Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
WYATT
My truck keys thump against the marble kitchen counter as Wesley rips open the fridge. He doesn’t ask if I want anything–just pops the caps off two tall beer bottles and slides one across the island toward me. I catch it and mutter a quiet, “Thanks.”
The condensation cools my grip just as something blonde flashes in my peripheral. Blake leans in, presses a quick kiss to my brother’s cheek, and says, “I’m gonna go check on Vivienne.”
We watch her disappear down the hall and toward their guest room. Which, at this point, is basically Vivienne’s. I think Elain is already in bed. If not, I’m sure she’ll be joining them soon.
I didn’t plan on staying after dropping them off.
Wesley’s the one that insisted I come in.
I said no at first because I’m still pissed at my wife’s sister–really fucking pissed.
Because whether she meant to or not, she put Whitney in a situation she never should’ve been in.
And while I know Vivienne’s hurting too, she’s old enough to know better and old enough to respect boundaries. Especially Whitney’s.
But I don’t have it in me to fight tonight—not with her, not on Whitney’s behalf.
It’s not even my fight, really. It’s theirs.
And after everything that’s happened, the thought of going home feels heavier than usual.
I know Whitney’s anger wasn’t meant for me.
Whitney needs time to sit with things before she can talk them through.
It’s just how she is. I know that. But that doesn’t mean her words don’t sting.
I wasn’t pretending to give a damn. I do give a damn. That’s the problem.
Wesley takes a sip of his beer and raps his knuckles against the counter. “You think they’ll ever work through their shit?” He’s not just talking about Whitney and her mom. His eyes flick toward the hall where Blake disappeared, and Vivienne hides away.
I shrug. “Eventually.”
God, I hope so. I know it’s different for them, but I can’t imagine my brother and I never speaking again.
Regardless of what happens or what words we exchange, I know I’ll have his back until we’re both six feet under.
And I have zero doubt the feeling is mutual.
We fall into a comfortable silence. A few moments pass.
Quiet enough that I hear the hum of the fridge.
The tick of a clock. The clang of a beer bottle.
Then Wes tilts his head. “What the hell is that?”
My brows furrow in confusion when he sets his drink down and pushes off the counter to step toward the window. I follow him, curiosity getting the better of me.
And then I see it—
Bright orange flames, high and angry, cutting through the darkening sky above the trees. Flickering. Roaring. A heavy sense of fear fills my chest. Because it’s close. Too close. “Shit,” my brother gasps.
They’re coming from the direction of home.