13. Wyatt
13
Wyatt
T his has been the worst fucking day on record. First, two of the guys called in sick (or, more likely, hungover), so I had to work twice as fast as usual to stay on top of everything at the Park Slope site. Then, I put my fucking back out.
It’s my own fault. There was an especially large rock that I wanted to move to the corner of the yard, something I’d usually do with an excavator, but in my haste to stay on top of the job I convinced myself I could manage it on my own.
Huge mistake.
The minute I tried to haul it into the air, I knew it was a bad idea. I felt a tweak in my lower back, followed by what could only be described as a hot, tearing sensation, then the rock crashed to the ground as I doubled over in agony. I sat for thirty minutes with an ice pack, waiting for the pain to subside, but I knew it was futile. This isn’t the first time I’ve been stupid enough to do something like this, and now I have to pay the price.
The only small mercy is that it’s Friday. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to rest up over the weekend and get back to work on Monday. We are so fucking behind schedule it’s not funny.
I shove the front door shut behind me, hobbling into the kitchen. Poppy is playing with Sugar in the living room, and she glances up when I kick my shoes off with great effort, cursing under my breath as I do. I want nothing more than to fall onto the sofa and drown my sorrows in a cold beer, but there’s no way I want her to see me in this condition. Instead, I hunch over the kitchen counter in pain, praying she’ll leave.
“Hi,” she says tentatively, eying me.
I realize I’m scowling and try to contort my face into a genial smile, but the best I can do is a grimace. “Hey.” The word comes out strangled, and her brow dips with concern.
“Are you okay?” she asks, crossing the room. Sugar follows her, weaving around my feet, but I ignore the kitten.
“I’m fine,” I grate out. I know I’m coming across as an asshole, but given the sheer agony I’m in, I can’t muster the will to care.
Poppy, however, can see through it. “You’re not fine,” she murmurs, looking me over. I can’t tell if I’m annoyed or relieved. “What’s going on?”
I grit my teeth, lowering my gaze. The last thing I want to do is tell her I threw my back out like some frail old man. I already feel fucking ancient compared to her and this will only make it worse.
“Mr. Mathers,” Poppy says quietly, and I shake my head, still not meeting her gaze.
“Wyatt.”
She ignores this. “You’re in pain. Did something happen at work? Is it… is it your back?”
Fuck . How does she know?
“My dad used to put his back out all the time,” Poppy adds gently.
Great. Not only am I so much older than her, she’s now comparing me to her father.
But honestly, I’m in too much pain to argue. Part of me is relieved she figured it out. Did I really think I could hide it from her? I can barely stand.
“It’s…” God, this is so humiliating. “Yes. I threw my back out at work.”
“Oh, shit.” She reaches out as if to touch me, then withdraws her hand. “Okay, come sit down.” She motions to the living room sofa, which feels about a million miles away. “Do you need help—”
“I can do it,” I snap, then hate myself as I shuffle over to the couch with a grunt. I think of the way she broke down in my arms a couple days ago when Kurt left, and as I manage to ease myself onto the sofa, I relent. If she can be vulnerable around me, there’s no reason I can’t do the same. Sugar leaps onto the pillow beside me, and I stroke her fur, mumbling, “Sorry, Poppy.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get you some painkillers.”
“There’s some—”
“In the medicine cabinet, I know.”
She disappears up the stairs and I breathe out in relief. I’ll be honest—the thought of having to climb those stairs to get to the Advil was daunting, but I’ve done it before. I’ve managed. Like I’ve managed to cook myself dinner every night—or at least order takeout—without help. I’ve managed just fine for years.
My entire adult life, in fact.
But how nice it is, I realize, as Poppy hands me a glass of water and some pills, to have someone care. To not have to do it all alone.
“Good,” she murmurs when I swallow the pills. “I also found this…” She hands me a tube of muscle rub called Deep Heat that she must have found in the medicine cabinet. I didn’t even know that was in there. “My dad always said this stuff worked wonders.”
God, the sooner she stops comparing me to her father, the better.
I reach for my back, realizing that I can’t easily reach the spot, and that twisting to try will only cause me more pain.
Poppy notices and says, “Maybe I could…” then trails off, letting the suggestion hang there. She’s offering to rub Deep Heat into my back. I’ll have to take off my shirt and let her touch me.
And if it didn’t make me feel utterly ashamed, I’d admit I’ve already imagined what that might feel like, albeit under very different circumstances. I glance at the tube in my hands, aware of how suggestive the name Deep Heat actually is.
“I don’t mind,” Poppy adds. There’s a tinge of pink in her cheeks, the espresso-brown of her eyes darker than usual. “If you… if you think it will help.”
Wordlessly, I hand the tube over and maneuver myself around so she can access my back, but when I reach up to tug my shirt off, my back spasms in pain, and I let out a groan.
“Here.” Poppy takes hold of my T-shirt, pulling it carefully over my head. It ruffles my hair, and I resist the urge to reach up and comb it back into place. Her breath stutters as she tosses the shirt aside, and I glance at her with worry, only to find her eyes traversing the skin on my back.
