Chapter 31
Thirty-One
spark (n.): something that sets off a sudden force
Minutes later, I pass through the sliding door onto the balcony, carrying two hot mugs.
Except that I make the mistake of focusing on Wyatt where he stands looking out over the railing and bonk my right shoulder on the doorframe.
At my weird little squawk, he turns just in time to see hot liquid slosh to the ground.
“Don’t mind me. I’m kind of a klutz.”
Wyatt angles his head. “Don’t say that.” His words are both gentle and firm. “Happens to all of us.”
It’s a nice sentiment, although clearly not everyone has bull-in-a-china-shop disorder to my extent.
“I see what you mean about Chase,” he says as we settle into the two rattan chairs. “He’s a really great kid. Reminds me a lot of my nephew.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Zach. I really enjoy him. He sees the world . . . differently, and it forces me to. In a good way.”
Well, this explains a few things. I turn toward the mountainscape, inhale chilled air that carries the musty scent of pine mixed with sweet, yeasty dough. My downstairs neighbor is baking again.
String lights sway, gently illuminating the balcony. The landscape beyond is awash in milky moonlight. There’s the hum of a car, an occasional cricket chirping. Gauzy gray haze drifts across the black canvas, making the stars appear to wink.
“I love it out here this time of night,” I say solemnly.
“I can see why,” Wyatt whispers.
We’ve both fallen into using hushed tones.
He sips his tea, then sets it down on the small glass table. “I can’t get over how different the terrain is here. So expansive.”
“I love that about the high desert. It’s so . . . uncluttered. Wait till you see it in snow.”
“Uncluttered. That’s a great way of putting it.” Wyatt turns to me, brows drawn. “Hey, anyone ever tell you you’re pretty good with words?”
Then he sends me a little wink that makes my stomach do a front two-and-a-half pike with a twist.
What is it about this man that draws so many involuntary physical responses? I mean, he’s not your classic book-cover model, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find him attractive. More and more so as I get to know him. What is that about?
Sensations I shouldn’t indulge. And yet, here, now, just for one night, I’m tempted.
Wyatt returns his gaze to the horizon. “It’s like, for the first time in a long time, I have a wide-open view. I’m clearheaded. Free to dream.”
“About?”
“About where all my hopes and all my experiences could take me.”
He slides a glance at me, and our eyes catch. Which sets off another round of slam dancing low in my belly. Sheesh, it’s a regular mosh pit in there.
“What prevented it before?” I ask. “I mean, why haven’t you felt like you could set your dreams free?” It’s about as personal a question as I should pose at this stage in our friendship.
Wyatt heaves a heavy sigh. Scratches his jaw. “The truth is kind of . . . morose, honestly, Lucy. I’d hate to ruin such a beautiful evening.”
“I don’t mind. I’d love to hear.”
A pause, and then, “I guess you could say sadness followed me from one season of my life to the next, and the way I coped was by becoming super intense about my work. Which isn’t all bad. But sometimes I’ve overstepped, charged into God’s territory, when I’d have done better to wait for direction.”
“Sadness?”
He looks down at his hands. “It has to do with my dad. I don’t want to cloud your impression of him. He was a good man, and in most ways a good father. I looked up to him.”
“You must have. You followed him into the same career.”
“For sure. But he didn’t have the skills to deal with his emotional pain, with the kind of hopelessness that can creep into our line of work. I’m talking about being a cop. ’Cause when you opt for a daily, up close view of the underbelly of humanity, well—”
“I can’t imagine,” I say. “Seems like it takes a special person to work in such a hard field.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know that it takes a special person, so much as it takes the right training, to process stuff in healthy ways.
Law enforcement culture doesn’t make space for vulnerability.
Officers assume they’re supposed to let their emotions scab over and then scab over again, and somehow it will all be okay.
But I learned from watching my dad that it continues to simmer below the surface.
In my dad’s case, that led to bouts of depression—serious depression. ”
“I’m so sorry.”
“That’s mainly why we moved to Washington. My parents’ attempt at a fresh start. A Hail Mary pass.”
I gather this is when my mother lost touch with Wyatt’s mother.
And I’m worried about where this is leading, about what happened to his father, and whether I’m equipped to respond in a helpful way to something so tender.
At the same time, I can’t remember the last time I sat with a man so willing to talk about matters of the heart. I’d be crazy to shy away.
“Do you . . . care to talk about what happened to your dad?”
Wyatt licks his bottom lip. Inhales. Cool air and silence stream into the delicate spaces between and around us.
I lift my chin to the deepening darkness. Wyatt follows my gaze.
Eventually, he rests his hands in his lap, shoulders relaxed.
“Dad—well, he eventually sought help, but not until he’d been forced to take early retirement.
Disability is really what it was, but we weren’t supposed to talk about it in those terms. Anyway, it was too little too late.
At least that’s how I see it, looking back.
Because a year later . . . a year later we buried my dad. ”
“Oh, Wyatt.” I offer steady, gentle eye contact. “That’s . . . that’s got to be so hard.”
“Massive stroke,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m grateful he’s out of pain, you know. I hold on to that. And I look forward to seeing him healed and whole in eternity.” He forces a light laugh.
After a moment, I say, “Meanwhile, you focus on changing the culture in your work environment. That’s commendable. It matters. But still, there’ve got to be times . . .”
“When I was a kid, reading saved me. Through books, I could keep living even while it felt like something was dying, you know?”
“I do. Books are safe.”
