“Manners matter,” he says. “That part you’ve got. But so does showing up as a real person. That’s the part you need to learn.”
“Showing up as a real person,” I repeat. “What does that even mean?”
“It means being honest about who you are, even when who you are is messy and confused and doesn’t have all the answers. It means letting people see you struggle. It means asking for help when you need it and accepting it when it’s offered.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m not good at any of those things.” I think about how my mother always instructed me to never let anyone see me sweat. Always stay in control.
“I know.”
He hops off the tailgate and extends a hand to help me down. “But you’re trying, and that counts for something.”
“Why weren’t you at the potluck anyway?”
“My grandmother needed me today.” He doesn’t say more, and I don’t press.
I take his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. He helps me down with easy strength.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he says, not letting go of my hand immediately. “The bar’s closed. Dolly’s having a few people over for dinner. You should come.”
“Is this a pity invitation?”
“No. It’s a ‘you need to practice being a real person and Dolly’s house is a safe place to do it’ invitation.” He finally releases my hand. “Also, she’s making fried chicken, and you haven’t lived until you’ve had Dolly’s fried chicken.”
“I thought Ruthie’s banana pudding was the thing I hadn’t lived without.”
“Well, that too. Copper Creek’s full of food you haven’t lived without.”
He heads toward the bar.
“Six o’clock,” he calls over his shoulder. “Dolly’s place is the yellow house with all the wind chimes near the post office. You can’t miss it.”
“Wyatt?”
He turns back.
“Thank you. For explaining things. And for not making me feel stupid. I realize being a human being should come naturally for me, but…” I shrug my shoulders.
“You’re not stupid, Eleanor. You’re just learning a new language. It takes time.”
He disappears into the bar, and I am left standing in the parking lot, thinking about languages and rules and the terrifying possibility of being a real person.
That night, I sit in Mavis’s apartment and write a list.
It isn’t a to-do list, and it’s not a business plan, but a list of things I’ve learned since arriving in Copper Creek.
Number one, compliments should appreciate, not compare.
Number two, showing up matters more than being impressive.
Number three, the rules I know don’t apply here.
Number four, Wyatt Rivers has very blue eyes and very warm hands, and I should probably stop noticing that.
I cross out number four, then write it again, then cross it out again.
Then I add number five, Mavis believed I could learn to be a real person. Maybe she was right.
I pin the list to the wall next to my childhood photo.