Ah, right.
Ink covers my entire back, much like the rest of my top half, but this one is in color; a huge maple tree, the trunk following my spine, branches reaching out across my shoulder blades, leaves red and yellow as fall approaches. It’s the tree I had in my backyard growing up, the one I learned to climb as soon as I was able, and the one I planned to teach my own kids to climb one day.
Of course, when I got the ink at twenty-eight, I didn’t know I’d missed that chance completely.
“Where does it hurt?” Poppy asks, a husky edge to her voice I’ve never heard before.
I press my eyes shut, willing my body not to respond.
Stop being such a fucking creep. She’s trying to help you.
“Uh, my lower back.”
Her fingers brush my skin, tentatively at first, then firmer as she begins to massage the cream into my aching muscles. Sugar watches with interest from the sofa beside me, and I pretend not to notice.
“Here?”
“Lower,” I rasp, hating myself for the way my blood heats at her touch.
Her fingers move down, massaging gently, until she finds the spot. Then, with expert precision, she presses firmly into the tightness, the heat of the cream beginning to soothe the ache.
“Is that okay?”
Her voice is so breathy, I have to shift in my seat. I’ve never felt more like a dirty old man than this moment, with her soft fingertips easing my pain, her warm breath on the back of my neck. I should not be enjoying this.
“That’s… yep.” My jaw locks so hard I can barely answer. I need her to stop.
She seems to sense this, because her fingertips leave my skin and she sits back. “Okay. Wait there.” She disappears from the room again and I drop my head into my hands.
What is wrong with me?
Sugar climbs into my lap, purring gently, as if to reassure me, but I’m not reassured in the slightest.
Poppy returns holding an object I don’t recognize. “It’s a cordless heating pad,” she tells me, pressing a button and lowering herself onto the sofa. “I use it for period cramps.” She presses the soft pad to my lower back, and warmth radiates from the spot. My eyes fall closed as the throbbing in my back momentarily subsides and my head clears.
“Thanks,” I murmur, not letting myself look at Poppy. “Thanks for… taking care of me.” My voice is strangely hoarse, my breathing uneven.
“You’re welcome.”
Her hand touches my shoulder, easing me to lie back on the sofa with the heating pad under my back. The sofa dips as she settles herself beside me with a little sigh, but I keep my eyes shut. I’m not prepared for the way she brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, and it’s such a tender touch that my heart clenches unexpectedly.
It’s more than being attracted to her, I realize. It’s the way she’s caring for me, so carefully. The way she wants to ease my pain. She cooks for me because that’s our agreement—that she cooks to stay here for free, even though I’ve told her that’s not necessary—but this… this is something else. She could have tossed the box of Advil at me and left. Hell, she could have left without even fetching me painkillers.
She’s trying to make me feel better. I can’t remember the last time someone tried to do that.
“Bailey,” Poppy whispers quietly, and my eyes fly open.
“What?”
She motions to my chest—specifically my left pec—where my daughter’s name is tattooed in script. “You have her name over your heart.”
I swallow. “Yes. I got it the day after we met.”
Poppy’s brow furrows, and she opens her mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it. She hands me my T-shirt, and I gingerly tug it back on. I shouldn’t say anything more, but the next words leave my mouth without my permission.
“I would have gotten it the day she was born, but I wasn’t given the choice.”
Poppy twists to face me properly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” I blow out a long breath, cringing. I shouldn’t tell her this. The back pain is making me delirious, but as I gaze at the open expression on her face, something in my chest unlocks, and I realize I want to tell her. I know she only means to ease my physical pain, but what if I shared the thing that hurt me the most? The thing that still hurts, even to this day?
“Bailey’s mom didn’t tell me I had a daughter until Bailey was twelve.”
Poppy eyes me for a moment, as if deciding whether to believe me, but there must be something on my face that convinces her I’m telling the truth because her mouth falls open. “What?”
I nod, pressing my eyes shut as my back spasms. Even Bailey doesn’t know this—a fact I agonize over daily. When I ran into her mom Brittany in Walgreens, thirteen years after we shared a few fun nights together, the last thing I expected was for a young girl to appear at her side and call her “Mom.” A girl with eyes the exact same color as mine.
When Brittany finally convinced the girl to wait in the car so we could talk, she confessed what I already knew: the girl—Bailey—was mine. My vision swam and my ears pounded as I stared at Brittany in shock.
“How could you not tell me I have a daughter?”
I’d expected some shame or remorse from Brittany, but she just shrugged. “I didn’t have your number.”
A disbelieving scoff escaped me. “Are you kidding? You knew where I worked. You could have found me. Why didn’t you?”
She shrugged again, as if I’d asked something as banal as what the weather was doing, and my initial shock gave way to anger.
“I don’t know, Wyatt.” She picked at one of her fake nails absently. “Maybe I figured you weren’t ready to be a dad. You were too immature.”
