Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
ardent (adj.): showing an intense degree of devotion; passionate
Wyatt drives a sporty blue Subaru pickup, and I definitely don’t hate it.
We park at a trailhead, elevation well over six thousand feet. Fir trees abound. The air is apple-crisp and thick with pine. Our destination, an alpine lake. I’m schoolgirl giddy.
I like that’s it’s a new hike for Wyatt, too, and one that doesn’t require a high level of endurance.
“You brought a notebook?” he says, watching me zip my small turquoise hydration backpack, something I scored at a discount on my first-ever trip to REI.
I may not own dedicated hiking shoes, but at least I sort of look the part.
I tug my beanie on. “Never know when inspiration might strike.”
Is this a dorky thing? Possibly. But hasn’t Wyatt already become acquainted with this side of me?
He inspects my outfit. “Sure you’re going to be warm enough?”
I have absolutely no idea. I give him a crooked smile and a shrug.
I hear a clipping sound as if he’s adding something to his pack.
Soon we’re trekking through an open meadow of grasses painted autumn gold, rimmed by a high rocky brow. I recognize the ridge’s contours after viewing them for five years from town below.
Many of the trees up here are twisted and stunted. Wyatt and I share a laugh over one that resembles a poorly manicured bonsai. We haven’t passed a single hiker. Seem to have this alpine wonderland all to ourselves.
“I have to tell you, Lucy,” he says, stopping. “The more I know you—you’re such a kind, caring person and an amazing mom—I’m having a hard time accepting that someone could treat you so cruelly.” I know by the set of his jaw and the slight bulging of a vein in his neck that he’s speaking of Devin.
And I wonder if I’m hearing a question behind the question.
We face one another in the middle of a boundless meadow. “Look, Wyatt. You’re probably wondering how I even got myself into that situation. How could I have been so stupid, right?”
“No, I’m not . . . You’re anything but—”
“It’s okay. I’ve had to ask myself the same thing.
And I’m still hard on myself. I mean, it makes sense that a person might end up in a toxic relationship if they’ve never witnessed anything else, right?
If they’ve only ever experienced relational dysfunction.
But my parents have a loving, respectful marriage.
So it’s logical to wonder what happened. ”
And so I explain to the best of my ability what I’m still coming to understand myself about the unhealthy detours I’ve taken.
How I hadn’t been able to fix Mikey. And how after he died, hard as I tried, I wasn’t able to patch the pieces of our Humpty-Dumpty family back together again—not in the same way, at least. And how by then, my fixer tendencies were baked in.
So, I’d gone all in on a project named Devin.
If only I’d known the stakes.
Looking back, I can clearly see the ways he made me doubt the goodness of my family. His slow and strategic dismantling of my confidence.
Airhead.
Idiot.
Because any time I acted secure in myself, it made him insecure. And eventually, it made him dangerous.
You’ll never find anyone else who loves you like I do.
Lies. All of it. Nevertheless, he’d rewired my brain.
He needed me to be ever at his mercy. Which I was . . . for longer than seems logical.
Wyatt’s warm gaze offers understanding. “It makes sense. I love that you have such a soft heart. I just hate that you and Chase got hurt.”
“Thank you. I’m still unlearning old patterns. But also, I’m learning new things!”
“Like what?”
We resume walking, and two people appear in my mind’s eye. Two imperfect people who have nevertheless managed to stay married for several decades. Who, despite their differences, navigated a tragedy that should have totaled them. Who exude warmth and friendship in each other’s company.
Thanks to my parents, I do know what a healthy marriage looks like.
And I know that if I’m honest, what I want is nothing short of what they have.
Caring is costly. My little brother’s baby face floats before me, followed by the familiar ache.
Love will always be messy, but it should never, ever be mean.
“Like . . .” I swallow. “Like that any time I let fear hold me back, I allow Devin to hold me hostage.”
The path turns dusty, the trees closer together, and I have to pick my way over rocks and roots. Through a curtain of limbs to my left, I glimpse teal water.
“Is that it? The lake?”
He squints. “Looks too dinky, but let’s go check it out.”
Whatever this body of water is, it’s clearly an impostor. We stand along the bank of the shallow pond, shoulders touching.
“More of a wannabe lake,” I say. “But still, it’s pretty.”
He cups his chin. “I hoped I was bringing you to someplace a little more impressive than this.”
Our voices feel like an affront to the utter silence. Like we’re bellowing inside a sanctuary. Gentle popping sounds—fish surfacing—echo through the stillness.
I could stand here all day by this shabby pool of water with this man.
I almost don’t notice the moment Wyatt laces his fingers through mine, it feels so right. And then—electricity. I look up into eyes that hold autumn and tranquility and an unspoken message that needs no translation.
“You good?” he says huskily. “Want to keep going?”
A swoop in my belly. “I—”
Wyatt cocks his head in the direction of the trail.
I smile. “I’m great. Let’s go find the real lake.”
Our fingers slide apart, as once again we pick up the trail. But the invisible connection between us is undeniable.
A bald eagle, fast diving through the distant sky, alerts me that we’re coming up on the lake. I point. And bounce. “Did you see? Did you see?” My feet pick up speed of their own accord.
Wyatt laughs. “Hey, slow down, girl.”
“C’mon, let’s go, old man.”
And then, because it’s what I do, I trip on a thick root sticking out of the ground and barely recover my balance in time to avoid the dreaded face-plant.
