Chapter 41
CHAPTER 41
WYATT
“I think it’s time to stop,” he says.
I hear the words, but I don’t understand them.
“This was supposed to be no strings attached for a reason,” he says, like he’s delivering a diagnosis. Like he’s listing treatments and their side effects. Dispassionate and scientific—the perfect doctor. “We’ve gone too far, and we need to stop.”
I blink at him like he’s spoken a foreign language, my brain whirring.
The last few hours have been an absolute tsunami of stress, but before that, we were in bed. I was curled into the nook of his arm, and he loved me. And I love him. That’s why I came here. I knew that because we loved each other, we’d be able to talk about what’s going on. We could find help together.
This…this doesn’t make any sense.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
He turns to the mantel and pulls down the pineapple can. “We said if we wanted to reassess, we could do that. Walk away without a fight.”
Without a fight ? He thinks I’m not going to fight him on this?
“No, that’s what you said because you thought I’d want to walk away. But I don’t want that,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I love you.”
He has the good grace to flinch.
“It hasn’t even been a day since we said that. That we love each other. Not even one fucking day .” I’m quickly losing the battle to control my tone.
But all he can do is stare down at that fucking pineapple can.
I take a deep breath and try again. It’s clear something is very wrong with him, and it’s making him react badly. But I can…I mean, we can…
“Owen, I know that what happened with Eden freaked you out,” I try. “And maybe your brain is telling you that something about it was your fault, but hear me when I say it wasn’t. I talked to Dr. Adebayo, and she said croup and RSV often present similarly, and Eden didn’t have a fever when we left, and she could have?—”
“Stop,” he says, his eyes closed like he’s in pain.
“No, Owen. I won’t stop. Something is going on with you, and you’ve been hiding it for too long. From me, from your family, maybe even from yourself.” My words are rushing out like a desperate tidal wave, the pressure in my chest growing as I watch him breathe, and close his eyes, and pull away. “Please, Owen, listen to me. I don’t know what happen during third year, but?—”
“ Stop! ” he shouts.
I’ve never heard Owen McBride shout.
It’s loud and stern and?—
And it’s final.
“Please don’t do this, Owen,” I whisper, as if I can bring him back to me, to himself , with a gentle plea.
“I’m sorry, Wyatt,” is all he says, and I can’t tell if the apology is for yelling or the fact that he’s systematically dismantling me piece by piece. Everything hurts. This hurts , and I don’t know how to fix it.
He’s still holding that goddamn pineapple can like it’s proof that this is rational. That this is fair. That it’s right.
Nothing about this is right.
“You’re sorry?” I force my eyes away from the can with the rules that were supposed to keep us honest, with our childish, hastily scrawled signatures. They land on him.
I didn’t want this. The contract was my idea because I didn’t want any of this. I was trying to make sure I’d never wind up standing in Owen McBride’s living room, tears welling in my eyes while I frantically tried to figure out what I’d done wrong and how I could fix it.
I thought that pineapple can would protect me.
Just like always, I thought I knew better.
But once again, I chose wrong.
That goddamn fucking pineapple can.
My tornado of emotions is spinning so fast that I can barely separate them, but fury wins out.
I snatch that pineapple can from those strong, capable hands that used to hold me so gently, like I was precious. Like he could protect me. I feel its weight in my hand, pull my arm back.
And then, like a rubber band snapping, I hurl it.
The can hits the living room window with an unholy clatter, and the glass shatters.
The shock of what I’ve done lasts all of five seconds before I turn back to him.
“You did this to me. I didn’t want this. I tried to stop it. But you made me fall in love with you,” I say, sobs forcing their way between my words. “And then you broke my fucking heart.”
And then I race for the door before he can take anything more from me.
I pull into the driveway just as the sun is rising. After I left Owen’s, I drove around, cruising down the rural highways outside of town and praying I wouldn’t come across a cop as I tested the speed limit in several counties. I’m exhausted and frayed. My eyes are dry and swollen from crying, my throat raw from screaming along with Debbie’s breakup mixtape.
And my heart is well and truly broken.
I climb out of the truck and say a little prayer that Libby’s asleep. I don’t think I can take her I told you so on top of everything else. What I need now is to burrow under the covers and sleep until this doesn’t hurt anymore. Or sleep and then pretend this doesn’t hurt anymore when I wake up. I’ll pretend while my tender shattered heart heals, covers itself in scar tissue until it’s strong enough that no one will ever break me again.
It’s what I’ve always done.
It’s the one thing I’m good at.
I sling my purse over my shoulder, realizing that I need to text Carson about getting my suitcase from the hotel. Which means I’m going to have to explain everything that transpired over the last few hours. And oh god, Grace—I’m going to have to tell her that things between her brother and me are over.
Fuck. Everything I was afraid of has happened, and it’s all so much worse than I thought it would be. Once again I looked at all the evidence, knew in my gut what I should do, and then went and did the exact fucking opposite.
I’m nothing if not predictable.
My shoulders roll forward like my body is ready to fold in on itself as I trudge up the front path. The door is unlocked because Libby doesn’t give a shit about safety. And honestly, I’m too miserable to care either. I half hope there’s a killer with a chainsaw standing in my living room, ready to cut me to ribbons. It wouldn’t hurt worse than this, but at least it would distract me.
The house is quiet. I exhale in relief and start making my way down the hall.
“You okay, honey bun?”
I freeze. Libby’s on the couch, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. She’s still wearing her clothes from last night.
“What are you doing up?” I ask.
“I was waiting for you in case you came home.”
I search her tone for her trademark sass. She loves to tease. But what I find there is so much worse. It’s not pity.
It’s empathy.
I thought I was all cried out. I thought I’d need to drink a bathtub’s worth of water before my body could form more tears. I thought I was too tired, too broken—hell, too stubborn to cry anymore.
But the tears pour out of me anew, great heaving sobs, and suddenly I’m rushing across the carpet and into Libby’s open arms.
“Mom,” I cry, the word on my lips nearly as comforting as her hug.
“Oh, sugar, I’m so sorry,” she whispers into my hair as I sob on her shoulder, mourning everything I’ve lost. To Owen. To Griffin. To my own stubbornness.
And to my own hardening heart.