He smiles softly. “It’s why I hope to write one. Now I try to acknowledge the darkness when it comes. Look evil and suffering in the face, and then . . .” Wyatt eyes the stars. “And then fix my mind on higher things. ‘Whatever is true, whatever is noble . . .’”
“‘Whatever is right, whatever is pure . . .’” I supply.
Wyatt’s eyes circle my face, my hair. “‘Whatever is lovely . . .’” His gaze drops to my mouth.
Tempted as I am to pretend I don’t notice the softness in his eyes, warm and coppery in this light, I’m not that great of a pretender.
I blink, and the moment is gone.
We sip our tea.
I clear my throat. “Are you this . . . open with everyone?”
“I kind of said it before. I feel like we’ve known each other a long time.”
“In a way, we have.”
I really ought to return the favor, open my story to Wyatt. But who would want to hear that?
“I’d like to know more about you, Lucy,” he says, evidently a mind reader.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
He quirks a smile. “Favorite novel?”
“Hmm. Well, it’s hard to imagine a world without Pride and Prejudice. But for something more recent, I’d maybe go with The Help.”
“Isn’t that about a journalist?”
“It is.”
“So you like books with humor and social commentary.”
“I like all sorts of books. I’m kind of a mood reader. But, yeah. That’s probably the chef’s kiss.”
He nods approvingly. “What don’t you read?”
“That’s easy. Anything dark. Anything too . . . violent. Relational drama is fine—I mean, we’re all flawed . . .”
“Yes.”
“But there can come a point when human failing becomes . . .” I turn toward the mountains, search for words. “Unsafe to others,” I finally say, turning to look directly at Wyatt.
His lips form a straight line. “Is that what happened for you?”
I swallow hard. Draw a huge intake of air. And then, because this is Wyatt, I tell him. About a man whose attention turned into possessiveness, then controlling behavior and scathing words, and eventually escalated into something even more sinister.
Wyatt flinches as if absorbing a physical blow.
I tell him what it felt like to experience a husband’s disdain for his own precious son and my growing helplessness to protect Chase.
And then I describe for Wyatt the day I left Salem and rolled into a town I’d never heard of, on a stormy, gray day, in a dented gray Toyota stuffed chaotically to the brim.
Just me and Chase hastily departing a life gone loony with nothing more than a few bags of clothing, some canned goods, and a rainbow of chunky toddler toys.
And how the central Oregon air kissed me with its tart, musky aroma—juniper after the rain, I would later learn—and whispered a beguiling invitation. Stay.
Sheesh, at this point I may as well grant Wyatt full access to my private journals.
“What about your grandmother in Salem? Couldn’t you have gone there?”
My chest quivers as I recount for Wyatt my unwillingness to expose Nana to potential danger.
“I didn’t have a plan,” I say. “Only a prayer. Maybe I would’ve returned to Salem after things blew over.
Or maybe I would’ve swallowed my pride and continued on to Nashville.
Instead, this community opened its arms to me. ”
Lurking among the evening shadows, I sense my occasional dark visitor out there somewhere, hovering in the not-so-distance: condemnation. Today, though, I’m celebrating how far I’ve come. How far I’ve been carried, that is. I’m basking in the soft glow of truth and healing. Thank you, Lord.
That old poltergeist isn’t welcome here.
I trace a circle around the top of my mug. “So, for Chase’s sake, I have to be super cautious.”
Wyatt leans forward. Close enough I feel his warmth. “For your sake, too, I should think.”
My eyes are ever drawn to that priceless chin dimple. Fiddlesticks, Wyatt probably thinks I’m looking at his mouth. If I’m not more careful, he’ll think I have kissing on the mind.
Do I?
I lean back and hug my tea to my chest. Let the record show: This woman is not in any position to take a freefall into who knows what.
Sure, I’ve had some wins recently, but there cannot be a yes for this.
“Oh, by the way,” Wyatt says, “I mentioned you to my mom.” At this, he makes a face. “Sorry, that sounded weird. But yeah, she corroborated your story about our mothers being friends. Except you left out the part where yours is a big-time Bible teacher.”
I huff a laugh. “Oh yeah, that. Honestly, it tends to slip my mind. It’s just the way things have been for so long, you know?”
“I guess she’s been following your mom’s career for a long time. Pointed out a bunch of her books on her shelf.”
I smile. “My mother is pretty amazing at what she does. She doesn’t really think of it as a career, though. More like it’s just who she is, following her calling. Did . . . did your mom also happen to tell you about my little brother?”
He frowns. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring it up. That must have been so . . .” His voice trails off.
“Cancer changes everything.”
“Isn’t it weird how, when you’re a kid, you know pretty much nothing about your classmates’ real lives?”
I hitch a shoulder. “We’re too busy overtweezing our eyebrows, being awkward, and trying to figure out who we are.”
Wyatt’s eyes glitter. “Mm,” he says, lifting his mug, “for me, not so much the tweezing thing. But I really like who you are, Lucy Montgomery.”
Can’t he see it? I’m kind of messed up. But he’s not looking at me that way.
I like you back, Wyatt Hayes, I don’t say. Instead, I clink mugs with him under the string lights, resist the magnetic pull of his gaze, and simply tell him thank you.
I like making this man smile. And I really like the way he makes me smile. The kind of smiles that begin in my toes, run out to my fingertips and send tingles all the way to my eyelashes. Is it possible for eyelashes to tingle? I think yes.
I may like this too much.
“This has been an amazing night. Thank you,” he says. His voice is husky.
I smirk. “It’s the tea.”
Wyatt searches my face. “Good tea.”