He leads me to a flat rock beside the pool, far enough from the falls that we can hear each other talk, but close enough to feel the cool mist on our faces. He unpacks the backpack. Sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, apples, a thermos of sweet tea, and cookies that look homemade.
“Did your grandmother make these?” I ask, holding up the chocolate chip cookie.
“She did. She insisted. Said I couldn’t bring a lady on a hike without proper provisions.”
“Your grandmother is wonderful.”
“She is. She’s also been asking when you’re coming for dinner again.”
“Tell her anytime. I loved being there. It was nice to be a part of a normal family.”
We eat in comfortable silence, with the sound of the waterfall filling the space where words might otherwise go. The sandwiches are simple—turkey and cheese, lettuce, and good bread—but they taste incredible up here with the mountain air and the view, and of course, the company.
After we finish eating, Wyatt packs the trash away and leans back on his hands, looking out at the waterfall.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“Why did you really turn down Gary Allen’s offer?”
“Because I realized something,” I say. “My whole life, I’ve made decisions based on what I was supposed to want. What my mother wanted, what society expected, what looked good on paper. Every single one of those decisions led me to a place where I was successful and accomplished for a while, and absolutely miserable. And, well, turning down three point five million dollars made no sense on paper. It was the opposite of what I was supposed to do. But it just felt right in a way nothing else has felt right in years.”
He nods slowly. “I get that.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. When I came back from Afghanistan, everybody told me what I was supposed to do. Go get a good job. Use my military experience. Make something of myself. Try to get over what I’d been through. And I did try. I really did. I got a construction job in Asheville. Good pay, good benefits, room for advancement.
“What happened?”
“I lasted three months. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t focus. I had panic attacks in the middle of meetings. Really embarrassing.” He picks up a small stone and turns it over in his fingers. “Everyone said I was wasting my potential by coming back here to Copper Creek, working at a bar of all things. But it saved my life. Mavis saved my life.”
“How?”
He’s quiet for a moment. I can see him deciding what to tell me, whether to trust me with whatever comes next.
“You know I have PTSD,” he says. “I was in a convoy that hit an IED. I survived, and my best friend didn’t.”
My heart clenches.
“Oh, Wyatt, I’m so sorry.”
“I had really bad survivor’s guilt, and there was a time I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here anymore. It’s been a few years. I’ve learned to manage it. Therapy, medication, just trying to take care of myself. But for a long time, I couldn’t. I was drowning. And Mavis, well, she didn’t try to fix me. She just gave me a place to be, a reason to get up in the morning, people who needed me to show up.”
He throws the stone into the pool, and we watch the ripples spread across the surface.
“This bar was never just a job for me. It was my lifeline.”
I reach over and take his hand. He looks surprised for a moment, then laces his fingers through mine.
“Thank you for telling me that.”
“Thank you for listening and for not…” He pauses. “Well, most people, when they find out, either treat me like I’m broken or like I’m dangerous. But you’re just here.”
“I’m here.”
We sit like that for a while, holding hands beside the waterfall. I feel something between us deepen.
