Chapter Sixteen #2
“Let me get this straight,” Eric said, his voice a hardened mask, no doubt hiding apoplectic anger.
He hadn’t been still since arriving at the hospital five minutes earlier, pacing in the hallway with Ryan outside of Wyatt’s room.
“Instead of going out tonight and fixing last night, you took Wyatt out to dinner. But you never made it to the restaurant because you crashed your Maserati and now Wyatt has a broken arm and a concussion.”
Ryan hadn’t thought it was possible for the events of the evening to sound any worse, but somehow they did, recited through Eric’s clenched teeth.
“That sounds about right,” he said morosely.
“You told me you want this,” Eric said. “You begged me to find a way to fix your management’s opinion that you’re reckless and careless with your personal safety. I told you I’d help you, and I’ve been fucking trying.”
Nobody liked Eric much, Ryan included, but it was hard to deny that he’d been trying, despite all the ways Ryan fucked up.
Eric threw his hands up in frustration. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself,” he continued.
“It was a mistake. A mistake that won’t happen again. I was . . . messed up over Wyatt.”
“And just like that, you’re not messed up over Wyatt?” Eric asked in disbelief. “To be honest, he’s messed you up since the first night you met him. I don’t think crashing your Maserati is going to help with that.”
“It’s not, it’s not. I’ve been messed up because I was fighting how much I cared about him, but I’m not fighting it anymore. This is where I’m meant to be.”
“In a hospital,” Eric muttered under his breath. “Standing vigil over your injured boyfriend.”
Ryan couldn’t help but admit he wasn’t always the world’s quickest learner, but he’d learned now.
He’d felt how easily it all could end. How silly it felt to keep fighting something when it felt so natural.
He didn’t know how he could have let it go on so long.
He’d been a fucking moron, and maybe he could get out of this without paying the heaviest price.
He leaned against the wall and wished Wyatt would wake up so he would know if he’d ever forgive him for almost killing both of them.
“I called you because you always told me to call if you things got . . . rough.”
“It got rough alright. I’ll clean this up because that’s my job,” Eric said. “But no more bullshit. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Agreed,” Ryan said miserably.
Eric turned to go, but held back for a split second. He reached out, and for a grade A asshole, he had a pretty convincing sympathy face. “You’re a good kid, Flores. Don’t let the system change you.”
Then he was gone, walking down the corridor with purpose, no doubt to start handing out non-disclosure agreements like party favors.
Ryan heard a very familiar shriek and looked up to see Flor walking fast and determined towards him, fury in her eyes.
He closed his own in supplication. This night had already been so long, and was growing longer.
Wyatt’s arm really hurt. His head too. He didn’t want to open his eyes because he was pretty sure that would hurt just as badly, but he needed to know who was saying those words.
It was a voice he recognized. He was sure of it.
He just couldn’t place it right now because his brain was so fuzzy. He didn’t even know why he was hurting.
“We could charge you for reckless driving,” he heard someone say. Not a voice he recognized. It was harsh at the edges, and clearly pissed off. “And even though there weren’t any other vehicles involved in the accident, your passenger could file charges since he ended up in the hospital.”
Accident. He had vague flashes of screaming metal and a surge of fear and then nothing. A voice in the darkness, reaching out to him. Begging for him to wake up.
Wyatt strained, anxious to hear the other voice in the conversation, hoping that it was the man who had been so desperate for him to be alright.
The man who loved him.
But the voice who responded wasn’t his at all. “Officer,” the accented voice said insistently, “it was just an accident. The road was slick. You said so. And Ryan, he’s sorry. He’s learned his lesson.”
“To the tune of a wrecked Maserati?” the same official voice retorted dryly. “I’m sure he has. But I will need to check in with Mr. Blake and make sure that he doesn’t want to file charges.”
“When he’s awake, you can speak to him if you like,” the accented voice continued. “Right, Ryan?”
Ryan. That sounded familiar. Was Ryan the man who’d professed his love in the car?
Wyatt, struggling through the fog in his brain, thought that might be the same man.
“I . . . Ryan . . .” he forced in a harsh whisper. His mouth was so dry and tasted smoky and metallic. The echo of blood and pain.
He hadn’t managed to open his eyes yet, but the moment he spoke, there was a person at the bed next to him, cradling his hand in his two hands.
They were big palms, creased with callouses.
Capable hands, hands he could be safe with, despite his presence in a hospital bed that seemed to prove otherwise.
