Chapter 20 #2
The steakhouse was called Ashley River Chophouse—a Charleston name that sounded like history and indulgence, like bourbon and old brick, like something you’d recommend to someone you wanted to impress.
Inside, the lighting was low, the air cool, the kind of place where the servers moved like they belonged to the building. Leather booths. White tablecloths. Soft jazz that didn’t demand attention.
I gave my name to the hostess, and she smiled politely as she led me toward a table in a quieter corner.
And then I saw him.
Wyatt stood when he noticed me, and something in my chest punched hard.
He’d changed since the day before—the tension eased, the hard edges softened. He wore a dark sportcoat over a crisp button-down, sleeves unrolled tonight, watch at his wrist, hair still short but styled like he’d cared. His jaw was clean-shaven, and his eyes—
His eyes tracked me in a way that made heat bloom low in my stomach.
He looked … romantic.
Not guarded.
Not haunted.
Just a man standing up for a woman he wanted to see.
“Hey,” he said softly when I reached him.
“Hey,” I replied, and my voice surprised me with how steady it was.
He took a beat to look at me—really look—then his mouth curved slightly. “You look beautiful.”
Something warm and dangerous unfurled inside me.
“Thank you,” I said. “You look … really good.”
His gaze darkened, just a fraction. Like the words landed somewhere physical.
We sat. Menus opened. A waiter offered water and cocktails, and Wyatt ordered bourbon neat while I ordered a glass of red wine, because my hands needed something to do and because I refused to feel like a child tonight.
But I couldn’t wait.
I’d carried the wrapped buckle all day.
Before the bread arrived, before the waiter could return, I reached into my handbag and pulled it out.
Wyatt’s eyes flicked to the package, then back to me—curious, cautious.
“I got you something,” I said.
His brows lifted. “Sophie, you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” I cut in gently. “Open it.”
He hesitated, then took it carefully—like he understood it wasn’t just paper and ribbon.
He untied the ribbon, unfolded the paper, and opened the velvet-lined box.
The buckle caught the candlelight.
Wyatt’s face stilled.
He swallowed once, slowly, and I watched emotion move through him like a wave he didn’t know what to do with.
“Valentine, TX,” he read out loud, voice roughening.
I nodded, forcing myself not to babble. “I had it made today. I thought … for the next time you go line dancing. Or the next time you’re anywhere you need to represent where you came from.
You don’t talk about Valentine much, but I know it’s in you.
I wanted you to have something that says you don’t have to leave it behind to be who you are now. ”
His thumb brushed the etched letters. Once. Twice.
For a second, he didn’t speak.
And that silence could’ve been terrifying—except it wasn’t empty.
It was full.
“Jesus,” he murmured, like the word had nowhere else to go. Then he looked up at me, eyes bright in a way that made my throat tighten. “Soph … this is—”
He cleared his throat, jaw working like he was trying to keep himself from cracking open in public.
“This is … the kind of thing you don’t forget,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
The gratitude in his voice did something reckless to me.
Because he wasn’t pushing me away right now.
He wasn’t shutting down.
He was receiving.
I felt the tiniest flicker of triumph—and fear—because if he could receive this, then maybe he could receive the other thing I was here to give him.
My love.
Wyatt kept the box in his hands a moment longer before closing it carefully.
Then he looked at me like he’d made a decision.
“I have something for you,” he said.
My breath caught. “You do?”
He nodded, and his mouth twitched with something almost … nervous.
He reached into the inside pocket of his sportcoat and pulled out a small wrapped package—neat, careful, like he’d wrapped it himself or watched someone do it with the concentration of a man disarming a bomb.
He set it on the table between us.
“I—I didn’t know if this would be too much,” he said, voice low. “But after yesterday … after what you said about Jonesy …”
My fingers went cold.
My heart did that thing where it stutters, like it’s trying to brace.
I reached for it slowly, the paper suddenly too loud in my hands.
Wyatt watched me, eyes steady, but his posture was tense—like he was prepared for me to break.
I unwrapped it.
The frame was small. Dark wood. Simple.
And then I saw it.
A photograph.
Old enough that the colors had faded slightly, the edges soft, like the picture had lived a life before it found its way back to me.
Three kids.
Me in the middle, sunburned and grinning like the world was safe. Wyatt on one side, taller even then, hair longer, an arm slung around my shoulders like I belonged there. And on my other side—
Jonesy.
Five years younger, all teeth and freckles and wild joy, his grin huge, his eyes bright. He had his little arms around both of us like he was claiming us.
Like we were his whole universe.
My breath left me in a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t quite a laugh either.
I stared at it, and my vision blurred so fast it felt violent.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
Wyatt’s voice came gently, like he was trying not to startle me. “The camp in Texas. The wilderness one. The summer before eighth grade.”
I couldn’t look up.
If I looked up, I would fall apart.
“How—” My voice cracked. “How did you—”
“When you told me your mom …” His jaw tightened. “When you said she got rid of pictures. Like she was trying to erase him because she couldn’t hold the grief …”
Tears slid down my cheeks and I didn’t wipe them away.
Wyatt continued, voice rougher now. “I remembered that photo. I remembered the day they took it. I remembered how proud Jonesy was that he’d made it through the rope course without crying. He kept talking about it for two days.”
A strangled sound left my throat.
“I called the camp,” Wyatt said. “I told them who I was. Told them who you were. I didn’t know if they’d have anything, but …
they still had archives. They emailed me a digital copy.
” His eyes held mine finally, and they were so full it made my chest ache.
“I had it printed. Framed. I wanted you to have him.”
My hands shook around the frame.
The image of Jonesy—alive, laughing, real—hit something in me that had been starved for years.
Because it wasn’t just that my mother had gotten rid of the pictures.
It was that grief had stolen the evidence. The proof that he’d existed outside my memory. Proof that he’d been more than a story people got quiet about.
And here he was.
Right here in my hands.
I pressed my thumb to the glass over his face like I could touch him through time.
“Oh,” I whispered, and my chest cracked open. “Wyatt …”
His voice was barely audible. “I’m sorry it took me this long to give it back to you.”
I stared at the photo, tears falling silently onto the frame.
The restaurant blurred around me—candlelight, clinking glass, soft music—none of it mattered. Only that I was holding my brother again in a way I hadn’t known I needed until this exact second.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to lift my eyes to Wyatt.
He looked like he was bracing for rejection.
Like giving me something precious had made him vulnerable.
And that—God, that did something to me.
I reached across the table, still holding the frame in one hand, and placed my free hand over his.
His fingers were warm. Rough. Real.
“Thank you,” I managed, voice breaking. “Thank you for … seeing me. For remembering. For doing this.”
He squeezed my hand once, tight.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly. “I just—I needed you to have it.”
I nodded, because I couldn’t speak without shattering.
I looked down again at the photo—at Wyatt’s arm around my shoulders, at Jonesy’s grin, at my own bright face in the middle—and something deep inside me settled.
This wasn’t just a dinner.
This was a hinge point.
This was the universe handing me a moment so tender it hurt, like it was daring me to be brave enough to take the next step.
I drew a shaky breath, clutched the frame to my chest like it was a heartbeat, and looked at Wyatt over the edge of it.
His eyes didn’t move away.
The waiter approached with bread and water refills, but I barely registered him.
All I could see was Wyatt.
All I could feel was the truth rising in my throat, hot and unstoppable.
And I knew—absolutely knew—that after this, there was no going back to half-words.
Not after he’d handed me my brother.
Not after he’d let me hand him Valentine.
Not after we’d both just put our past on the table and dared each other to hold it.
I swallowed, steadying myself.