Chapter 35
CHAPTER 35
WYATT
The party has been a smashing success, as evidenced by the perma-grin on my best friend’s face. Carson and I have been on high alert so that in case she hit a bad patch, needed a weepy grief moment, we could whisk her off. But her karaoke picks have been nothing but joyful, off-key love songs aimed at the man who reserved a penthouse suite for us to party in.
Now the celebration is winding down, the cake reduced to crumbs on dessert plates scattered around the room. Way too many empty bottles of way-too-expensive champagne litter the suite, and everyone is starting to yawn from the effects of that many bubbles and that much aerobic dancing.
I’m nestled into an oversize leather couch, leaning into Owen, our fingers entwined. His chest is rising and falling in a comforting rhythm, his warm breath shifting the ends of my curls against my neck. My voice is scratchy from belting out “I Will Always Love You” (the Dolly version, obviously), followed by a slew of Destiny’s Child hits with Grace and Carson.
“Okay, I think I should probably head to bed,” Carson says, rising from an armchair. I watch the way Dan’s eyes track the hem of her sparkly tiered skirt, which rises up her thighs as she stretches, but when he catches me looking, his eyes darken and return to the rocks glass clutched in his fist.
And then I remember that I’m supposed to go with her, and my heart sinks. I’m not ready to climb out of Owen’s arms yet. But Carson is a little wobbly in her heels, and I’m not about to let her wander through this hotel alone.
“I’m coming with,” I say, taking a deep breath like I’m trying to store up the feeling of Owen before I retire to my bed.
Alone.
Fuck.
Being a good friend is fucking hard sometimes.
“Me too!” Grace trills, her voice slippery from the champagne. “I want a girls’ good night.”
“I’ll get everything squared away up here,” Decker says. He leans in for a kiss, then nips at her cheek. “Don’t be too long.”
And on that obviously suggestive note, the party ends. We cram into the elevator, half giddy, half exhausted.
Owen is behind me, his large hands resting on my hips as I lean back into him, my arousal growing right along with his.
“You’re going to sneak over for a visit, right?” he whispers, slipping a hotel keycard into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Dear god yes,” I say, barely containing a moan.
And then we all tumble out of the elevator and head toward our hotel rooms. The boys each have their own. Carson and I are the only ones sharing, and Grace is hot on our heels as we make our way to the door. I glance over my shoulder to watch Owen key into his room across the hall, tossing me a dangerously smoldering look before he disappears behind the door.
There’s a bottle of champagne in a bucket of mostly melted ice, which Decker had waiting for Carson when she arrived. Despite the fact that we’re all good and drunk, Grace grabs the neck of the bottle, making surprisingly quick work of the foil and the cage despite her tipsy fingers. Then she pops to cork with a squeal.
“To the birthday girls!” I rasp, my voice well and truly shot.
It’s actually Carson’s birthday too. For the last twenty-five years, she and Grace have celebrated together; Grace’s mother died giving birth to her, and Carson always worked to distract her from the pain and grief the day represented. In the past, the two of them have disappeared for a night of drinking and screaming karaoke, the ensuing hangover allowing Grace to simultaneously hide from her misery and disappear into it.
But this year, now that Decker’s by her side and she has finally shared the weight of her grief with her family, she decided to celebrate with everyone she loves.
And while Decker planned this event for Grace, he made sure it still felt like a joint birthday party for the lifelong best friends.
“Okay, let’s get down to business,” Carson says, knocking back an entire glass of champagne in one swallow. Then she turns to me. “Why the hell is your suitcase in this room?”
“Wait, what ?” I sputter. I’m buzzed to high heaven, but I’m not trying to get so drunk that I can’t sneak into Owen’s room and have my way with him.
“There is a man staying across the hall who wants nothing more than to have your suitcase on his floor. So why are you here ?”
“I didn’t want you to be alone!” I cry.
She rolls her eyes. “Ah, yes. That doesn’t make me feel at all pathetic.”
“Hey, don’t talk about my best friend like that,” Grace slurs.
“I’m just saying, I’m not looking forward to sharing a room with you while you silently pine for that giant hunk of pediatrician across the hall. I’d much rather order the entire room service dessert menu and sample everything while watching HGTV.”
“But—”
She holds up her finger in a kindergarten teacher don’t you dare warning. “No. You’re not going to use me as some kind of smoke screen to trick yourself into believing you’re not in a relationship with that man.”
