50. The Other Woman
50
THE OTHER WOMAN
ODETTE
W hen I entered the kitchen, I found the dishwasher open and three mugs on the counter, as if the house’s occupants had hurriedly left.
“You just left the dishes?” I giggled. “Why?”
“I was far too focused on the beautiful woman who appeared at my door,” Wyatt said.
I blushed. Wrapping my arms around him, I said, “Okay. Well, can I help?”
“No. I’ve got this. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want some lunch? We can go out, or I’ve got some stuff for sandwiches. Although I’m realising I’m a terrible host for not getting any non-meat options.”
“Peanut butter? I’m not fussy.”
“I have some of that for Theo if you don’t mind. And we have some strawberry preserves.”
“I would be pleased with that. You don’t have to fuss. I’m down with low-key on a Saturday morning.”
“You’re beyond sweet.”
I wandered into the open-plan living room.
“Can we make a fire later?” I asked.
“Theo would love that. Yes.”
“I love a nice, cosy day by the fire,” I said, looking at the pictures on the hearth.
There was one of a couple I was sure was Wyatt’s parents. They were dressed like any other couple for a wedding—lots of bridal white. A sea of bridesmaids and groomsmen flocked them on either side. I always marvelled at how big Americans made weddings. It was all so grandiose. The man beamed down at the woman as she smiled back.
“Is this your parents’ wedding photo?” I asked.
“Yes,” Wyatt said. “Dad passed when I was young. Mom was widowed about the same age I was. Heart attack in Dad’s case. Awful.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I get it. They were lovely together. You have his smile.”
“So I am told by my mother,” Wyatt said. “He loved us all so much—but he lived for Mom.”
I turned to a photo of Theo as a baby, sitting in a snowsuit somewhere outside. His cheeks were even chubbier then.
“Theo was an adorable baby.”
“Yeah. That was taken just out behind the house. He was sitting up. We took him out on a hike. He loved to be worn in the carrier when we went out. Isla loved carrying him. It was one of her favourite photos of him.”
I looked at the next photo—one of Wyatt with the woman I assumed was Isla. It was a candid shot, with the camera capturing the two of them laughing and her holding her graduation cap. Wyatt was even more baby-faced then. She was brunette and tall, by the looks of it. It wasn’t what I expected.
“She was tall,” I said. “And very pretty.”
“Isla?” Wyatt asked.
I looked back. Trepidation ran across his face.
I smiled. “Yeah. Isn’t that her?”
“It is,” Wyatt cleared his throat. “She was tall. She was the same height as me—taller in heels but rarely wore any. When she did, people would make a big fucking deal about it. Oh, God, she’s so tall! It must really bother you!”
I snickered. “It didn’t?”
“Nah. She was my wife. Was I supposed to tell her not to wear heels? That wouldn’t have worked. Isla would have told me to go fuck myself.”
She was feisty.
I returned to the final photo of Wyatt and Isla on their wedding day. Her hair was down to her shoulders in slow, beachy waves that framed her face. She wore a simple crown of tiny flowers. There was no veil. Her dress was simple. Yet, she was stunning. Everything about her seemed chic and bohemian . If this was Wyatt’s type, I had to wonder why he bothered with me. We were different women.
“We got married in Malibu.” Wyatt draped his arms around me and pulled me close. “It was a pretty simple wedding. A friend had a house there. We got to enjoy the sunset and roast marshmallows over a fire pit. It was perfect.”
He kissed my cheek. “I don’t mean to bring you down, but… damn, this brings up memories.”
“It doesn’t bring me down,” I said. “It’s your house—that you lived in with Isla.”
“Sometimes I worry you’ll feel like the other woman.”
I turned and ran my palm across his cheek. “I don’t. I know it’s not like that. I know that you can love someone so much it hurts. I cannot imagine losing a spouse. You’d never not love them, I imagine. But don’t worry about that. I won’t lie. She’s nothing like me. What do you see in me?”
He chuckled, cupping my face in his hands. “A beautiful light. Exuberance. Youthful, beautiful positivity. You two have that in common. You’re right that the two of you are very different people, but for what I lack in seeing the world glass-half-full, you make up for it.”
He kissed my forehead so sweetly that he barely grazed me.
“Thanks for understanding that, Odette. I don’t deserve someone so sweet.”
“You do,” I insisted. “Because you return the favour. Thank you for being vulnerable. Don’t feel the need to hold back, okay? I promise to try to stay open, too. I trust you.”
“Good. That’s all we can ask for from one another.”