“Wyatt, are you awake?”
That was the voice. This was the man.
He finally opened his eyes and a thousand memories came rushing back at the sight of his face. Dark eyes, pleading and terrified, stared back at him. Blood spatter on his white button-down shirt.
They were supposed to be on a date. At a restaurant. At a public place. Getting their pictures taken. He’d been angry; so angry, but that felt so far away now.
“I’m sorry,” Wyatt said, and Ryan laughed wetly, wiping his face with a blood-splattered hand.
“If I’m not allowed to apologize again, neither are you,” he said, leaning down so Wyatt could catch the words.
“My arm hurts,” Wyatt said matter-of-factly. He didn’t want to look over and see why it was immobilized. Did he even still have it? Was the pain just a phantom reminder of the limb he’d used to have?
“It’s broken, but it was a clean break. The doctor thinks it’ll heal quick and you’ll be back in the ocean with me soon,” Ryan promised. “And you have a mild concussion, from a contusion on the back of your head.”
“The blood?” Wyatt asked, lifting his good hand, and gesturing to the bright red all of Ryan’s shirt.
“It’s yours,” Ryan said wryly. “I only have a few minor scratches. A bruise or two. I’ll be fine.”
And then it hit Wyatt head-on. Ryan had been the driver of the car. The rest came rushing back: Ryan driving way too fast. Wyatt demanding he slow down and Ryan not listening. Hitting the slick spot.
“Eric is gonna kill you,” Wyatt said. “If I don’t first.”
“You’re upset,” Ryan suggested hesitantly.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Wyatt demanded, even though the tone of his own voice made his heart hurt worse.
Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not sure we should be talking about this now,” he said hesitantly, voice wavering. Wyatt had seen Ryan Flores in a lot of moods, but never like this. Never diminished, scared, guilty.
Wyatt looked around, taking in Flor hovering in the doorway, blocking the police officer he’d heard earlier. “Can we have the room, please?” he asked, and Flor nodded immediately, shutting the door behind her a moment later.
Leaving him and Ryan alone.
“If you want to call it off, you can,” Ryan said nervously.
“I don’t want to call it off.” Wyatt’s head kept aching and Ryan’s behavior was somehow making it ache worse. “I want to figure this shit out, once and for all.” He paused, collecting his thoughts, the shards of memory that kept fitting back in place, one at a time. “You told me you loved me.”
“I do, I do love you. I was . . . so scared you’d leave.
Scared you were only sticking around because you said you would.
Maybe because you didn’t want to get sued.
” Ryan laughed, self-consciously and without much humor.
“You told me you’d stick around because you wanted to learn to trust me again.
But you were angry in the car, and I was afraid it was all ending again, and I . . . got desperate.”
Wyatt took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper because the closer he got to the edge, the more he hurt. And he didn’t want to have any more to blame Ryan for. “I love you, you fucking idiot. I’m not going anywhere.”
Hope flared in Ryan’s eyes. “How can you even say that after . . .”
“After you wrecked your Maserati and almost killed us?” It was Wyatt’s turn to chuckle at the irony. “God only knows. Maybe because I know how much fear can control you. It controlled me for so long, how can I blame you for falling victim to it?”
“I didn’t think about it that way,” Ryan said and the stiffness in his back was softening a little, bringing him closer to Wyatt’s side.
It was all instinct to reach out and take Ryan’s hand, curl it in his own, despite the ache in his bones. Ryan gripped it fiercely, like a lifeline.
“We don’t have to know everything right now.
We don’t have to figure everything out right now,” Wyatt said.
“That’s all I meant earlier. Honestly . .
. I couldn’t leave. Not now. Not before.
I . . .” Maybe he should have felt ashamed as the tears clogged this throat and made it difficult to speak, but it had been an emotionally trying forty-eight hours, and he was reaching the end of his rope.
“I love you,” Ryan said, finishing his own sentence. “I meant it earlier. I’m not . . . going to do this right. I promise. But I promise you that I will be there to figure it out afterwards. Every single time.”
There wasn’t complete peace and acceptance in Ryan’s dark eyes as he gazed down at Wyatt, but there was more. The fear was receding, and Wyatt felt it leaking out his own mind, along with the anger.
On cue, there was a brisk knock at the door. Ryan raised his head and reluctantly let go of Wyatt’s hand to answer it.
It was the police officer. Of course.
“I need to take his statement,” he said gruffly. “Now that he’s awake.”