Chapter 5 #2
Jagger furrows his forehead in confusion, then turns and freezes when he catches sight of Wyatt. He stares at his friend, his anger growing hotter. He mutters, "I told you to wait for me."
Wyatt grinds his molars, focusing on the floor.
"Jagger. Now," Sebastian demands.
Jagger tears his gaze off Wyatt and follows Sebastian outside.
Wyatt starts, "Jacob—"
"What's the commotion out here?" Mom cries out, opening the door that leads into the kitchen and then stopping in her tracks. She gasps, "Oh my Lord! Wyatt!"
"I'm fine, ma'am," Wyatt insists, with a fresh load of shame.
"You aren't! Come into the kitchen so I can help clean you up. Willow, grab the first aid kit," she instructs.
"Ruby, not now," Dad interjects.
Mom glances up at him and puts her hand on her hip. "He needs medical attention."
"He'll get it when we return," Dad asserts.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"Dad's going to kill Wyatt's father!" I shout in a panic.
Mom's jaw drops.
"Mind your own business, Willow," Dad orders.
"Jacob?" Mom questions.
"Shotguns are in the truck," Sebastian informs Dad, stepping through the doorway.
Dad grabs his hat off the hook and puts it on.
"Jacob?" Mom says again, tugging on his arm.
"We'll be back soon. Wyatt, let's get your stuff. Then you aren't going back there ever again. Understand?" Dad insists.
"Yes, sir," Wyatt replies, and brushes past Sebastian.
"Dad! Please don't kill him. You'll end up in jail," I plead.
He turns. "Willow, do what your mother says. Go get the first aid kit."
"Yes, sir," I reply, then suggest, "Why can't Wyatt stay here? Can't Jagger and Sebastian go in and get his stuff?"
"Mind your own business, Willow," Dad says, then kisses Mom on the cheek. "I'll be back soon."
"Don't do anything stupid, Jacob," she warns.
He says nothing as he steps outside.
Mom stares after him, then shuts the door and spins toward me. "Do what your father said, and also bring a pile of towels."
"Yes, ma'am," I reply, then run upstairs and into the bathroom. I open the cabinet, grab the first aid kit and towels, then meet Mom in the kitchen.
I set everything on the table and blurt out, "Why does Wyatt's dad hurt him?"
Mom's eyes narrow. "Because he's a drunk and a coward."
"Wyatt doesn't deserve that," I say.
Mom takes a deep breath. "No, he doesn't. I don't know what that boy was thinking going over there alone." She turns on the water and picks up a pot, then scrubs it with a steel pad.
I pace the kitchen.
She stops what she's doing. "Willow, go outside and do that. You're making me nervous."
I don't argue, heading for the door.
She calls out, "Hey. I thought Hazel was here."
I turn, telling her, "I had Ava take her home."
Surprise fills Mom's expression. "Ava? Is that a good idea?"
I shrug. "Probably not, but I don't want Hazel to gossip about Wyatt all over school."
Mom puts the pan on the drying mat, then dries her hands and puts one on her hip. "Why are you giving your time to someone if you can't trust them?"
"I can trust her," I say before I think, and instantly regret it.
"You trust her so much you worry about her spreading gossip about our family?" Mom questions.
Guilt gnaws at me. I soften my tone, confessing, "Okay. I only trust her with certain things."
"Like what?" Mom asks.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I shut it and swallow hard.
"That's what I thought," Mom states.
I stare at her.
She adds, "If you can't trust someone, they aren't your friend."
My stomach dives. Is she right about Hazel and our friendship?
Mom returns to washing the dishes, and I go outside, taking laps around the barn and front yard until I hear a vehicle. My heart races again. I turn the corner, but disappointment hits me when it's only Ava.
She parks her car, gets out, and wags her finger. "You owe me."
"I did it for Wyatt," I claim.
"That girl doesn't belong in our house. She's a nightmare. You're playing with cyanide hanging out with her," Ava warns.
"She's not that bad," I protest.
