Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
NASH
Sure enough.
Wyatt’s mom, Barbara, is sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch waiting for us. She quickly covers the confusion on her face when she spots our lime green ride and jumps up to wave excitedly as we pull up to the farmhouse.
It’s been so long since I laid eyes on this house. While the building screams ‘farm’ with its giant wraparound porch, it has tons of clean-cut lines and cozy colors. Unlike the many yellow and red farmhouses we passed by on the highway, his childhood home is painted a creamy white.
Barbara comes down the steps, arms wide open, and for a split second it does feel a little bit like coming home.
There are great things about Wisconsin, like the beautiful nature in Door County, and the great summer weather.
If Wyatt is so dead set on living here, could I see myself here with him?
But he didn’t say ‘I’m going back to Wisconsin, do you want to come with me’, he said he’s going.
And that’s not really up to him when it’s all said and done.
I’m surprised when she walks right past Wyatt and wraps her arms around me.
“Congratulations on your championship! One of many more, I’m sure.” Her smile is bright and filled with genuine joy. I thought she was going to immediately start with me and Wyatt finally dating, but I’m secretly happy she didn’t.
She pats me on the shoulder. “And for coming to your senses about my Wyatt.” A little bead of sweat forms on the back of my neck as I continue to smile back at her.
There it is.
Together, the three of us get all the luggage out of the minuscule trunk and head up the steps to the front door.
It’s wooden and heavy, with one huge window, and black metal hardware.
It squeaks when we open it, announcing our arrival to Henry, who seems like he was just about to come outside.
He steps back to let us in, looking over our shoulders as we all pile through.
“What the hell is that?” he says, eyeing the lime green catastrophe in the drive.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Wyatt grumbles. Barb and I can’t help but laugh. It’ll be parked in that same spot all weekend, waiting for us to get in it Sunday to head back to Houston.
We stand at the base of the staircase as Barbara directs us. “Nash, you’ll be staying in Wyatt’s room.” She turns to her youngest son. “Wyatt, you’ll be sleeping in Henry’s old room.”
“That room doesn’t even have a bed,” Wyatt says incredulously.
“I know. That’s why I put a blow-up mattress in it.”
I laugh under my breath and Wyatt shoots me a look. To his mom, he says, “You know we’re living together in Texas, right?”
I watch as Barbara pulls herself up to a seemingly equal height as her son, sucking in that motherly strength as she grows.
I can see how she kept these two in line all these years.
I know she isn’t really eye-to-eye with Wyatt, but it seems like she is with the stern way she says, “I don’t care what you do when you’re not here, but when you’re under my roof, you’ll follow my rules. ”
“Or we can stay with Henry.”
She scoffs. “You will not. It’s his wedding weekend.”
Wyatt pouts and I get another peek inside what he must have been like in his youth. “Yes, Ma.”
“Now, go get cleaned up. Your dad is grilling brats for supper, and he’ll be starting shortly.”
The promise of a grilled, beer-boiled Wisconsin brat piled high with sauerkraut and drizzled with mustard seems to put Wyatt in a better mood immediately.
Hm, I’ll have to try that at home sometime.
Wyatt leads me up the stairs by the hand.
He gestures to the room on the left. “This one is mine…well, yours.”
“Thanks,” I say as I drag my stuff in behind me.
I spin in a full circle, taking in every corner of the room. I stop when a wooden trunk at the end of the bed catches my eye. I point at it. “That’s kind of an odd decoration for a teenage boy, isn’t it.”
“Yeah, it’s a cedar chest. Kind of a funny story with that.” He picks his chain up from where it hangs around his neck, twisting it around in his fingers, the N flashing silver.
“Now you have to tell me.”
He steps closer to me into my space. “It’s for you.”
I crinkle my brow in surprise. “A gift?” He nods. “For winning the championship?”
“No, I actually got this a while ago. I’ve been holding onto it since senior year.” He leans down and opens the top, which is intricately carved with flowers in each of the four corners.
“Why didn’t you give it to me then?”
