Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, when my phone rings. My hand pats the bed beside me, searching for it and then holding it above my face. A smile that has no business being so big twists onto my lips, my heart lurching into a happy little patter when I see Mr. Sexy Pilot Man on the caller ID. Filling my lungs, I try to tame the butterflies in my stomach.
“I was just thinking about you,” I say as I answer, my voice seductive, hoping that if I’m not getting to see him tonight, we can at least turn this call into something X-rated. But when he doesn’t reply, I sit up in bed, a frown touching my brows. “Wyatt?”
I can hear the sound of his car, the low thrum of the engine, and the periodic ticking of his indicators as he drives.
“What’s happened?” Don’t ask me how I know; I can just tell it’s bad. “Wyatt, speak to me. You’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry,” he rasps, and that one word somehow manages to ease the worry wrapped around my heart. Marginally. It’s still beating like a marching band in my chest, though, and I’m desperate for him to say more. “I don’t know why I called.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him, swinging my legs off my bed and begin searching my room. “Where are you?”
“Driving home.”
“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow?” Setting my phone on my nightstand, I smash the speaker button as I grab a hoodie and tug it on. I hear his exhale through the phone. It’s long and shaky and filled with so many emotions I can’t process them all without seeing his face. “Wyatt?”
“I couldn’t stay.”
“Why? What’s happened?” I ask again, pushing my feet into a pair of sneakers before throwing open my closet door and pulling out the pre-packed bag I was going to take to his place tomorrow.
He laughs, the sound hollow and heartbreaking. “This is so fucked up.”
“Okay, where are you, exactly, Wyatt?” I ask firmly as I put the strap over my shoulder and head for my bedroom door. I need to get the basics from him because the man on the other end of the phone is in no state to be alone when he gets back to his dark and empty home.
He hesitates for a second, as if he’s only just aware that he’s in his car. “Greenwich.”
So he’s at least twenty-five minutes out.
“I’m leaving now. I’ll get to your place—”
“No, Pippa,” he says, sounding pained. “I’ve already ruined your Christmas by calling. Don’t leave your family for me.”
“Wy—” The call disconnects, and my stomach bottoms out when I hear the three beeps coming from the speaker.
I pocket my phone and race down the stairs, plastering on a smile when I walk into the smaller of our two living rooms. A fire roars in the hearth, the giant Fir tree sparkles in the corner, and Dad and Nancy are snuggled on a sofa watching It’s a Wonderful Life, only looking up when I clear my throat .
“I’m going to head out for a bit,” I say, thumbing toward the foyer. “I’ll be back sometime tomorrow, okay?”
“But it’s Christmas,” Dad replies, pointing the remote at the TV and pausing the movie. “Who are you going to see? Anyone we know?”
“Gigi’s in Bedford spending the holidays with her folks,” I lie, hating the sticky coating it leaves on my tongue.
Dad’s eyebrows knit together as he stares at me. “And her parents are okay with her ditching them, too?”
Guilt worms its way into my gut, and my eyes flicker over to Nancy as she stares at me with this knowing look before placing her hand on my father’s arm. “Charlie, Pippa’s a big girl. If she wants to spend time with her friends, let her.”
The lie and deceitfulness wrap their ugly hands around me as Dad sulks into the sofa cushions, but then I remember Wyatt on the phone, and it no longer becomes a choice to stay or to go.
I lean over and drop a kiss on his cheek, “Love you, Dad.”
“Clearly not enough,” he mutters, and Nancy playfully slaps his chest.
“You are terrible, Charles Cartwright.” She rolls her eyes before gazing up at me. “Have a nice night, sweetheart.”
My smile is tight as I dart from the room, grab my bag in the entryway, and head to the multi-car garage. I punch the code into the lockbox in the wall and snatch the first set of keys that my hand finds. Pressing the unlock button, a sleek black Mercedes flashes, and I rush over to it, open the back door, and toss my bag inside before getting behind the wheel and drive.
My thumbs drum against the steering wheel as I sit outside Wyatt’s lifeless house. The driveway is empty, the lights are off, and he should have been here by now. Any movement outside catches my attention, my heightened nerves making me hyperaware of everything.
What if something happened during his drive? He sounded distracted. What if…
Lights at the end of the street have me sitting straighter, holding my breath as I wait to see if it’s him. I squint as the headlights of the vintage Range Rover blind me as it turns onto his property, the engine cutting off and the driver's side door flinging open before I’ve clicked off my seatbelt.
Wyatt storms across the grass, marching up the path to his front door, not even registering as I call his name. I’m about to follow him, when another car pulls up, parking on the street. The passenger side swings open before it’s fully stopped, and a petite woman with a pixie haircut jumps out. Worry and panic line her face as she stares after the man disappearing inside his house. She freezes when she sees me, her hands clutching around the top of the door.
