Chapter 13
SOPHIE
Ihad planned to kiss him.
I’d positioned myself just right—close enough that his warmth wrapped around me, angled so my face tilted naturally toward his.
I could almost feel his lips. The brush of them.
The soft press I’d been imagining since Juneberry, since the dock, since the moment I realized the past hadn’t stayed buried nearly as well as I’d thought.
My body knew exactly what to do.
My heart did not.
The second I lifted my chin, something inside me cracked open without warning. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a sudden swell of emotion that rose too fast to stop—hot and sharp and overwhelming.
My eyes burned.
I sucked in a breath, tried to steady myself, tried to swallow it back.
Failed.
“Oh,” I whispered, horrified, as tears spilled anyway. “I’m—God, I’m so sorry.”
Wyatt froze for half a second—just long enough to register the shift—then his hands were on me. Steady. Grounding. One at my back, the other at my arm, warm and sure.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey. It’s okay.”
I shook my head, embarrassed, emotions tumbling out faster now that the door was open. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I swear I’m not trying to—”
“Soph.” His voice dropped lower, calmer. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
But I wanted to. Or maybe I needed to.
I pressed my forehead to his chest, the tears coming freely now, my body betraying me in the most public way possible. The music from inside Dusty’s thumped faintly behind us, muffled by the walls. Cars passed in the distance. Life went on, oblivious.
Wyatt wrapped his arms around me fully then, enclosing me without hesitation. His hand slid up my back, slow and steady, like he wasn’t afraid of breaking me. Like he understood this wasn’t something to rush through or fix.
I clutched his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. The moment felt absurd and intimate and unbearably safe all at once.
“I don’t even know what I’m feeling,” I said into his chest, my voice muffled. “I just—being with you like this—it makes everything come up. And I didn’t expect it.”
“That’s okay,” he said again, brushing his hand through my hair. “You don’t have to know yet.”
I pulled back just enough to look up at him, tears streaking my cheeks. His expression wasn’t startled or impatient or confused. It was open. Concerned. Completely present.
“I feel safe with you,” I said, the words slipping out before I could filter them. “And that scares me.”
His jaw tightened slightly—not with discomfort, but with emotion. “Why?”
“Because when I feel safe, I stop holding everything in.”
He nodded once, like that made perfect sense.
“I think,” I said shakily, “I’m ready to tell you what happened. About that summer. Before high school.”
His hands stilled, then settled again, grounding. “Okay.”
“I’ve never told anyone,” I added quickly. “Not really. Not the full truth.”
“I’m listening,” he said gently.
I took a breath. Then another. My chest felt tight, like I’d been carrying something heavy for years and was only just now realizing I was tired.
“My little brother,” I began. “Jonesy.”
Wyatt’s brow furrowed. “Jonesy … yeah. Of course. He was—what then—eight?”
“Nine,” I corrected softly. “He was always following us around. Remember how he tried to race you on your bike?”
Wyatt huffed out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Kid had zero fear.”
My throat tightened. “Too little fear.”
I swallowed hard. “He died that summer.”
The words landed between us, heavy and final.
Wyatt went completely still.
“What?” he whispered.
“It was a ziplining accident,” I said, forcing myself to keep going before I could stop. “We were on vacation. One of those stupid adventure places my dad thought would be fun. They said it was safe. Everyone said it was safe.”
My hands trembled. Wyatt tightened his hold, anchoring me.
“I was right there,” I said. “I watched it happen. The harness failed. Or the line did. Or something—I don’t even know anymore. I just know he looked at me right before he went.”
My voice broke completely then.
“I was supposed to be watching him,” I sobbed. “I was the older sister. I was standing right there. And I didn’t stop it.”
Wyatt shook his head slowly, his grip firm. “Soph, no—”
“I know,” I rushed on. “I know what people say. That it wasn’t my fault. That accidents happen. But I felt it happen. I felt my whole world crumble. And after that—nothing was ever the same.”
Tears blurred my vision, but I kept going.
“My parents fell apart,” I said. “They tried not to. But grief does things to people. My mom couldn’t stand to stay in Valentine. Every street, every room—it all reminded her of him. Of what we’d lost.”
Wyatt’s thumb brushed gently under my eye, wiping away a tear.
“She wanted to pretend he never existed,” I whispered. “She packed up his things. His pictures. His trophies. Everything. Like erasing him would make the pain stop.”
I laughed weakly through my tears. “It didn’t.”
Wyatt’s face was pale now, eyes dark with something fierce and protective and heartbroken.
“So, we left,” I said. “Austin. New start. She said it would help. And I went with her because I thought—maybe it would save her.”
My chest hitched. “And I thought it was my fault. All of it. Jonesy. My parents. The house. Our family.”
Wyatt pulled me closer, resting his forehead against mine. “Jesus, Soph.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” I said. “My mom didn’t want it talked about. She didn’t want pity or questions or reminders. So, I learned how to carry it quietly.”
His voice was rough when he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me? When we ran into each other at UT?”
I closed my eyes. “Because I was barely holding it together. And you were … you were still you. Still normal. Still Valentine. And I didn’t want to be the girl whose tragedy sucked the air out of the room.”
He exhaled sharply. “I would’ve listened.”
“I know that now,” I said. “But then? I just wanted to survive orientation without breaking down.”
