“Did Frank ever meet Laney?” I ask.
I immediately regret it because Wyatt tenses up.
Meredith nods. “He did. She was a nice enough girl, but not right for my Wyatt. Frank saw it before I did, actually. Told me she was afraid of feelings.”
“Grandma,” Wyatt says, a warning in his voice.
“Wyatt, it’s true. She wanted everything neat and tidy and predictable, and you, my dear, dear boy, have never been any of those things.” She takes a sip of her tea. “But Eleanor here, well, Eleanor’s afraid, but not afraid of messy things. I can tell.”
I laugh. “And how can you tell?”
“Because you’re still here. You’ve been in Copper Creek for over two months, right? And you haven’t run yet. Most people who come here from the city, well, they run. Can’t handle the quiet, the slowness of it all. But you’re still here.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m starting to think I might just stay.”
Wyatt’s head snaps up, his blue eyes finding mine.
“Well, good,” Meredith says, “because this town could use someone like you, and my grandson definitely could.”
By the time we leave, it’s late afternoon. Meredith’s ankle is properly wrapped and elevated on pillows, and she has instructions to call if she needs anything. Wyatt has also called two of her friends from church, who promise to check on her tomorrow.
We climb into his truck, and the silence feels different than it did on the drive here, heavier, full of things unsaid.
“Thank you,” Wyatt finally says as he starts the engine, “for coming, for helping, for offering to help with the garden.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“Well, I do, because you didn’t have to do any of that. He stops and grips the steering wheel tighter. “It means a lot.”
We drive in silence for a few moments, winding down the narrow roads back toward town, and then he pulls over, not at The Rusty Spur, but at a small overlook I haven’t noticed before. It’s a pull-off with a view of the valley below, Copper Creek spread out like a postcard.
He turns off the engine and turns to face me.
“Earlier,” he says, “at the waterfall, before my grandma called…”
“I know.”
“I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “I really, really wanted to kiss you. And I wanted you to kiss me. But we said we’d wait until October, until you’re sure.”
I take a breath, gathering up my courage. “Well, what if I told you I’m starting to feel sure?”
His eyes search mine. “Starting to feel sure?”
“I’m not ready to make promises about October yet,” I say. “I still have so many questions, so many things I need to figure out. But Wyatt…” I reach over and take his hand. “I meant what I said to your grandmother about staying. I’m starting to think I might actually do it.”
“Starting to think isn’t the same thing as knowing.”
“I know. But it’s more than I’ve had before. It’s more than I ever thought I’d have.” I squeeze his hand. “A couple of months ago, I couldn’t wait to leave this place. I thought I was coming to stay for one night, maybe just a few hours. Now I’m thinking about planting a garden, learning to make shortbread cookies, and spending Saturday mornings with your grandmother. That has to count for something.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “It counts for a lot, actually.”
“Maybe I won’t wait until October to make the decision. Maybe we can just keep doing what we’re doing, you know, getting to know each other, keep building whatever this is. And if the decision comes to me sooner, all the better.”
The truth is, if I went back to Atlanta, what would be waiting for me there? The failure of my mother’s business. An ex-fiance. An apartment I can no longer afford.
“And if October comes and you decide to leave?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility and fear.