I blink at her for several seconds, trying to figure out who she is. She doesn’t look like Wyatt, and her features are darker than his—dark hair and dark eyes, even in the light from the streetlamp overhead.
“Sadie,” the driver calls, making her jump.
She exhales, her lips pulling into a tight line. “We wanted to make sure he got home okay,” she explains, her eyes darting behind me. “He shouldn’t have driven like that.”
“Oh,” I say dumbly, only now realizing who these people are. “You’re his parents.”
She nods weakly, “We didn’t know he was expecting his—”
“Friend,” I finish for her, but her eyes lower to my overnight bag in my hand.
“Friend,” she repeats, not quite believing me. “Thank you for coming. He… He shouldn’t be alone.”
I nod in understanding, and that gut feeling that something bad has happened returns, making my heart splinter. The man, Wyatt’s father, leans across the console, raising his voice as he says, “Have him call me tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I say, watching as Sadie lowers herself slowly back into the car, looking torn between leaving and wanting to run into the house and check on her son.
I don’t wait for them to drive away. I don’t want to waste another second outside when he’s in there alone.
Sprinting up the path, I dump my bag by the entryway table and lock the door. I can’t hear anything except the sound of him pacing his kitchen until he yells, “Fuck!”
A crash has my feet moving quickly, nervous as to what I’ll find when I step through the threshold and into the kitchen. Wyatt’s hands grasp the edge of the counter, his fingers holding it in a death grip, so much so that I’m surprised he doesn’t peel the granite from the cabinets below. His head is slumped down, his shoulders rising and falling as he breathes hard.
I edge closer, my hand outstretched until I touch his back. He flinches, the muscles so tight under my palm, that they’re trembling. Raking my gaze over him, I inhale sharply when I notice blood smeared across the counter beside shards of porcelain. His World’s Greatest Pilot mug lies there, broken into three pieces, the handle still inside the sink.
Wrapping my arms around his waist, I place my cheek on his back, breathing in his scent. “What happened?”
He’s quiet, so quiet that I don’t think he’s heard me when he lets out a ragged breath. “She’s sick.”
I tense. “Who?”
“My mom,” he sneers, and I flinch at his tone.
I think back to his mom, frowning as I try to remember what she looked like. “I didn’t realize Sadie was ill.”
He shakes his head. “Sadie’s my stepmom. Fiona, my biological mother, has brain cancer.”
My arms tighten around him, and my head buries between his shoulder blades. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says tersely, extracting himself from my hold and resuming pacing. “I’m not.”
I gasp, rearing back. “Wyatt!”
He whirls around, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity that makes my skin prickle uncomfortably.
“Why should I be sorry she’s dying?” he snaps, throwing his arms wide. “I haven’t seen her for thirty-four years, Pippa, and now she’s sick, she thinks she can come back into my life. For what? To make amends for abandoning me?”
“Wy—” I step forward, trying to touch him, but he brushes me off.
“No, Pippa.” He lifts the hand that’s still bleeding, wincing when he goes to run it through his hair.
I snatch a hand towel from the counter and grab his wrist. This time, he doesn’t recoil, letting me inspect the cut before wrapping the terry cloth around his hand.
“She didn’t even bother naming me.” It’s said in a whisper that I almost miss it. My gaze darts up to his, torn in two at the look of anguish I’m met with. “I was days old when she left me on my grandparents' porch, still wrapped up in the blanket from the hospital, the little tags they put on around a baby's wrist and ankle on, too.” Rubbing his temple with his free hand, his eyes fall shut as he continues. “Apparently, there was a note, but…she couldn’t be bothered to name me.”
I struggle to swallow, struggle to breathe as I stare up at the man far more complex than I initially thought, hiding scars that run much deeper than I could have imagined.
Silently, I lead him into his living room, and he flops down on the floor, his back resting against the couch. I scramble behind him, tucking myself closer to his body, my fingers kneading into his neck and shoulders as he picks at the towel around his hand.
“My dad named me, raised me, took care of me for three years until she decided to come back. Out of the blue. Just appeared at the small apartment we rented, wanting a second chance.” I can feel him grimacing more than see it, beneath my fingertips, as I wait for him to continue. “I was five when she left again. For good.”
“That’s awful,” I whisper, my chest tight as each of his words are little knives in my heart. How can someone do that to a child? I lick my dry lips, gathering the nerves to ask, “Why did she leave?”
His sigh is full of derision, his shoulders jerking upward in answer. “I don’t know for sure, but I think she couldn’t handle being a mom. They were just kids. Dad was seventeen when I was born, my… Fiona was eighteen. Dad doesn’t say much about the time she was pregnant, only that I’m the best thing to ever happen to him.” His head twitches like he’s rolling his eyes at his father’s sentiments, but warmth floods my veins at the words I know my own Dad would say if it were him. “I don’t remember much before she left, but I can picture the day she drove away like it was last week. I can still hear her shouting at my dad that she should have done what her parents wanted and terminated the pregnancy.”
