Chapter 27 Wyatt
WYATT
THE NEXT DAY, THE RAIN has let up and the sun peeks through the clouds.
Blake and I make omelets for breakfast and eat them on the deck while she types one-handed on her phone.
Then she sets it down and takes another bite, only for the phone to buzz again.
Her braid falls over her shoulder as she peers at the screen.
“So chatty,” I say dryly.
“It’s impossible to send the Spencers one text and not have it turn into a whole conversation.”
“What are our paranormal podcasters up to now?”
“They visited the lighthouse on the island a couple days ago, and Little Spencer insists he felt a presence.”
“We both know that didn’t happen.”
She laughs. “Probably not. But either way, I want to go out there. Wanna come?”
I pop the last bite of omelet into my mouth. “Sure. When?”
“Let’s go today. Make up for being trapped indoors all day yesterday.”
“Hey, I enjoyed our indoor time yesterday.” I wink at her. After we woke up from our nap, I rolled onto my back and made her ride my face. She didn’t seem to be complaining at the time.
She blushes, which only makes me grin harder. “It was very nice,” she says primly. “But now I’m stir-crazy. Let’s go to the lighthouse.”
“Is this where Raymond supposedly met up with Darlie’s sister?”
“Yep. And it’s also not far from the cinnamon ghost house, so who knows?” Blake waggles her eyebrows. “We might encounter two spirits today.”
“Yes. That is for sure gonna happen.” I push my chair back and reach for our plates. It’s my turn to do the dishes.
“So we’re going?” she prompts.
Truth is even if I didn’t want to go, I still would. It’s impossible for me to say no to her. One smile from this girl, and I’ll give her the parka off my back in the middle of the tundra.
So I shrug and say, “Of course.”
“How much farther?” Blake asks a couple hours later, huffing with exertion.
I check my phone, shocked to find I’m still getting enough service to load a map. I dropped to one bar almost the second we stepped foot on the island.
“Maybe ten, fifteen more minutes.”
She sighs. I don’t blame her. The climb was steeper than I expected, and my legs are burning from the effort.
I heard the view is worth it, though. Yes, I’m here for the view and not the ghost, because I don’t believe in ghosts, and there is absolutely nothing otherworldly about a lighthouse on an island in Lake Tahoe. Come on now.
We power forward on the trail. I took my shirt off about half a mile ago, and it’s tucked through one of the straps of my pack. Blake keeps checking out my chest, and I keep smirking each time she does it, but she’s unrepentant. That’s fine. I like having her eyes on me.
Tall pine trees line either side of the narrow trail, their needles slick with moisture. It must’ve rained up here this morning. I suspect it will again, judging by the cooling, damp-smelling air.
“Why isn’t it busier up here?” she wonders. “Big Spencer said this spot is popular on the weekends.”
“Maybe we got lucky?”
As if to voice its disagreement, the universe unleashes a low rumble that rolls across the sky.
We exchange a wary look.
“Did you check the weather before deciding we were going to scale a cliff?” I ask her.
“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Did you?”
“Sure didn’t.”
The wind shifts suddenly, and the branches all around us begin to move, pine needles floating down to the ground. I lift my gaze to the dark clouds gathering above the lake.
“Shit,” I say just as the sky rumbles again. It sounds closer now.
Seconds later, the raindrops begin to fall, hitting my chest and sliding over my pecs. The trees sway harder.
Blake purses her lips. “We’re closer to the lighthouse than the boat, right?”
I calculate the distance on my phone. “Yes.”
“Then let’s keep going.”
We can’t run because the trail is too steep, and now it’s wet too.
The rain soaks us within minutes. It turns the dirt beneath our feet to mud, making it harder to navigate, and when the lightning cracks, I feel the first flicker of concern that we’re going to get fried to a crisp.
Fortunately, it isn’t long before I see the silhouette of the lighthouse in the flashes of light.
By the time we reach the base of the old structure, the wind is howling, and the rain is deafening.
I shove the heavy wooden door with my shoulder. It stays stubbornly closed, creaking from my effort, before finally pushing open. Inside, the air is musty, but the small space is blessedly dry, which is more than I can say for us. We stumble inside, dripping and breathless.
“Holy shit, that was intense.” Blake shakes water from her sleeves and turns in a slow circle, taking in the spiral staircase and iron railing, her features softened by the dim light filtering through the broken shutters. Then she sits on an overturned crate and starts wringing her hair out.
