Chapter 12 #2
“I’ve been that kid whose dad was spinning too many plates and trying to be strong for everyone,” she says, her voice dropping. “All it got us was a whole lot of broken plates and a kid who didn’t know how to handle her feelings.”
“Then what do I do?” I ask, feeling smaller than I have in years.
“You let people—me—” She points to herself.
“—handle the logistics. But you need to handle the feelings. Look, I didn’t know your wife, but it’s clear both your worlds ended that day.
His memory of her is fading, Wyatt. I think it’s on you to keep it alive, for both your sakes.
She didn’t stop being his mom that day. She’ll always be the woman you married. ”
My jaw grinds, my teeth clenching so hard they ache, hearing her talk like this. Her words are so measured, so considered. I work to swallow around the massive lump in my throat. Whatever universe decided to throw Emily Callahan back into my life, it was clearly meant to kick my ass into changing.
“You’re telling me things I don’t want to hear,” I huff with an awkward grin, looking away toward the ridge.
“I know.” She smirks, a flash of that old Emily sass peeking through. “But you don’t scare me, so you’d better get used to it.” She nudges me playfully with her elbow, a small, unexpected physical contact that actually manages to crack a smile out of me.
“Look, Wyatt, you and I both lost our moms at a young age. You know how it is. Just give him a chance to talk about her. Put her photo up in the living room. Stop pretending she never existed. You owe him that at least.”
I can’t even be mad at her. She understands this brand of pain better than anyone.
I thought the answer was to bury her memory with her, but all it’s done is make me angrier and lonelier than ever.
The reality was that Charlotte and I weren’t in a good place before she died.
The divorce papers she handed me that very morning are still at the bottom of my drawer, never to see the light of day.
It’s not something anyone knows. Or ever will know.
The guilt still keeps me awake at night.
I look at her, standing there in the twilight, and the feeling that’s been brewing all day shifts into something dangerous. It’s much more than just noticing her legs or the way her hair looks. It’s a magnetic force that’s trying to drag me out of the dark.
But I can’t. I can’t let myself go there.
To want her—to even think about her like that—feels like a betrayal.
I’ve lived like this for four years, barely leaving the ranch, staying away from women as if desire itself was a sin against Alex’s memory of Charlotte.
If I let Emily in, if I let her tarnish the perfect grief I’ve built, what do I have left?
I’m a man who finds comfort in the shadows. She’s a goddamn sunbeam. And everybody knows that if you get too close to the sun, you eventually get burned.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice a low rumble in the dark. “For everything that happened to you. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you called my dad. You shouldn’t have to struggle because some asshole took everything from you.”
Emily looks ahead, keeping her pace steady. “He didn’t take everything,” she reminds me. I can hear the dry edge in her voice.
I let out a huffed breath of a laugh. I hadn’t forgotten what she told me that first night. “Right. Did you really break his jaw?”
“Clean in two places,” she says, and even in the dark, I can tell she’s smirking. She looks down at her right hand. “Broke three of my own fingers. He was lucky I didn’t have a wrench in my hand.”
“Hell yeah,” I mutter, a grim sense of pride settling in my chest. Most women I’ve known would have folded, but Emily Callahan met the world’s ugliness with a fist.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.” I laugh.
“You’ll do well to live by that rule,” she answers, and for a second, the heavy grief of the walk lifts and in its place settles a feeling that feels suspicious.
Eventually, we do a complete loop of the track and arrive back at the house. Somehow, Emily has managed to dump four years’ worth of grief on my head and relieve all the pressure at the same time. My mind is a mess, but my lungs feel like they can actually hold air again.
“Goodnight, Wyatt,” she says softly as we reach the porch steps.
“Night, Emily.”
I stay at the bottom of the steps, watching her walk away. I watch the sway of those pale blue shorts until she disappears behind the screen door.
I wait a long time before I follow her inside.
Eventually, I make my way upstairs, my steps heavy on the wood.
On the way to my room, I find myself hovering outside hers.
I can hear the faint sound of her moving around inside, the rustle of sheets as she settles in.
My pulse is erratic, and my head is spinning with everything she told me about Alex, about the photo under the bed.
I pull myself away and go to check on my son. I stand in his doorway, watching him sleep, and for the first time, I don’t see a kid I’m failing, I see a kid I need to reach.
I finally go to bed myself, but sleep is a long time coming. The last thought on my mind isn’t the usual loop of the ranch, or the cattle, or even my son.
It’s Emily.
And I’m absolutely terrified.