“Don’t mind me,” I say. “It’s a whole thing . . .”
“What? What’s a whole thing?”
“Clumsiness. I’m still learning how to operate my limbs.”
He studies me intently.
“What?” I say, unable to decipher his expression.
“Oh, nothing. Well, not nothing. Permission to speak freely?”
“Always.”
“It’s just . . . that’s the second time I’ve heard you refer to yourself as uncoordinated. You’re not uncoordinated.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. I think I would know if I’m clumsy. Are you sure this is a hill you’re willing to die on, Lieutenant, when you’ve only known me for a month or so?”
“I thought we established that we’ve known each other all our lives.”
I chuckle. “Fine, I’ll play along. So, tell me, then, what do you think you know about my level of grace, or lack thereof?”
He reaches to bend the tip of a branch out of my way. “I think it isn’t a grace thing at all. It’s a focus thing. I’m pretty sure your only trouble is that you’re trying to do two things at the same time. Like, for example, navigating a doorway while admiring the sunset.”
“Huh.” I’m so astounded by this notion that I have no choice but to let our witty repartee die in the dust. Could he be right?
Wyatt arches his brow. “Like turning around to make fun of me while jogging a trail. So, as I see it . . . that makes you not a klutz.”
“So you said.”
Well, knock me over with a feather and sweep me into the gutter. All I can do is gape at this uniquely attractive purveyor of unexpected logic. This could be a game changer.
And to think Wyatt missed a perfect opening to mock me.
In fact, this might be the most un-Devin-like thing anyone’s ever said to me.
The ground is no longer ground. My feet slosh through marsh and mud as I’m drawn deeper and deeper into the beauty of this enchanted place. The eagle now presides atop a stump in the middle of the lake, and the water is perfectly clear yet somehow every conceivable shade of blue and green at once.
“This place is . . . it’s . . .”
Forget it. Sometimes there are no words.
Admittedly, though, it’s cold. Soon Wyatt and I are settled close together on a large bare log just right for two. It’s warmest where our hips touch, and he has magically produced a camping blanket and is diligently tucking it around us.
I bring the puffy blanket all the way up to my chin as our conversation swings easily from topic to topic, interspersed with laughter that carries to the other side of the lake and folds back over us.
“So here we are,” he says.
“So here we are.”
“And I’m really tempted to spell out what I’m feeling for you, Lucy. But I’m afraid it might chase you away.”
“Well, you are pretty good at spelling.”
“Hmm. Here’s a word for you. How do you spell .
. . beguiling? That’s what you are, Lucy.
I’m crazy about you. You’re amazing on so many levels.
I admire the way you prioritize your son.
You’ve somehow reconnected me to parts of myself I didn’t even realize I’d shelved.
” His eyes rove my face. “And of course, you’re incredibly beautiful. To quote Chase, obviously.”
I laugh softly, letting his words inch through the narrow gaps in the fence that’s protected my heart for so long. I like hearing my son’s name roll so naturally off this man’s tongue. I hear dignity. I hear safety.
Beneath the blanket, Wyatt’s hand finds mine.
He turns to face me. “Lucy, you have every reason to guard your heart, and every reason to guard Chase’s.
But if you ever decide to open your hearts to me, I make you this promise.
I will handle both of your hearts with tender care.
I’m willing to take this—us—at whatever pace you’re comfortable with. ”
Are we an us? Oh, how I want us to be. Is wanting it enough?
“Thank you for that.” Slowly I raise my gaze, etching his features into my mind, knowing I’ll want to replay this moment over and over.
The thick bob of his Adam’s apple. The solidness of his jawline, with its slight scruff.
The fine scar above his lip. And finally, the warmth in his eyes, assuring me this man is not playing me.
“But, Lucy Montgomery, make no mistake. I am pursuing you.”
“Well, Lieutenant Hayes,” I say after a moment, “I can’t believe I’m saying this. But for the first time in a long time, I am willing to be pursued.”
A playful spark lights his eyes. He fingers a tendril of hair that’s found its way out from under my cap. Tips my chin.
His eyes search mine. “May I kiss you?” The kindness of the gesture disarms me.
Kissing would change everything.
I smile my answer.
Our lips meet.
Wyatt Hayes’s kiss is unlike any other kiss. This. Oh, this. This definitely qualifies as something altogether new. Like my first tiramisu or my first Mary Oliver poem.
Which means I’m in trouble. Because I’ll never again not know what it’s like to be kissed by Wyatt Hayes.
Can I even regulate this high-voltage current zinging through every part of me?
Apparently not, because as much as I want to fully participate in this once-in-a-lifetime romantic moment that every cell in my body clearly longs for, my mouth decides to bypass the asking-my-permission step in the communication process and starts discharging witless prattle.
“You sure know how to pick a spot for a first kiss,” I whisper. “I mean, just look a—”
His eyes remain laser-focused on my lips. “Shh. You’re doing it again. That’s two things.”
“Right,” I whisper. “One thing at a time.”
Let go. You’re in safe hands.
I run a fingertip down that darn chin dimple, then close my eyes and softly press my lips to his. Wyatt deepens the kiss. Gentle but sure. As if this moment was always, always inevitable.
My eyes flicker open.
He grins. Draws me into strong arms. Snugs the blanket closer around us.
Maybe tomorrow pragmatic Lucy will reinhabit my body. But for now, I willingly enter the freefall—ten thousand stories. Now eleven . . . now twelve.
But who’s counting?