He chuffs a laugh. “Would you have taken it with you to Italy?”
My lips turn down in disappointment. “I guess not.”
“I figured I’d just hold onto it for you until you were ready to have it.”
I run my fingers along the edge, feeling the grain of the wood and inhaling its scent. “Am I ready for it now?”
Wyatt’s smile is wide. “I hope so.”
“Wyatt,” his mom calls from downstairs. “Can you come help me carry this?”
“I’ll see you downstairs for dinner,” he says, planting a kiss on my lips that I think is supposed to be quick, but ends up sucking us both in.
I have been insatiable when it comes to him.
Is it because we knew each other so well before we added sex into our relationship, or is it just hotter when you know you’re running out of time?
Does it stem from the special form of intimacy that comes with sleeping next to someone every night?
He breaks the kiss, flashing me a million-dollar smile.
Like he knows if we hadn’t been interrupted, we might be on that bed.
Then he’s gone, disappearing from the room and back down the stairs.
I’ve been to his house before, but I didn’t stay the night on Thanksgiving. I drove back to school late that evening for an early practice the next morning.
The bed has the classic navy-blue bed sheets, comforter, and matching pillowcases.
The shelves on the walls are filled with sports trophies and medals.
Pictures of him and his brother in various Halloween costumes including Luke Skywalker and, of course, a Butcher’s jersey.
Other jerseys adorn the walls, all pinned up unceremoniously with thumb tacks.
The biggest wall is covered in Butchers’ memorabilia.
A poster from their 1998 Super Bowl win, a poster of their hall of fame receiver, and in the center of it all, a huge poster of Jared Clark looking decades younger than he does now.
He holds the football in one hand out in front of him, the yellow and green helmet obscuring some of his face.
The number on his jersey reads twelve. What a small number.
Wyatt is number sixty-nine, as he loves reminding me.
He thinks it’s hysterical. A small smile cracks my lips thinking about it.
A man as quick to laugh and as carefree as him totally fits into a town like this, a family like this.
I can see why he’s so dead set on coming back.
I put my big bag on the luggage rack that I have no doubt is his mom’s addition to the room, and hang up my dresses.
I change out of my leggings and sweatshirt and into shorts and a t-shirt. I’m always freezing on planes, and if I’m too cold, I can’t sleep like I want to, so I always bundle up no matter how roasting it is outside.
When I wander outside to find Wyatt, I’m met with the nicest weather I’ve felt in three months.
It’s the end of June now, and in Houston we are buckling in for the hottest month of the year come August, but here, just a few miles off a Great Lake, the breeze is cool, and the sunshine feels like a kiss instead of a burn.
In about three hours I’ll need to run back upstairs and get my sweatshirt.
The small amount of heat there quickly dissipates when the sun goes down.
As I settle down in a patio chair, I look at the vast land surrounding us.
I think Wyatt told me once that the farm is four-hundred acres.
There are cows, chickens, and miles and miles of corn.
From here I can see that it’s about to hit the ‘knee high by July’ milestone all the farmers follow.
Wyatt’s dad, Charlie, comes through the back door and I stand to greet him.
His smile is wide, just like his shoulders, kept strong through years of farm work.
It’s obvious where Wyatt gets his build.
Football has just added a few more layers of muscle.
His is more packed-on bulk, while his dad’s is lean.
Wyatt’s affinity for pizza keeps him a bit thicker. “Nash, it’s so good to see you.”
“It’s good to be here. The perfect time to escape the Texas heat.”
“It’s been pretty toasty around here lately. Let me know if you get too warm, I’ll get the misting fans out.”
He, Barbara, and Henry will probably have those fans out before the end of the weekend anyway, so I just smile and say thank you.
I laugh to myself. It was ninety-two when we left Houston this morning.
Charlie didn’t ask, but the rest of the family will, and they will all give me shocked expressions as if they can’t fathom how any human being could live at that temperature.
And I’ll tell them exactly what I tell all Wisconsinites—it’s no different than the winter here: you just don’t go outside.