“I was nineteen!” I exploded. “Of course I was immature! But that doesn’t mean I should have missed out.” I dragged my hands through my hair, processing that I had a twelve-year-old daughter. Processing everything I’d missed. I’d always promised myself that I’d be nothing like my own dad, who was absent from my life from day one. That when I had my own kids, I’d be there for them.
It never occurred to me I might not be given the choice.
Brittany lifted her gaze to the ceiling in a dramatic show of exasperation. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“Not a big deal?” My blood boiled. “Is that a fucking joke? I have a daughter . I deserve to know that, to know her, to be in her life.”
Brittany looked like she was about to protest, and I stepped forward, speaking through gritted teeth. “I will be in her life, Brittany. I’m her father.” Saying the words made the reality of the situation hit me all over again, and I let out a shuddering breath. “I have a right to know my daughter. How could you not tell me?”
She glared at me. “Why do you even care? You spent all your time riding your bike and working.”
I’d felt a flicker of shame then because that’s exactly what I was still doing, at thirty-two.
“I want to know my daughter,” I’d insisted again, and Brittany shook her head.
“We’re doing fine without you.” Then she’d turned for the door, as if she was going to leave, and I’d panicked. I didn’t know her last name, or where she lived. In my mind, if she’d left that day, there was a chance I’d never see either of them again.
And I couldn’t let that happen.
“Wait.” I grabbed her arm, and she glanced back at me impatiently. “Please. I want to be in her life.”
Brittany tugged her arm free. “What if we don’t want you in our lives?”
Her words felt like a punch to the stomach. Yes, I’d been immature when we hooked up, but I didn’t deserve that.
“Isn’t she curious about who her dad is?” I asked. “Doesn’t she want to know?”
Brittany shrugged again. That was getting fucking annoying.
“I told her you didn’t want to be in her life. It was easier.”
“Easier for who?” I spat back.
She sighed, glancing at the door again. “Look, Wyatt—”
“Fine,” I blurted. “Let her believe that. I’ll be the bad guy. But… you have to let me into her life now. Please.”
So that’s what I did. I let Bailey believe I’d chosen not to be there for half of her life, to get what little time we did have left. To keep the peace. Besides, I’d reasoned, I didn’t want to ruin her relationship with her mom. For Bailey’s sake, not Brittany’s.
But it changed me. Ever since that day in Walgreens, I’ve felt the need to prove myself, both to Bailey and her mom. To prove I wasn’t the irresponsible guy Brittany thought I was, that I could be a good dad. That she should have told me. It wasn’t a conscious choice, more like a habit I slipped into. It took me a while to realize, but now it’s clear. It’s why I don’t ride my bike anymore, why I continue to grow my company when it hasn't felt right for a while now.
I look at Poppy, staring at me in shock, and sigh.
“It’s a long story, but… let’s just say that Bailey’s mom can be… difficult.”
Poppy nods. “I know. I’ve met her.”
This helps, actually, and my lips curve in a rueful smile. “I ran into them in a Walgreens and that’s how I found out. I saw her with Bailey. We agreed that if they let me into their lives, I couldn’t tell Bailey that her mom intentionally left me in the dark.” I grimace, feeling stupid. Saying these words aloud makes me look like a coward, a doormat, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. At the time, it felt like the only way I could get to know my daughter.
“That’s…” Poppy shakes her head slowly, as if computing something I’m unaware of. “That’s so unfair. It makes you look like the bad guy.”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m used to it,” I mutter, and she frowns.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.” Her gaze holds mine, fierce and angry, and it soothes something in my chest. How wonderful it is to have someone on my side for once. Someone who knows the truth and thinks it’s every bit as unreasonable as I do. It’s a balm I didn’t know I needed, but I force the comforting feeling away. She’s Bailey’s friend, which means she can never be mine—friend or otherwise.
I sigh, shifting on the sofa so the heating pad hits a different spot. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
Poppy chews thoughtfully on her lip. “I disagree. It’s the entire foundation of your relationship with Bailey. She deserves to know the truth.”
I consider this. “What’s the point? We get along great now. Besides, as much as I dislike Brittany, I don’t want to throw her under the bus. I don’t want Bailey to hate her mom.”
“But…” Poppy looks indignant. “You deserve to be free of that lie.”
We need to stop this line of conversation because I don’t want to get used to having someone fight in my corner. Especially someone I know I can’t have. Someone who will leave.
“Mr. Mathers,” Poppy begins again, and I sense my opening.
“Poppy—” I drag a hand down my face, exhaling. “Can you please stop calling me that? It makes me feel about a million years old.”
“Oh.” A rosy color dusts her cheeks. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I… I didn’t realize.”
“You’re being polite, I get it.” I smile in understanding. “But it’s not necessary. Call me Wyatt.”
She swallows, as if she’s trying to say it, but the word is too big for her mouth. “I’ll… I’ll try.”
Sugar chooses this moment to jump onto me and knead my chest with her claws, and I let out a yelp that makes Poppy laugh. I’m pleased for the distraction, and even more pleased when Poppy rises to her feet, declaring she’s going to make dinner.
I don’t know what came over me, sharing all of that with her, but I need to be careful.
I need to remember what this is.