as it’s disengaged, then beeps again as he arms it. When I hear his heavy footsteps climbing the staircase, I debate staying in my room, but I want to make sure he’s okay. He seemed really upset before he left earlier.
I step into the dark hallway just as he emerges onto the second-floor landing.
“Hey,” I say tentatively. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he mumbles.
And then he trips on the floor runner and catches himself against the wall, bumping into a photograph of Dumpy and Bergeron, the Graham family dogs. Luckily, the frame doesn’t fall.
I eye him in disapproval. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” he says belligerently. He takes a couple more steps and stumbles again. “Maybe a little.”
He starts to laugh, but I’m not amused. I flick on the light and stalk toward him, and we nearly collide in the middle of the hallway. He’s noticeably swaying on his feet.
“Jesus,” I say. “How much did you drink? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“How much time do you have?”
I don’t even crack a smile. “Wyatt.”
Ignoring me, he staggers forward, trying to make it to his room. He’s beyond wasted. Eyes unfocused. Hair messy as he drags one hand through it. And even still, there’s something obnoxiously magnetic about him. With his black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and those rings winking in the hall light, he’s the epitome of bad boy.
“Here’s the thing,Blake.” He drunkenly overemphasizes my name. “You show up here, and my head stops working.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “What?”
“You heard me. My head. Stops. Working. You smile and youtalk and you ask questions, and suddenly I’m in my own goddamn way.”
I gape at him. “Are you blaming me for your writer’s block?”
