11. High Society Steamroller
High Society Steamroller
Josie
I do not even consider telling Wyatt why his mother is coming, which I suspect is my brother’s doing. I texted Jacob right before we left for the store, telling him this job might be short-lived since my patient refused to go to the doctor.
I have a plan , Jacob texted back cryptically. You’ll see.
I’m guessing Wyatt’s mother is that plan. Kind of a low blow, going directly to someone’s mom. Very Jacob.
Also—Wyatt has a mother? I’ve been wondering about his family this whole time, and some part of me thought Wyatt sprang fully formed from the head of some hockey titan or something.
Not really, but I just can’t picture him with a mom and dad. Or siblings. Does he have siblings? Now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t wait to meet the woman who gave birth to this enigma of a man.
“I have so many questions for your mom,” I tell him as I grab the first load of groceries from the back of the Bronco.
“You will not talk to my mother,” Wyatt says forcefully, and hurt pricks me deeper than it has any right to.
My cheeks burn, but I start up the cottage steps, keeping my face turned carefully away from him. The words he just hurled my way land in the center of my chest like a boulder. So—he doesn’t want me to meet his mom. Why should he? We’re not close.
We’re not anything .
But it hurts my feelings. For no justifiable reason.
“Right. You don’t want me to meet her. That’s fine. I can drive into town later. I’ve been meaning to check out the library. Or stop by the coffee shop. I’ll just—”
“No, Josie,” Wyatt interrupts.
He crutches up the steps behind me, and I close the door behind us both. “You don’t need to explain.”
“It’s not that,” Wyatt says.
We stand there in the living room, just a few feet between us. It’s too close, especially considering how much physical space Wyatt takes up. He’s not a bull in a china shop, but more like a water buffalo stuffed into a coat closet.
“I know it’s weird having me here. Being your nurse or your handler or whatever you want to call it. You don’t even have to tell your mom about me. I’m just here because Jacob hired me.”
“You don’t understand,” he says. But that’s all he says.
I wait a few more long seconds, eyebrows raised, inviting him to help me understand. When he doesn’t, I brush past him to get more groceries. He’s standing in the same place when I return with the last of the bags.
“Things are complicated with my family,” Wyatt grits out finally. “It’s not that I’m embarrassed about you. It’s more that my mother is...”
“Awful?” I suggest. “Judgmental? Grumpy?”
Wyatt frowns, though I can’t be sure if he suspects I’m listing qualities in him that might be shared with his mother.
“She’s a lot ,” he says.
“Does she bite?”
He breathes out a laugh. “Not literally.”
“Will she get the wrong idea about me being here?”
I don’t elaborate, but I think Wyatt gets my unspoken question: Will she think we’re dating? Or get hopeful and try to play matchmaker?
It’s a common parental tactic. My own parents have tried it several times with a number of men. Obviously, my single status is living proof they’ve had zero success.
“Maybe. But that’s not why I’m concerned. She’s kind of like...” He shifts, briefly putting weight on his booted foot before readjusting. “Kind of like a high-society steamroller.”
I snort. “That is a very specific description.”
“Yeah, well, it’s apt.”
“I’m not worried about being steamrolled. When will she be here?”
“Probably in the next two hours.”
“That’s fast. Where does she live?”
He pauses, then glances out the front window. “My family lives in Richmond.”
This feels like fake news. Like a statement that needs rigorous fact-checking and would come up short.
I’ve known Wyatt for years without knowing this fact. My family is from Richmond. Whenever Wyatt stayed overnight at our house, I got the distinct impression it was because he was visiting from out of town. But he had his own family somewhere nearby? This does not compute.
I swear neither Wyatt nor Jacob ever mentioned this.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I assumed Jacob did,” he says. “Does it matter?”
It doesn’t, but it’s weird to learn we are from the same place but never discussed it. I also feel more than a little guilty that I never asked him something so simple as where he’s from.
“Where did you go to high school?” I say now, like this question will make up for all the ones I never thought to ask.
“Collegiate,” he says, naming one of the elite private schools.
Immediately, I can picture it: a younger version of Wyatt in pressed khakis and worn leather Top-Siders like he’s wearing now.
Even his current hair, barely curling over the collar of his shirt, has the private school vibe.
Collegiate had a code for hair length, and every guy I met who went there kept theirs as long as possible, a tiny act of rich-boy rebellion.