My breath hitches, my blood turning cold as I keep listening.
“At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant, just that my dad’s reaction was so devastated that it couldn’t have been anything good. As I got older, though, I realized that she must have meant that she’d still have her dreams…the life she always wanted. Not a five-year old kid at twenty-three, living paycheck to paycheck in a shitty apartment in bumfuck nowhere.
“He doesn’t know I heard that. I haven’t told a soul apart from the child therapist he took me to for a couple of years…and now you. Therapy helped; it made me understand that I wasn’t the problem, that it wasn’t my fault she left, but there was always this seed of doubt”—he touches his temple—“up here. And now I find out she’s sick, and that’s the only reason she’s reached out...”
His head falls forward, and I ache for him.
“Will you?” I ask hesitantly. “Go see her?”
He shrugs. “I think my dad wants me to. He thinks it would be good for me to get closure.”
“And what do you think? Will that help you if you see her?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers, sounding so broken it makes my heart split in two.
He’s quiet for a long while, and I wait, not wanting to rush him, my fingers kneading into his traps.
“I’m so angry at her.” He pushes the heels of his hands into what I assume are his eyes, a strangled noise coming from his lips before he snaps his head up, his fists resting on his knees. “And then I’m angry at myself because I feel guilty for feeling angry with a dying woman.” Thrusting a hand into his hair, he tugs on the strands. “Why do I need to see her? Why should I drop everything now that she’s sick? Thirty-four years, and she’s not once thought about me until now. She wasn’t there when I started to walk, she wasn’t there when I went to school, broke my leg playing football, went on my first date. She doesn’t even know I’m a pilot because she wasn’t there . She didn’t care enough to be in my life, and suddenly, she wants to be in it now that her life is coming to an end.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as the hurt and anger come off Wyatt in waves, the bitterness and resentment he holds for the woman who birthed him so palpable I could choke on it. My fingers stiffen against him, and he notices, angling himself to look at me, a deep frown etched on his brow.
“You think I’m a bastard for saying all that, don’t you?” I open my mouth to reply, but he continues. “She wasn’t my mom, Pippa . Sadie was. She didn’t raise me alongside my dad. Sadie did. And now Fiona’s dying, I have to suddenly be the son she forgot? I’ve got to make her feel better for her shitty choices in life? I’ve got to—”
I slide off the sofa and swing my leg over his, sitting on his lap as I clasp his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me.
“Baby, you don’t need to do a damn thing,” I tell him, my eyes imploring him to believe me. “I cannot imagine what you’re going through. The years of hurt all this has brought up, the number of emotions this has stirred. What she did was awful. What you heard as a child was awful. And I am so unbelievably sorry you had to go through that.”
He stares unblinking at me, eyes glazed, jaw clenching under my hands. I feel helpless, wanting to support him but not knowing how. Does he need me to be that person to offer advice? Or does he want to be left alone to wallow, feel his feelings and deal with them alone? I’m so out of my depth right, hating I can’t do more.
“What she’s asking you to do now, after years of radio silence, at the very end of her life, is selfish; it’s horrible and mean, and I don’t understand it. I don’t get why she waited until now.” I run my fingers through his hair, pushing it back until I’m pressing firmly into the side of his head as I continue. “But how would you feel if she died without reaching out, without giving you a chance to talk to her, to get closure? This is a chance for you, too. Not just her.”
He looks at me for a long second before tipping his head down, resting against my chest. I hold him close as my fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“I’m not sticking up for her or telling you what you should do. That choice is yours and yours alone. But if I could have the chance to speak to my mom before she died, I’d do it.” My hand brushes over the back of his head. “I know my relationship with my mom was totally different from yours, but if I got the chance to tell her everything I wanted before it was too late, I would.”
His arms band around my back, plastering me to him. Kissing the top of his head, I feel his breath against my skin as he exhales. “I’m sorry for putting this on you. I shouldn’t have called.”
“Hey,” I say firmly, leaning back to look at him. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. I’m glad you did, Wyatt.”
He nods before laying against me again, his body warm beneath mine.
“What can I do?” I whisper, raw and exposed, wanting to help heal him. “Tell me how to make it better.”
He shakes his head. “You’re already doing it.”
I rest my cheek on the crown of his head and close my eyes. We stay there, on the floor, wrapped up in each other, in the darkness of his living room, until my legs go numb. Gently, I slide off his lap and stand, holding out my hand. “C’mon, let’s go to bed.”
I lead him toward the stairs, where he pauses to lift my bag from the floor. “Shit, I ruined my surprise.”
“Tomorrow,” I tell him, opening his bedroom door and walking inside. “It’s late, and I just want to hold you.”
And that’s what he lets me do as we drift off to sleep.