Ava crosses her arms and tilts her head. "Keep telling yourself that lie. Don't say I didn't warn you when she burns you." She stomps off into the house.
I return to pacing the yard. It feels like forever until I hear the throaty growl of Dad's diesel truck.
Relief fills me when everyone gets out. Jagger and Sebastian grab items from the truck bed. They go into the house, and I follow them.
"Willow, this isn't your business," Dad declares when I step into the kitchen.
"I can help Mom," I offer.
"No. This isn't your business," Dad repeats in a sterner tone.
I glance at Wyatt's face, which has swelled even more, and my heart sinks.
His open eye meets mine. He mutters, "I'm fine, Willow. Go play, and stop worrying about me."
"Play? I'm not a little kid," I proclaim.
"Willow. Mind your own business like Dad told you to," Sebastian demands.
I cave, leaving the house in a sulk. I go for a long walk, thinking about all the things Hazel said, what my mom said, and Wyatt's bruised and battered body.
It's not fair. He doesn't deserve a nasty father, but no one has ever been able to do anything about it. Now that he's almost eighteen, at least he won't have to return to his house.
The afternoon sun begins to set. I turn the corner and catch Wyatt entering the barn. I make my way across the field and slip past the heavy wooden door, passing the dozens of stalls until I reach the final one.
He's sitting on a bale of hay with his cowboy hat on his knee. His head leans against the wall, battered fists clenched, and eyes closed.
I step closer.
He opens his good eye. "What do you want, Willow?"
I sit next to him. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he grits out.
"Did he break anything this time?" I question.
Wyatt's jaw tics. He sarcastically mumbles, "Nope. I'm super lucky today."
I stay quiet, staring at his fist.
"Is there something else you need?" he asks.
I lean against the wall. "No."
"Then why are you still sitting here?" he questions, turning his head toward me.
Hazel's right. Wyatt's cute.
A warm flush floods me. It's sudden, chaotic, and seems to rewire me.
"Why are you staring at me like that?"
"I-I'm not," I stutter, my breath stumbling, two breaths behind every heartbeat.
What is happening?
"I don't need your pity, Willow."
The giddiness disappears. I put my hand on his forearm, confessing, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I just feel bad for you."
"Well, don't," he barks.
Tension builds, full of silence and suffering, which seems almost appropriate due to Wyatt's situation.
I take my hand off his arm and return to leaning against the wall. I ask, "Why did you go there?"
"I wanted my stuff."
"Why didn't you take Jagger?"
"I already explained this to your dad. I don't need to explain myself to a kid," he sneers, spitting the last word like it tastes rotten in his mouth.
Hurt fills me. I snap back, "I'm not a kid."
"You are."
"I'm a freshman, and you're a senior. We're practically the same age," I argue.
He scoffs. "I'm eighteen next week, and graduating in three. I'm a man, and you're..." He glances over at me.
My heart slams into my rib cage. "I'm what?"
He turns and rests his head against the wall again, closing his eyes. He finishes, "You're a girl with everything. Go enjoy it, and stop fussing over me."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I can't deny his statement. I am lucky.
He doesn't move, and neither do I.
We sit there for several minutes, our breaths in sync, the occasional neighs from the horses breaking up the silence.
He suddenly drawls, "Why are you still here, Willow?"
I reply in a soft tone, "I don't know."
He raises a brow at me. "You don't know?"
Heat fills my cheeks, and the funny feeling I had a few moments ago returns. I bite my lip and shrug. "I guess I just don't want you to be alone right now."
Something flickers in his expression, but then he gruffly states, "I may be bloody, but I'm not a wimp, Willow."
"I didn't say you were."
His look intensifies, and every nerve in my body braces for something. What, I don't know, but I hold my breath.
The meal bell rings, and Paisley shouts, "Dinner!"
Wyatt winces, rising off the bale, and puts on his cowboy hat. Without turning around, he mumbles, "Dinnertime," and leaves me in the barn, full of uncomfortable feelings and unanswered questions.