Silence settled between us, thick but not uncomfortable. Wyatt’s arms never loosened.
“I studied counseling because of it,” I admitted quietly. “Because I needed to understand grief. Trauma. How people break and keep going anyway. I told myself it was about helping others—but really, it was about helping myself.”
He nodded. “That makes sense.”
“And then last night,” I continued, “when that man started choking … I didn’t think. I just moved. And afterward, all I could think was—this time, I didn’t freeze. This time, I didn’t lose someone.”
My voice shook. “It felt like something came full circle. Like maybe I wasn’t just the girl who watched something terrible happen anymore.”
Wyatt cupped my face gently, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You were never just that.”
I searched his face, looking for doubt or judgment. There was none.
“You saved that man because you’re brave,” he said. “Not because you owed the universe something.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t feel that simple.”
“It rarely is,” he agreed. “But it matters that you stepped forward.”
Tears slipped again, quieter now. “Beth and Natasha don’t know. No one knows. My mom wanted it buried so deep it couldn’t hurt us anymore.”
Wyatt’s jaw tightened. “That’s a hell of a thing to carry alone.”
“I didn’t know how to put it down.”
He pulled me back into his chest, holding me like something precious. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
I believed him.
I let myself.
We stood there for a long moment, the noise of the world fading again, his steady breathing anchoring me. When my tears finally slowed, when my chest stopped aching quite so sharply, I pulled back slightly.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, quieter now. “I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you.”
Wyatt shook his head immediately. “Don’t apologize.”
I studied his face. “You remember Jonesy.”
“Of course, I do,” he said. “He used to call me ‘Why-it.’ Thought my name was hilarious.”
A sad smile tugged at my mouth. “He did.”
Wyatt swallowed. “I wish I’d known.”
“So, do I,” I said.
He brushed his thumb over my knuckles. “I’m glad you told me now.”
“So, am I.”
The moment stretched—gentler now, still charged but no longer fragile.
“I was going to kiss you,” I admitted softly.
His lips curved into a small, careful smile. “Good.”
“But maybe,” I added, “not this second.”
“Also good.”
He rested his forehead against mine again. “We’ve got time.”
And for the first time since that summer—since Jonesy, since the move, since everything—I believed that, too.
I stayed there with him a little longer, letting the moment settle. My face pressed against his chest, my hands still fisted lightly in his shirt like I needed the physical proof that he was real.
Wyatt didn’t move. He didn’t fill the silence with reassurances or questions or platitudes. He just stayed. Breathing slow and steady, like he understood that what I needed wasn’t fixing—it was permission to exist exactly as I was.
Eventually, my tears dried. The tightness in my chest eased into something softer. Tender, but manageable.
“I really hate that you carried that alone,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t know how not to,” I replied. “It became … normal. Being the one who didn’t talk about it. The one who adapted.”
He tipped his head slightly, resting his chin against my hair. “You shouldn’t have had to be that strong.”
The words landed deep. I swallowed hard again, but this time the emotion didn’t spill over. It just settled.
“I learned how to compartmentalize really well,” I said. “How to function. How to smile. How to keep moving.”
“And how did that work out?” he asked gently.
I let out a small, breathless laugh. “Apparently, I cry in parking lots when I feel safe.”
His chest shook with a quiet chuckle. “Seems like a reasonable response.”
I pulled back enough to look up at him again. The streetlight cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the seriousness in his eyes, the patience there. No rush. No expectation.
“I didn’t plan on telling you tonight,” I admitted. “I didn’t even know I was ready.”
“Sometimes, ready isn’t a decision,” he said. “It’s a moment.”
I nodded slowly. “I think I’ve been running from moments like this for a long time.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m tired of running.”
Something shifted in his expression then—something protective and intent and careful all at once. He reached up, brushing his thumb gently along my jaw, stopping just short of my mouth.
“Can I?” he asked softly.
The question wasn’t just about a kiss. It was about everything. Space. Timing. Trust.
“Yes,” I whispered.
When he leaned in, his lips met mine slowly, reverently, like he was memorizing the feel of me.
The kiss was soft. Unrushed. All warmth and intention.
I melted into it.
His hand stayed at my waist, steady and grounding. Mine slid up his chest to his shoulder, fingers curling there as if anchoring myself to the present moment. To him.
When we pulled back, my forehead rested against his again, both of us breathing a little deeper now.
“That,” I said quietly, “felt different. Like one of those videos that pop up where best friends finally kiss and everyone online is screaming because it’s been obvious forever.”
He smiled faintly. “Good different?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Safer. Like it wasn’t about proving anything or catching a moment. Just … letting it happen.”
“I don’t want to rush you,” he said. “Or this.”
“I know.”
“For what it’s worth,” he added, his voice low, “I don’t see you as broken. Or tragic. Or anything that needs to be handled carefully.”
I held his gaze. “What do you see?”
“A woman who survived something devastating,” he said. “And still steps forward when it matters.”
Emotion swelled again, but this time it felt steadier. Stronger.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Anytime,” he replied. “And Sophie?”
“Yes?”
“I know you,” he said firmly, his thumb brushing a slow, grounding arc along my arm. “I know how deeply you love. You don’t erase people—you keep them with you. You’ve been carrying Jonesy this whole time. That’s who you are.”