I look at Grace for support, but she practically turns her back on me. “Hey, I’m with her on this one,” she says, then hiccups. “I know you have a whole dark and twisty past that makes you fear relationships that you like to keep secret. And that’s fine. We’re your friends and will love you irre—I mean, regardless. And we’ll be here if you ever want to share it. But we’re done pretending when it comes to my brother.”
“Go be with him,” Carson pleads.
But I’m still stuck on the “dark and twisty past.”
“I’m not trying to hide things from you guys,” I say, the alcohol catching up with me and making me feel a touch of melancholy.
“We know, hon,” Grace says.
“We figured you’d tell us about it when you were ready,” Carson says.
“We’ve tried to be patient, but it’s hard, okay? Because we love you,” Grace adds.
Suddenly we all morph into a pack of stereotypical drunk girls weeping into our champagne.
And I tell them. Everything. About Romy and our adventures in Nashville. About meeting Griffin and how the three of us became a trio. About how things slowly began to change after Griffin and I started dating. How he’d disappear and come home smelling like perfume. How girls would show up at the apartment and he’d say they were crazed fans. How he quit his job so he could pursue music and I supported him emotionally and financially while he contributed nothing.
And finally, how the night I got the call about Libby’s arrest, I walked in on Griffin kissing Romy on our couch.
“And I think the reason I kept Romy at arm’s length, even though I knew in my heart that she didn’t do anything wrong, was that even being reminded of Nashville made me face my greatest failure,” I finish.
Carson’s champagne glass hits the bedside table with a heavy thud. “Do not give that man that kind of power,” she says, her voice lower than I’ve ever heard it.
I sigh. “It’s not even about him, though. Not really. It’s that I should have known better. I grew up with Libby Hart. I watched her give her heart to a string of men who were more suited to being gas station dumpsters on a hot July afternoon than halfway decent boyfriends. She picked garden-variety jerks, abusers, leeches who took what little she had, and all of them left her in the end. I watched her cry over those assholes. Real honest-to-god tears. And I told myself I’d never let that happen to me. I’d do better. So I should have seen him coming.
“Instead, I ignored it when Griffin quit his job to take gigs even though it meant I had to pick up extra shifts to cover the rent. I explained it away when he came home from a show with lipstick on him or panties in his pocket. I laughed it off when he borrowed my truck and got it towed, then stuck me with the cost of getting it back. When I finally walked in on him kissing Romy, it hit me. I had picked him. I was the one making excuses for him. I had put myself in this situation. I was no better than Libby.”
Grace’s eyes are watery, but Carson looks furious.
“Fuck off with that,” she says finally.
“Carson!” Grace cries.
“What does that mean?” I gasp. “I finally pour out my dark and twisty past and you tell me to fuck off?”
Carson settles back against the headboard and sips on her champagne like she didn’t just swear at me. “It means fuck off with that . With taking responsibility for men who will under no circumstances take responsibility for themselves. With blaming the victim for the atrocious behavior of men—and that includes your mother, by the way. Fuck off with that. You’re Wyatt Fucking Hart, and some walking case of syphilis disguised as a drugstore cowboy can’t take you down.”
There’s a beat of silence in the hotel room.
“Damn, Carson,” I say.
“What? Are you seriously telling me that Griffin Stone still has so much power over you that you’re going to let him keep you from a man so good that he’s spent several months letting you pretend this is just a hookup even though he’s clearly in love with you?”
I open my mouth to reply, but I have no words.
“Truly, Wyatt. Fuck. Off. With. That.”
I let out a surprised breath. “Dang, where did all this piss and vinegar come from?” I ask my sweet little kindergarten teacher best friend.
Carson takes the bottle of champagne by the neck and sloshes more into her glass.
“Well, this champagne is certainly hitting me fast,” she says, her cheeks rosy. “But mostly I’m just tired of watching my friends tie their shoelaces together and then act confused about why they keep falling down. Romantically speaking.”
“Why do I feel like that’s directed at me too?” Grace says.
“Because it is. Or it was, anyway, before you figured out that Decker was the perfect man. And thank god for that, because otherwise we’d be spending tonight in that scuzzy karaoke bar in Broad Ripple again, and I love you, Grace, but holding your hair back while you yarf tequila does not a happy birthday make.”
“I love you.” Grace lunges at Carson, champagne sloshing onto the floor.
“You too,” Carson says into Grace’s hair. Then she turns to me. “Just…be in love. Don’t try to analyze it or handicap it or hide from it. Don’t call it something else. Just be in love .”