“Where do your parents live?” I ask.
He pauses. “Windsor Farms.”
One of the oldest of old money neighborhoods. Closer to the city and snootier than even the West End of Richmond, where Collegiate is located. Windsor Farms has huge homes. Historic homes. Some even with the white historical marker. It’s the epitome of Richmond old money.
“And you’re still willing to associate with Jacob and me? Tell me the truth—is the real reason you don’t want me to meet your mom because she’ll flip if she finds out you’re hanging out with someone from the Southside?”
Wyatt rolls his eyes. “She knows where you’re from. It’s fine.” He pauses. “She’ll probably want to go to lunch at the yacht club.”
“There’s a yacht club here? And you’re a member?”
“Our whole family is. My parents have a place in Irvington.”
“Another little murder cottage?”
He snorts. “Hardly. More like a giant murder mansion. Without the murder.”
“Fancy.”
Not meeting my eyes, he says, “My family owns the Jacobs Restaurant Group.”
I blink at this. Everyone from Richmond knows the Jacobs Restaurant Group.
They own a huge number of— duh —restaurants around the city.
Many of them the finer dining establishments in trendy, historic places like Carytown and Shockoe Bottom.
They’ve even expanded, adding a handful of restaurants to the booming Short Pump area, where everything is shiny and new.
If I thought the information about Wyatt living in Richmond was a lot, trying to absorb this new tidbit is like attempting to swallow a watermelon whole.
“ You’re Jacobs Restaurant Group?” I ask.
He makes a face. “My dad and brother run it. Not me.”
I stare openly at him, trying to reconcile this information with the man beside me. Who is, I’m coming to understand, way more of a mystery than I ever thought.
Not that I’ve spent much time pondering Wyatt’s existence.
Other than the times I had to see him when he was hanging out with Jacob, Wyatt didn’t occupy much of my headspace.
When we were around each other, I was mostly playing the avoidance game, not trying to figure out the grumpy enigma that is Wyatt.
Now I know he grew up with a sterling silver spoon for a pacifier and family money before he had hockey money. And when I ate at any of the popular restaurants in town, I was doing my part to fund Wyatt’s private school education.
“Okay, so don’t mention my Southside roots and put on my good pearl earrings—check and check. But if me being here makes things more complicated for whatever reason, I’m happy to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, feeling far too happy at his words.
He’s not exactly saying he wants me to stay , I remind myself.
Also, I don’t need to be scrambling for Wyatt’s scraps. It’s stupid. And I never felt this way before, so I’m not sure why I suddenly almost care what he thinks about me and whether his mom will like me.
It takes all of five minutes for me to understand Wyatt calling his mother a high-society steamroller. She sweeps into the cottage in a cloud of expensive-smelling perfume, perfectly coiffed blond hair, and rib-fracturing hugs for us both.
I wasn’t expecting the embrace but especially not the force of it, which squeezes an awkward squeak out of me. She doesn’t fully release me but holds me at arm’s length, her eyes warm as she studies me as though we’re long-lost friends.
“I’m so thrilled to finally meet you,” she says, clearly laying the Southern charm on thick to match her accent.
People who haven’t spent much time in the various regions may not realize how many Southern accents there are—from twangy to lilting to the crisp and sophisticated Southern belonging to Mrs. Jacobs.
It’s what I think of as the aristocratic Southern accent, which is both melodic and posh.
Like her words have been coated in a very rare and very expensive warm honey.
I’m not sure how Wyatt escaped without it when his mother’s is so strong. I don’t have much of an accent, but then, neither do my parents.
“It’s lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Jacobs.” I don’t clarify her use of the word finally , though I’m sure she didn’t know I existed until whatever Wyatt told her on the phone this morning.
“Oh, you must call me Susan,” she says, waving a hand and nearly blinding me with not one but several diamonds. “I am so grateful you’re here taking care of my Wyatt. Heaven knows he won’t take care of himself.”
She’s got that right. But I don’t agree out loud. It feels oddly disloyal. Wyatt’s usually hard-to-read expression is pure gratefulness when I meet his gaze.
I also suspect from her cavalier comment that Mrs. Jacobs has no idea how bad things were just yesterday.
I try to imagine her reaction to the overflowing garbage bags I took out yesterday morning or Wyatt’s feverish state.
And let’s not forget my fluid-filled body.
I’m intensely grateful all of that has subsided.