Chapter 12 #2
I pull out my phone, and before I can overthink it, I open my email and find Gary Allen’s message.
I stare at it for a long moment, at the promise of money and security and an easy out, and then I hit delete.
I don’t need an escape hatch. I don’t need a backup plan.
I just need to figure out what I actually want.
After riding a mechanical bull and singing karaoke and almost kissing Wyatt Rivers on the deck of a honky-tonk bar under a sky full of stars, I’m starting to think I might already know. But the question is whether I’m brave enough to choose it.
I finish my sweet tea and head back inside to lock up.
The Rusty Spur looks different in the quiet, with neon signs casting colored shadows across the worn wooden floor and string lights still glowing warmly.
I can almost hear tonight’s laughter, music, and cheers.
This place is starting to feel like mine, like Mavis knew what she was talking about, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
That should terrify me. Instead, it feels right.
I lock the front door, make sure everything is secure, and climb the stairs to my apartment above the bar.
It’s small, but comfortable, more so than my pristine Atlanta condo ever was.
I get ready for bed, and sleep doesn’t come easily.
I keep replaying the moment on the deck, the way Wyatt looked at me, the feel of his hand cupping my cheek, and how time seemed to stop just before his phone rang.
What would have happened if his grandmother’s toilet hadn’t started leaking?
I know what would have happened. He would have kissed me, and I would have kissed him back. And then what?
I roll over, punching my pillow into a better shape. This is why I can’t sleep. I keep asking “and then what” about everything. It’s exhausting.
Finally, sometime after 2 a.m., I drift off.
* * *
I wake to someone knocking on my apartment door. For a moment, I’m very disoriented. The light coming through the window is really strong, and I grab my phone to check the time. 9:47 a.m. I’ve never slept this late, ever. The knocking comes again, more insistent this time.
I stumble out of bed wearing my oversized T-shirt and peer through the peephole. It’s Wyatt, of course. My heart does that flip it does when I see him, but this time there’s an extra layer of nervousness. After last night and our conversation and the almost kiss on the deck, what do I even say?
I open the door. He’s holding two cups of coffee, as usual, and a white paper bag that smells like heaven.
“Morning,” he says, his eyes taking in my appearance, bedhead and sleep-wrinkled shirt, with obvious amusement. “I brought breakfast and an apology.”
“An apology for what?”
“For last night. For leaving right when—” He stops and shifts his weight. “Can I come in? We should probably talk.”
The words “we should probably talk” have never, in the history of the world, preceded anything good. But I step back and let him pass, suddenly very aware that I’m braless and that my hair probably looks like a disaster zone.
“Give me just one second,” I say, darting into the bathroom.
I splash a little water on my face, try to tame my hair into something that looks normal, and grab a cardigan to throw over my T-shirt. When I come back out, Wyatt has set the coffee mugs and bag on my small kitchen table and is standing by the window, looking out over the mountains.
“What’s in that bag?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light and airy.
“Biscuits from the diner. Dolly told me they’re your favorite.”
I sit down at the table and take the coffee he offers. He’s made it exactly how I like it. Wyatt sits down across from me, but he doesn’t reach for his own coffee. He just looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“So,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warm cup, “your grandmother’s toilet?”
He lets out a laugh. “The timing was unbelievable. The flapper valve was stuck. Water was pouring all over her bathroom floor. Took me an hour to fix it and then clean up the mess. But she’s okay.
Mostly annoyed that I wouldn’t let her help clean up.
You know, she’s very independent.” He pauses.
“She also asked exactly who I was in such a hurry to get back to.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I told her I was closing the bar. She didn’t believe me for a second. You know, my grandmother has a built-in lie detector.”
I smile. “So you’re a terrible liar.”
“The worst.” He finally picks up his coffee and takes a sip.
“Eleanor, we need to talk about last night, okay?” He takes a breath, like he’s gathering up his courage.
“You said you wanted me to stop pulling away, and I heard you. But I need you to understand why I’ve been keeping my distance.
It’s not because I don’t—” He stops for a moment.
“Look, there’s something I need to tell you about why I’m so careful, why I’m so not good at this. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“There was someone before. Her name was Laney.” He says the name like it still leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. “We were together for over two years. Got engaged right before my second deployment.”
My stomach tightens. I feel a strange sense of jealousy. “What happened?”
“Well, she said she’d wait. Promised, actually, that she’d wait.
I believed her.” He’s looking down at his coffee now, not meeting my eyes.
“Eight months into that tour, I got an email. She’d met someone else.
Someone who was there and not halfway around the world getting shot at.
