Chapter 12
The next night continues in a blur of music and laughter, and the kind of ease I didn’t even know existed.
Someone puts a Garth Brooks song on the jukebox.
A group starts line dancing. The mechanical bull claims victim after victim, all of them laughing as they fall.
Around ten o’clock, a group near the bar starts chanting for karaoke, and someone wheels out the machine that usually lives in the storage room.
“You should sing something,” Presley says.
“Absolutely not. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“Come on, it’s fun.”
“I’m not singing karaoke.”
“You’re always so serious. Live a little.”
“I recently rode a mechanical bull. I’ve lived plenty for one week.”
But then Wyatt’s name starts being chanted, and he good-naturedly climbs up on the small stage area we’ve cleared out.
He picks some country song I don’t know, but that everyone else apparently does, because the whole bar is singing along.
He’s not a great singer. His pitch is questionable at best, but he’s confident and fun and completely unselfconscious.
Watching him, I feel something shift in my chest.
This man. This place. This life.
When did it become so easy to imagine staying here forever?
When he finishes to a big round of applause, he comes straight to me at the bar.
“Your turn.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on. You rode the bull. Compared to that, singing karaoke is nothing.”
“Those are actually not equivalent challenges.”
“Scared?” He says it with that small smile that means he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“I’m not scared. I’m just…”
“Scared?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Fine, but you’re doing it with me.”
His eyebrows rise. “A duet?”
“A duet. Take it or leave it.”
He grins. “I’ll take it.”
We end up choosing Islands in the Stream. It’s the only duet in the karaoke catalog that I know most of the words to. Presley cues it up, and Wyatt takes one microphone while I take the other. The opening music starts, and I immediately regret every decision that has led me to this moment.
But then Wyatt starts singing Dolly Parton’s part in this ridiculous falsetto, and I can’t help but laugh.
Suddenly, we’re doing it.
Singing to each other, hamming it up for the crowd, being completely ridiculous and completely free.
I’m terrible, and Wyatt is not much better.
We’re off-key and laughing through half the lyrics, and neither of us can remember the bridge.
But The Rusty Spur loves it. They clap along and cheer us on.
When we get to the chorus, Wyatt pulls me closer, and we’re singing into each other’s faces. His eyes are bright with laughter, and I think this might be the most fun I’ve ever had in my entire life.
The song ends, and the crowd goes wild. Wyatt’s arm is around my waist, and we’re both breathless and grinning like two idiots. And for a moment, we just stand there in the middle of The Rusty Spur looking at each other.
“That was…” I start.
“Amazing?” he suggests.
“I was gonna say humiliating, but sure. Amazing.”
He laughs. “You had fun, though.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then my work here is done.”
But his arm stays around my waist, and mine somehow ends up on his chest, and we’re still standing very close together in the middle of a honky-tonk. The crowd has started to fade back into their own conversations, and it just seems to be us in this little bubble.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“For this, for making me do ridiculous things and reminding me what fun feels like.”
His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek.
“Last call!” Dolly shouts from behind the bar, and just like that, the moment shatters.
Wyatt drops his hand and steps back, and I feel the loss of his touch.
“I should help close up,” he says.
“Yeah, me too.”
But as he walks away, he looks back at me, and the expression on his face makes my heart skip.
* * *
After we close, we fall into our normal routine.
I wipe down the tables while he counts out the register.
We move around each other in silence, but there’s something different tonight, a charge in the air that wasn’t there before, or maybe it was always there and tonight just made it impossible for us to ignore.
“Back deck?” he asks when we’re done.
“Always.”
We grab our drinks, sweet tea for both of us tonight, and head out to the deck behind The Rusty Spur.
Out here, the mountains are dark against the night sky, and the stars are so bright they look like someone spilled diamonds across black velvet.
I’ve never seen stars like these before.
In the city, it was impossible to see stars.
I settle into what’s become my usual spot, and Wyatt sits beside me, close enough that our arms brush. For a while, we sit in silence, but I’m hyper-aware of every point of contact, the warmth of him beside me, and the way the crickets and tree frogs create a symphony in the darkness.
