Chapter Twenty-Two
I haven’t talked to Cash since yesterday. He tried to call me, and he texted and asked if he could come over and talk. I refused. I told him I needed to focus on preparing for the competition. This isn’t the whole truth, though, of course.
I want to see him, but I also don’t. I can’t keep spending so much time with Cash. He’s too nice to me, too thoughtful, too good-looking, too made for me but belonging someone else. It’s messing with my head. I need some space. Feelings like this are only asking for trouble.
I need a distraction, a way to forget about how close we got to crossing a line during the storm, a way to forget what he said about meeting me changing everything. And I especially need to stop over-thinking what he meant when he said it wasn’t what it looked like. What was that supposed to mean?
So I threw myself into preparations for the competition, finalizing the pamphlets I’ve been making. And I finally accepted Wyatt’s invitation to go on a date.
I text Lani, hoping she can help with my nerves.
Headed down to meet Wyatt.
Yay! I can’t believe you’re going out with him.
Me either.
Call me after. I want every detail. Don’t think about Cash.
Right. Talk later.
Mom’s driving me to the bottom of our road so I can meet Wyatt there. Even if he has a vehicle that can handle it, something about having him come all the way up to the house just doesn’t feel right. I squirm in the passenger seat of her tiny car and rub my clammy palms on my jeans.
“Are you sure you want to go, honey?” A deep crease forms in the middle of her forehead.
We’re slowly approaching Wyatt’s lifted black pick-up. “I’m—” I start as Mom hits a rock in the road. It sends my head into the roof. “Jeez, Mom. I almost got a concussion. Sure you didn’t pop a tyre?” I laugh.
She huffs out a chuckle. “Haven’t you learned? Got to hold on to your britches when I’m driving.” We stop in front of the rusty gate at the bottom of the hill. When I move to get out, she puts her hand on my shoulder. “You good?”
I know she’s not asking about my head. “Yeah.” I wave her off and shrug. “A little nervous is all. It feels surreal – you know, that he’d want to go out with me.”
“Don’t doubt how special you are, Dahlia.”
I smile. “OK, Mom.” I get out and swing the heavy gate open. It’s not the grand entrance most people imagine for a ranch, only a regular livestock gate with a padlock. Grandpa liked it being inconspicuous.
Wyatt gives me a small wave and a toothy smile.
Then he nods to Mom, but doesn’t get out of his truck to say hi.
I watch him look down at his phone while I hold the gate open for Mom.
She turns round on the road, and on her way back she rolls down the window.
“I’ll be awake for a while. If Wyatt doesn’t bring you up, I’ll come down. ”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She drives off and I push the gate closed. The sharp click of the latch makes this date suddenly feel very real. I take a deep breath and shake off my nerves. I’m ready to have some fun – with someone who’s available.
“Hey!” Wyatt says when I open the passenger door.
“Hi,” I say, and I realize I’m genuinely excited to be getting out. Ever since we moved here, I’ve been holed up on the ranch or working to save it, and I’m long overdue letting my hair down.
“Buckle up.” Wyatt smiles. “We’re going to have some fun.”
“Oh yeah? What do you have planned?”
“You’ll see.” He pulls away and heads towards town.
If I hadn’t known Wyatt since middle school, I’d be a little terrified about going on a date with a guy who doesn’t tell me where we’re going.
“So, uh, why were you in town again?” I ask.
Unlike me, Wyatt doesn’t seem awkward at all as he taps his hand on the steering wheel to the beat of the music.
“One of my dad’s paintings sold. I told him I had a reason to come over anyway, so I delivered the piece and picked up payment.” He lifts a bushy eyebrow, and all his perfectly aligned teeth show when he smiles.
“That’s good. Your dad’s painting selling, I mean.”
“Yeah,” he says, steering the truck on to Orchard Avenue. “Though I would have come over anyway, even if my dad’s painting hadn’t sold, Dahl.”
