Chapter 25 #2
Several hours pass, but the afternoon drags. I spend most of it pacing my room, peeking out the window at the ranch entrance every five minutes, and praying Wyatt's truck will appear.
By the time the sun starts to slip behind the rolling hills, the house is bustling again. The kids thunder through the halls, the smell of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes fills the air, and the kitchen hums with chatter.
I look at my phone again.
Me: Are you coming back soon?
There's no reply.
My nervousness ticks higher.
The dinner bell rings, and I leave my room. I descend the stairs, picking at the edge of the banister, and listen to everyone laughing.
Where is he?
Worry eats at me. Wyatt's injured, whether he wants to admit it or not. He needs rest. But I know him well enough to know that no matter how bruised and sore, he'll work out until his bones are on the verge of breaking if something is bothering him.
And I gather his talk with Jagger didn't go well.
Dinner starts without him. I sit at the far end of the table, pushing food around my plate, barely tasting a thing. The room echoes with jokes and stories. The only ones not engaging are Dad, Jagger, and me.
Ava gives me a sidelong look and murmurs, "You gonna eat that or just play with it?"
I force a smile. "I'm not hungry."
She arches an eyebrow. "You were always a terrible liar."
I ignore her and stand, gathering my plate. "I'm going to the Butterfly House."
Paisley's eyes go wide. "At night?"
"It's not like the butterflies are going to mug me," I deadpan.
I avoid Dad's narrowed gaze.
I scoop a generous portion of chicken, mashed potatoes, and roasted carrots onto a new plate, adding a warm roll and a slab of butter. I wrap it all in foil and then tuck it under my arm.
"Feeding the enemy?" Jagger asks snidely.
I glare daggers at him, snapping, "Don't."
He scowls, giving me the same betrayed look he wore when he arrived at the Butterfly House.
I slip out the door.
The evening air bites with cold. Stars prick the dark sky. A sliver of the moon appears over the hill. Each breath clouds in front of me. My boots crunch across the frost-tipped grass as I cross the wide yard and head down the path to the guesthouse.
When the holiday lights come into focus, I pause, my heart hammering.
His truck isn't here.
Disappointment stabs deeper than I expect. I grip the plate tightly as I open the door. I set it on a bench and pull out my phone.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I type Where are you? Then I delete it. I try again. Dinner's waiting, but erase that too.
Finally, I send a message.
Me: Brought you a plate. Are you okay?
I watch the screen until I get the "delivered" message. A moment later, the three dots pop up like a lifeline, but then they disappear. I stare at the screen, a chill seeping through my jacket, even though the cottage is warm. The phone's glow becomes a spotlight on my desperation.
Memories slip in like ghosts. I'm fifteen again, lying in bed, clutching my phone, waiting for his good night text.
I stare at my ceiling with butterflies tumbling in my stomach, full of anticipation and worry.
Then I scroll back through every sweet thing he said to me, rereading his promises until I fall asleep with the phone pressed to my chest.
How pathetic am I now?
It's a decade later, and I'm doing the same damn thing, clutching my phone like it's my last hope, and hanging on every dot that pops up on the screen.
Disappointed in myself, I sink onto the couch, wrapping my arms around myself. Then, just like when I was fifteen, I scroll back through our texts from earlier today.
Wyatt: Can I see you when I'm back?
"I should have stayed inside and washed my hair," I grumble to myself.
My phone pings. My heart jumps so violently that I almost drop it.
But it's just a weather alert about a winter storm warning.
"Great," I mutter, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. I glance at the plate, the foil still tightly wrapped.
I drag myself back to my feet, and pace near the indoor planters. The tiny white flowers glow like stars from the holiday lights. My boots scuff against the wood floor. I rub my arms, my mind spinning, and going nowhere good.
Maybe he regrets coming here.
Maybe he's already trying to leave.
Maybe he realized seeing me again was a mistake.
A sudden memory slices through me. We had snuck into the Butterfly House, and Wyatt lifted me onto the counter, kissing me like the world was ending.
God, I'd been so sure he was my forever.
I lean against a potted lemon tree, dragging my finger over the smooth bark. The scent of citrus fills my nose, but it doesn't calm the storm inside me.
Damn you, Wyatt.
I reach for my phone again. My fingers flying over the keyboard.
Me: I'm worried. Please tell me you're okay.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I text Jax.
Me: Is Wyatt still there?
Jax: He left as soon as he showed up.
My stomach dives.
Me: When?
Jax: Earlier. Noon maybe.
Where the hell is he?
I go back into our text messages, and freeze.
The three little dots are hopping along the screen.
Wyatt: I'll be home soon. Can you meet me at the guesthouse?
I take a shaky breath. Several minutes pass before I reply.
Me: Okay.
Wyatt: Sorry you were worried.
Me: Where were you?
Wyatt: Nowhere good. We'll talk when I get back.
I jerk my head backward. Nausea hits me just like it used to when Wyatt would go out with Jagger and leave me home.
Tears well, hot and useless, blurring my vision. I blink hard, refusing to let them fall.
I can't do this again.
Why did he have to come back?
My phone pings again. My breath catches, but it's just a low battery warning. I bite back a sob. I've never felt more foolish.
Wyatt will never change. I was stupid to think he was at Jax's all this time.
What did he mean when he said he was nowhere good?
Lights beam into the window. A truck engine dies, and not long after, a door slams.
My shoulders droop. I stand, knowing there's only one truth left.
I can't do this anymore. Wyatt's the same boy he's always been.
I've ridden on his merry-go-round. The only place it goes is around in circles.
And it's time I got off for good.