Nothing happens.
I knock again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
“Wyatt,” I call out. “It’s Eleanor. I know you’re probably still really mad at me, and you have every right to be, but I need to talk to you. Please.”
Silence.
I lean my forehead against the door, closing my eyes. Maybe he’s not here. Maybe he went to his grandmother’s or the bar, or anywhere that wasn’t here with memories of last night.
I’m about to go back to my car when I hear footsteps inside.
The door opens.
Wyatt is standing there in the same clothes from last night, crumpled like he slept in them—or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. His hair is a mess. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his expression is guarded.
“It’s not even seven in the morning,” he says.
“I know. I’m so sorry, but this just couldn’t wait.”
He doesn’t invite me in. He just stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, waiting.
“I made my decision.”
Something in his eyes flickers—hope or fear. I can’t tell which.
“And?”
“I turned it down. The job. I sent the email about an hour ago.”
He doesn’t move or react, just keeps watching me.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because I finally figured out what I want.”
I take a breath.
“For thirty-four years, I’ve been living someone else’s life. Making choices based on what my mother wanted, what I thought society wanted, and what looked good on paper. And you know what? I was miserable. Successful, polished, and completely miserable.”
“Eleanor—”
“Let me finish, please.”
He nods.
“So when I came to Copper Creek, I thought this was just a detour. Six months I had to get through before I could go back to my real life. Somewhere along the way—gardening with your grandmother, learning to pour drinks without spilling, riding that stupid mechanical bull—I stopped wanting to go back. It stopped being home. Because this place is my real life. This messy, complicated, unpredictable life. It is the first place I have ever felt like myself.”
My voice breaks, but I keep going.
“And you. Gosh, Wyatt, you’re the first person who’s ever really seen me, maybe other than Mavis. Not the version I perform for other people, but the real me. The one who’s scared and uncertain and makes terrible decisions like hiding a job offer for two weeks because she was too afraid to face it.”
“That was a pretty terrible decision,” he says, a faint hint of softness in his voice.
“I know, and I’m so sorry. I should have told you the moment I got that email. I should have trusted you enough to work through it together instead of just shutting you out.” I step closer. “But I’m telling you now, I’m choosing this. I’m choosing Copper Creek. I’m choosing The Rusty Spur.” I reach out and take his hand. He lets me, though his fingers don’t close around mine. “I’m choosing you,” I say, “if you’ll still have me.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He just looks at me with an expression I can’t read. I realize, with a little bit of fear, that I might have waited too long, that the damage might already be done.