Someone who could give her a normal life. ”
“Oh, Wyatt, I’m so sorry.”
“The worst part wasn’t even that she left.
It was… it was that I understood it. I mean, on some level, I really got it.
Being with someone in the military is hard.
The deployments, the uncertainty, the fear.
And I was different when I came home. Quieter.
Harder to reach. I don’t blame her for not wanting to deal with that. But it still hurt.”
He finally looks at me.
“When I came back here after I got out, I tried dating. Tried keeping things light and casual. Told myself it was better that way. No promises. No expectations. Nobody gets hurt. But it turns out I’m not built for casual. When I care about someone, I’m all in. Which means I get hurt all in, too.”
I set my coffee down, my hands suddenly shaking a bit. “And you’re telling me this because…”
“Because last night on that deck, I almost kissed you. And I wanted to. Gosh, Eleanor, I really wanted to. But then I went home, and I couldn’t sleep because all I could think about was October and the fact that in a few months, you have to decide whether you’re staying or going back to Atlanta.
And if you’re going to leave, I’m trying to protect myself.
I’m not doing a great job of it, clearly, since I’m sitting at your kitchen table right now bringing you coffee and biscuits and telling you things that I don’t tell people. ”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“The thing is, I already care about you more than I should after such a short time. And I know that if we keep going down this road, if we keep having these moments and almost kisses and late-night conversations, I’m going to fall for you completely.
And then when October comes, and you decide Atlanta is where you belong… ”
“It’ll break your heart.”
“Yeah.”
His honesty is devastating, but it deserves equal honesty in return.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do in October,” I say quietly.
“A few weeks ago, I couldn’t wait to leave.
Two weeks ago, I was counting down the days, even.
But now…” I look around the tiny apartment, thinking about The Rusty Spur downstairs, about riding mechanical bulls and singing karaoke, and feeling like more of myself than I ever have.
“Now I’m not sure I want to leave. But, Wyatt, it’s not the same thing as being sure that I’m staying. ”
“I know.”
“And it’s not fair to ask you to wait around while I figure that out, to risk your heart on a maybe.”
“No, it’s not fair,” he agrees. “But here’s the thing. I don’t think I can stay away from you. Even knowing how this might end, even knowing I should be way smarter about this, I don’t want to keep my distance. I just don’t know if I can handle going all in when I don’t know if you’re staying.”
We sit in silence for a moment.
“So what do we do?” I ask finally.
He thinks about it, really thinks about it.
“What if we just take it slow? Like, actually slow. Not ‘saying we’re taking it slow while having intense moments on the back deck’ slow.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Well, what does that actually look like?”
“We date. For real. Like normal people. I take you to dinner, we go to the movies, and we spend time together without the pressure of figuring out the rest of our lives. We get to know each other without this intense, all-consuming thing we’re doing.
And we don’t…” He gestures vaguely between us.
“We don’t complicate it until you know what you want, until you’ve decided about October.
Because, Eleanor, if we cross that line and kiss each other and then you leave…
” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’d even recover from that. ”
The honesty in his voice breaks my heart a little, but he’s right. He’s protecting himself, and I can’t blame him for that.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll go on dates. We’ll get to know each other. Maybe we’ll hate each other. Who knows?”
He laughs.
“And you’re okay with all that?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I laugh. “Last night I was ready to jump in with both feet, but this morning, I think I want to protect you from me, which is a very weird feeling. But I think you’re right. We need to know. We need to be smart about this.”
“Well, smart isn’t nearly as fun as reckless,” he says with a small smile.
“No, but it’s probably better in the long run.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. His thumb brushes against my knuckles. Even that small touch makes my heart race.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I really do hope you stay. And I’m going to do everything I can to show you why Copper Creek is worth choosing, why this life right here is worth choosing.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I know, but I’m willing to take the risk if you are.”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m willing.”
“Okay then.” He stands, pulling me up with him. “So, dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up, take you somewhere nice, and we’ll have an actual first date like normal people.”
“I don’t think either of us has probably ever been normal.”
“Well, then we’ll fake it.”
He’s standing close now, close enough that I can see flecks of gold in the middle of his blue eyes.
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me anyway, but he doesn’t.
He just reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering for a second. It’s becoming a pattern, and I love it.
“Seven o’clock,” he repeats.
“I’ll be ready.”
After he leaves, I lean against the closed door, touching the spot behind my ear where his fingers were. This is torture, sweet, exquisite torture. But he’s right. If we’re going to do this, we need to do it right. I need to figure out what I want before I risk his heart along with mine.
I just hope I can figure that out before it’s too late.