I pull off my backpack and fish through it. All it contains is two granola bars, one bottle of water, and the hoodie I thought I might need.
“Do you have reception?” I ask, and we both consult our phones.
“No bars,” she says. “Useless.”
“Same.”
“We might as well wait it out here, right?”
“I think so.”
As the rain beats against the dirty windows, we make ourselves comfortable and spend the next several minutes listening to the storm and feeling the wind shake the old bones of the lighthouse.
I sit on the dusty floor and stretch my legs in front of me, propping my hands behind my head while Blake wanders toward a window to watch the storm roll across the lake.
I sweep my gaze over her wet hair, her cheeks pink from the wind. She’s gorgeous. Windswept and wild. I tuck the line away, wishing I’d brought my songbook with me.
The wind hissing in the cracks of the wooden facade sounds almost human, a ghostly wail. “Uh-oh,” I joke. “Do you think Darlie’s here?”
“Maybe.” Blake turns to face me. “You know what? What if we’re wrong? Maybe what actually happened is Darlie killed her sister.”
I lift a brow. “Ooh. Go on.”
“She found out that Raymond was meeting Dolly at the lighthouse and followed them here one night. Then she killed them both and drowned herself in the lake.”
“You still haven’t found any records showing whether Raymond and Dolly are dead or alive?”
“Ugh, no. I finally confirmed that Darlie is dead, but not the other two. These information requests take forever. Honestly, if I had one wish in life, it would be to cut through all the red tape of the bureaucracy.”
“Really, one wish, and that’s what you would do? We don’t want world peace? Not interested in curing hunger?”
“Oh, shoot, yeah, those are probably better options,” she says, and I snort out a laugh.
She sits down again and kicks off her wet sneakers and socks, leaving her feet bare. The rain settles into a steady rhythm. It’s not as violent as before but still persistent.
“This is kind of romantic,” she remarks. “Trapped in a lighthouse during a storm, dramatic lightning strikes, near-death hike. It’s very…” She mulls it over. “Jane Austen meets National Geographic.”
I snicker. “What a combo.”
“Hey, don’t laugh. I bet you’re already writing a love song about this.”
She’s not off base. Lyrics are dancing through my mind like dust motes.
“Maybe,” I say vaguely.
“No maybe about it, songboy. I can practically see you composing.”
“Hey, you said so yourself. It’s romantic.
The song practically writes itself.” I begin strumming invisible chords on my thigh.
“The ocean’s wild, but her eyes are calm.
Guiding me home like a beacon in the storm.
Falling…we’re falling…into the crash of the tide, our hearts open wide… ” I trail off, smiling sheepishly.
Her jaw drops. “Did you seriously just make that up on the spot?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. It was kind of perfect.” She gasps. “Wait, you said falling. Is that your way of saying you’re falling in love with me?”
Mischief twinkles in her expression, indicating she’s just teasing, but the question, joking or not, throws me off-kilter.
“No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.”
“Uh-huh.” She looks back to the window, but not before I glimpse a hint of a smile.
Thankfully, she doesn’t push it. Doesn’t force me to defend the denial. If I opened my mouth again, I’m not sure what would come out. Because I see how easily it could happen. Falling for her. When I let myself go there, it happens fast and fierce.
But it also doesn’t last. Love is too messy, and I’m bad at it. I get bored and move on. I leave broken hearts in my wake. And I refuse to break Blake.
Yet I also can’t stop myself from getting deeper and deeper with her. It’s like a hand reaching out from the water, pulling me under. But not in a horror movie kind of way. I want to go deeper. I want that warm water to engulf me whole.
I don’t understand it. All I know is that when we’re together, I crack open my soul to her, and I think she does the same with me.
Our eyes lock across the room. There’s something between us, something that I fight so damn hard, but here in this old lighthouse, with the thunder cracking in the sky and the streaks of lightning from the thin gaps in the slats, it’s impossible to deny.
Her throat dips as she swallows. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” I say gruffly.
“Why won’t you have sex with me?”
I blink. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Because I don’t think it’s about me being your muse,” she continues. “So…why?”
“I just think…” I hesitate. “If we do that, there’s no turning back.”
“Turning back from what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I don’t answer.
“This is ending when the summer is over,” she says softly. “I haven’t forgotten that rule.”