I swell with something like confidence, but a twinge of ick swirls in my gut. The nickname feels premature. Dahl. Dad called me that when I was little, and I’ve never liked it.
He parks in town, and we walk down Main Street, past the bookstore with its cosy velvet couches in every corner, past the French patisserie and the coffee shop where they personally roast their beans.
The scent of the freshly brewed coffee reminds me of Grandpa calling it bean water.
I smile to myself as Wyatt and I weave through a group of tourists taking a photo.
The train thunders slowly through town, whistling at each crossing.
As Wyatt and I cross the street, I glance towards the old depot.
Over on the red platform, in the light of the setting sun, I swear I see the woman with brown curly hair who was riding the bronc in my dream shielding her eyes.
But after the train chugs past she’s gone.
Near the breakfast spot, which is in a converted livery, is the arcade.
It’s attached to the pizzeria next door, beads hanging down from the doorframe the only separation.
At the pizzeria counter there’s a gelato bar – real Italian gelato, not small-town-trying-to-be-sophisticated-gelato.
My favourite is the pistachio, but I haven’t had any since last summer when Grandpa and I were here.
“Pizza, then games?” Wyatt suggests, somewhat sheepishly. Golden light seeps between the buildings, creating sharp angles of light.
“Yeah, that sounds good.” I smile encouragingly as Wyatt and I emerge from the shadowed sidewalk and into the light, where a mural of kids picking peaches is painted on the side of the town hall.
“Don’t you love this town?” Wyatt stops and admires the mural. “There are trees with actual leaves, not just pine trees. And it’s so green.”
I laugh to myself. It’s not the most brilliant observation, but I understand what he means.
He reaches out and takes my hand in his, and I look down. It’s a little surreal, but not in a bad way. I nod. “Yeah. It’s nothing like Silver Springs. The only thing there for the locals is the grocery store and the fairgrounds.”
“I liked making money teaching snowboarding lessons,” he says. “But it got old the way the town catered to all the ritzy out-of-towners.” He surprises me with the sentiment. I’d expect a guy like him to say something about all the ski bunnies or the wicked half-pipe.
I relax when we step inside the pizzeria. The scent of pepperoni and cheese permeate my senses. That is, until I see Cash in the kitchen, and everything else vanishes.
I do a double-take. He’s standing near the counter with an order ticket in his hand.
What is he doing here? Instinctively, I release Wyatt’s hand, acting like I have an itch on my other arm.
The hostess speaks to Wyatt, and I mindlessly follow them to a booth in the back.
All sound seems to have escaped the restaurant apart from the sticky squeak of my sandals across the checkerboard floor.
She tells us she’ll get waters and puts a paper menu in front of each of us.
Wyatt starts chattering to me about his favourite arcade games, but I’m barely listening.
I pretend to study the menu as my eyes dart around the kitchen for Cash.
He’s reaching for fresh glasses, and when he looks up, he sees Wyatt and glares.
Then his eyes track across the table to me.
His expression slackens in surprise, and he rapidly turns away.
I frown, reminding myself what happened after his rodeo practice.
“Dahl?” Wyatt says. “You OK?”
I really should tell him I don’t like that name. Even Dahli would be better – it reminds me of Dolly Parton. An icon, to say the least.
I drag my eyes from Cash. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine!” I smile and bend the corner on my menu.
Wyatt’s foot finds mine under the table. I instantly distract myself with all the pizza accoutrements, shakers of grated parmesan, red chili flakes and salt and pepper. There’s also a squeeze bottle of honey.
“I thought only Happy Crust had honey for their pizza.” I hold it up, admiring its deep amber glow.
“Apparently not… You ready to order?”
I glance towards the kitchen, but Cash is nowhere in sight. Obviously, he isn’t close enough with me to share that he works at the pizzeria. I had no idea. Even more reason to embrace hanging out with someone who’s available, even if Wyatt does live in a different town.
Then my stomach flips when the side door to the kitchen swings open – and Cash heads straight for our table with a pencil and pad in his hand.