“Can I ask you something?” Wyatt says finally.
“Of course.”
“This week, the bull, the karaoke, all of it, that’s not who you were in Atlanta, is it?”
It’s not really a question, but I go ahead and answer anyway.
“Nope. In Atlanta, I was controlled. Everything was calculated and appropriate. I never did anything spontaneous, crazy, ridiculous, or just for the pure fun of it.”
“Why not?”
I think about the question. I really think about it.
“Because fun wasn’t part of the plan. My mother had this vision of who I should be.
Elegant, refined, accomplished, appropriate at all times.
I spent a long time trying to be that person that I forgot how to just…
Well, be. And now, while I rode a mechanical bull in front of a bunch of people, sang karaoke badly, and laughed until my face hurt, I can’t remember the last time I actually felt this alive. ”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when I glance at him, he’s looking at me with such tenderness that it makes my breath catch in my throat.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly. “I know I’ve said that before, but I really mean it. You’re different here, more yourself.”
“Or maybe this is the first time I’ve actually been myself anywhere.”
“Maybe.”
He reaches over and takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My heart starts racing, but I don’t pull away.
“Eleanor,” he says, his voice more serious now. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“I’m trying really hard not to, and I don’t want to complicate things for you.
I know you’re only here for six months, and we’re almost halfway through that.
I know you have a decision to make in October, and I don’t want to make this decision harder.
But, well, it’s getting harder for me to pretend that I don’t—” He stops and shakes his head.
“I’m not good at this talking about feelings thing. ”
“Try,” I say softly, squeezing his hand.
He looks at me fully, and in the dim light spilling over The Rusty Spur’s windows, I can see a conflict in his expression.
“I like you, Eleanor, more than I should. More than is smart, considering you’re probably leaving soon.
And I’m trying to be okay with that, with just enjoying whatever time we have, but tonight I’m watching you laugh and let go and just be yourself.
” He swallows. “It’s getting really hard to keep my distance. ”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. And I’m sure I should probably make an appointment for an EKG.
“What if I don’t want you to keep your distance?”
He looks me in the eye.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I? Wyatt, I haven’t decided anything about this place, but I know that right now, right here with you, I’m happier than I’ve been in years, maybe ever. And I’m tired of overthinking everything. I’m tired of being careful and controlled and afraid of feeling too much.”
“Eleanor—”
“I’m not asking for promises. I’m not asking you to plan a future with me. I’m just asking you to stop pulling away every single time we get close.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with those eyes, those big blue eyes, like he’s trying to read some answer on my face.
Then slowly, he reaches up and cups my cheek, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip.
“And you’re sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure.”
He leans in, and my eyes start to close. This is it. It’s finally happening.
His phone erupts in his pocket, a sound impossibly loud in the quiet night.
We both freeze.
He closes his eyes, clearly debating whether he should answer it.
“You should get that,” I say, even though every part of me is screaming at him not to.
He reluctantly pulls back and takes his phone out of his pocket, looking at the screen. “It’s a text from my grandmother,” he sighs. “Her toilet’s leaking again. She’s got water all over the bathroom floor.”
“Then you have to go.”
“I really don’t want to.” But he’s already standing. “But yes, I have to go. She’s in her eighties and shouldn’t be trying to fix plumbing at midnight.”
“Of course. Go.”
He pauses at the door and looks back at me. “Eleanor—”
“Go take care of your grandmother. We’ll finish this conversation later.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He disappears inside, and a minute later, I hear his truck start up and pull out of the parking lot. I sigh and fall back into my chair, staring up at the stars.
I sit alone on the deck behind The Rusty Spur, my lips still tingling from the kiss we almost shared and my hands still warm where he held them, or maybe still warm from where I held his.
What am I doing? I’m falling for him. That’s what I’m doing.
Falling hard and fast for a man who lives in a small town and has a plan to stay there, building a life I could never have imagined wanting.