46. Life Is A Highway #3
Wyatt pulled me into his wide chest and held me close. “I’ve got you, darlin’. You just get the poison out. It’s all gonna be okay.”
Just like anything else he’d said to me, I believed him.
When the tears finally stopped, he gave me his handkerchief.
It reminded me of Paul and the fire, bringing on a new round of tears.
He may not have understood, but he held me through it.
Then, he ordered us some food, we ate a meal together, talking about Rusty, my photography, and my dreams. It was so nice that we pledged to have dinner again every night this week at his penthouse.
He suggested I bring Rusty if I wanted, promising to have a litter box and food for him.
When we reached his town car, Wyatt squeezed my hand.
“You ain’t alone anymore, you hear? Once you’re family at the Rooster, you’re family for life.
I’ve got you.” He gave me another hug, making me feel so safe.
“Grief is rough, so you call or text me anytime. Don’t sleep much anyway, so anytime day or night and I’ll be there. ”
“Thanks, Wyatt. You’re a good egg,” I said, leaning back and feeling my eyes well when that phrase reminded me of home.
“You’ll be okay, darlin’. Give Rusty a scratch for me,” he said, helping me into the backseat.
As his driver took me home, lights flashed by, I wondered why the hustle of the city didn’t calm me anymore. Maybe I had changed. Maybe I wasn’t meant for city life anymore.
Since it seemed wise not to make any major decisions tonight, I tabled that thought.
Wyatt’s driver made sure I was safely in my apartment building, gave me a wave, and once I went inside, Rusty chided me for leaving him for so long.
Getting him a snack, I apologized and he forgave me.
After taking a long, hot shower, I changed into cozy pajamas and fell asleep with him on the sofa in a deep sleep.
The rest of the week, I went to work, spent time with Rusty, and had dinner with Wyatt and his bodyguards every night.
They were a great group of people who joked and supported each other.
As I got to know them, I quickly became one of the family.
And so did Rusty with his gourmet meal at his own place at the table.
After dinner, I came home to edit photos with Rusty washing on the island next to me. Every time I opened my laptop, I was transported back to my five-day excursion alone and my chest unknotted just a little more. The more I did to disentangle myself from the city, the better I felt.
I could do this. I could be in the city while living vicariously through photographs, at least for now.
Maybe in time I would look for a remote job or one that only required travel to the city a few times a year.
I could live out past the suburbs, drive to the train station, and take the train into the city when I had to be here.
Or maybe I’d consider that offer Miles made me in Mainview.
While I wasn’t sure I could be that close to Buena Vista again, his offer was tempting.
Whatever I chose, though, it had to come with more country life than this.
As I sat at the kitchen counter focused on getting the contrast right on a landscape, a text buzzed, startling me.
Thinking it was Wyatt, I grabbed the phone with a smile only to drop it like it bit me when I saw the sender’s demanding, angry tone.
Paul: Don’t shut me out, Mags. Call me.
With a shaky hand, I put the phone down and tried to get back to editing my photographs.
But the sound of Paul’s voice echoed in my head.
When we’d been together, that same demanding voice told me what to do while he made me feel the best I’d ever felt in my life.
My lady parts hummed at the memory. Part of me wanted to comply, to call him and hear his voice, but to what end?
Paul: I miss you.
His words hit me in the heart. I missed him more than I wanted to admit, but what good would it do to say it back? Nothing had changed. He was there; I was here. Apparently, he wanted it to stay that way even when he was free to leave. That meant there was nothing more to discuss.
Rusty stood, stretching, then bumped his head against my hand.
I pet him, taking a few deep breaths while I soaked up his healing purrs.
And I remembered my goals. With the confidence I wanted to possess, I picked my phone up again, shut it off, and tossed it over to the sofa. I didn’t need it while I edited anyway.
Refocusing on my laptop, I blew out a breath and buried the feelings threatening to surface.
I didn’t want them. I was tired of crying.
It was time to be the person I wanted to be.
The proactive person, not the reactive mess.
The woman who picked herself up, dusted herself off, and lived her fucking life without asking permission.
Putting all unpleasantness behind me, I redoubled my efforts to concentrate on my work. If I kept up at this pace, I might be calling Karpathia next week.