Chapter 29 Abilene #2
“I…” I blink fast. “Wyatt, you don’t…”
“I want you to,” he says quietly. “They’re for you. Not for conditions.”
That makes my chest ache so sharply I have to press my hand against it.
Wyatt steps back toward the door, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want his movement to startle me.
“Thank you for… hearing me,” he says.
I shake my head helplessly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He nods once more. “Neither did you.”
Then he reaches for the doorknob.
I take a step forward without thinking. “Wyatt…”
He pauses, looking back.
His eyes are gentle.
I don’t know what I want to say. I don’t know what would fix anything. There isn’t a sentence in the world that would untangle this knot.
So I say the only thing that’s true:
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Wyatt’s expression softens further, like he understands the fear beneath my words.
“I know,” he says.
And then he opens the door and leaves.
The moment the door shuts, my knees go weak.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Okay. That happened.”
My skin is buzzing.
My stomach is in knots.
My heart is trying to crawl out of my chest and go chase him down the driveway, yelling, “Wait, I’m just confused.”
But I don’t.
I don’t move.
Because confusion is not an excuse to use someone as an emotional lifeboat. And Wyatt… deserves better than that.
I turn slowly, like my body is made of heavy wax.
The window by the door is old and slightly warped, so it doesn’t show much, just a smear of gray daylight and the suggestion of movement.
But I still catch it. The moment Wyatt steps off my porch.
The moment his shoulders lift, just once, taking this and tucking it back where he keeps everything else that hurts.
He doesn’t slam the gate. He doesn’t stomp. He doesn’t dramatize it.
Of course he doesn’t.
Wyatt Tucker is the kind of man who walks away carefully so no one can accuse him of leaving a mess behind.
Even when the mess is me.
My throat closes. My eyes burn.
I swallow hard and immediately regret having a throat at all.
“Don’t,” I whisper to myself, still pressed to the door like a ridiculous, heartbroken barnacle. “You do not get to cry. You said no. You were honest. This is what honesty looks like.”
Honesty looks like his back disappearing down my path.
Honesty looks like the quietest kind of rejection, even when you’re the one doing it.
I push away from the door before I can do something even more humiliating, like fling it open and scream his name.
My kitchen comes back into focus in sharp, unforgiving detail.
The twine.
The jars.
The orderly stacks of labels.
The journal.
The letters.
The ribboned paper bag sitting on my table as if it’s not a thing that just happened.
I walk to the table on legs that don’t quite feel like mine and sit down too hard, chair scraping against the floor with an ugly sound.
My hands hover above the bag.
I don’t touch it again. I can’t.
Instead, I stare at the journal and letters like they’re going to scold me for being emotionally incompetent.
“Okay,” I say aloud. “Okay. Back to… mystery. Back to family secrets. Back to something that doesn’t have Wyatt’s face attached to it.”
I reach for the letter.
My fingers are calm. That’s the annoying part. My fingers work fine. My body is still functioning. My brain, however, is…
A puddle.
I flatten the paper. I read the first line.
And then I read it again because my eyes are moving over the words, but nothing is sticking.
I try to force it. I try to make my mind do what it always does when I’m scared: latch onto something solvable.
But my heart keeps dragging my thoughts sideways.
Wyatt’s nervous hands.
Wyatt’s careful voice.
The way he said “properly,” offering me gentle and real.
My chest tightens again, sharp and sudden.
“Stop,” I mutter, rubbing at my sternum, trying to smooth out the ache. “Just stop.”
I look down at the letter and try to pick out the clue like Wyatt would.
Your family has always been good at keeping things tidy on the surface…
There is someone else who knows…
Look where she worked when she didn’t want to be interrupted…
My breath catches.
Not because of the letter.
Because my brain decides, very helpfully, to supply a different memory instead—
Jesse in my home.
Jesse’s hands at my waist.
The way my body responded like it had been waiting for someone to touch me and mean it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Seriously?” I whisper. “Now? We’re doing this now?”
Heat blooms low in my stomach, traitorous and vivid, as if my body is determined to make sure I never forget what happened, even if my mind would really like to, at least long enough to function.
My cheeks burn.
I open my eyes and stare at my grandmother’s journal instead, as if I can borrow her steadiness through paper.
“Grandma,” I whisper. “If you have any advice on how to not implode emotionally, now would be a great time.”
The journal offers no immediate guidance. Just her neat handwriting and the faint scent of old paper and beeswax that clings to everything I own.
I flip a page anyway. I read a paragraph about winter feeding.
I read it again.
And then I realize my eyes are wet, and I don’t remember deciding to cry.
Great.
Perfect.
I wipe at my cheeks hard enough to feel a sting.
“I’m fine,” I tell the room.
My gaze drifts, unwillingly, to the little bag with the ribbon. Wyatt’s gift.
I reach for it, fingers trembling as I slip the ribbon loose. Inside, nestled carefully together—
Seeds. Salve. Chamomile.
Things that say: I see you. I notice you. I want to take care of you.
My throat tightens so sharply I have to put my head down on the table.
Just one second.
Just a tiny, pathetic pause where I breathe and try not to drown in the fact that I just turned down a man who is… good.
And the worst part?
I meant it.
I couldn’t say yes. Not when I’m already tangled up with Jesse. Not when my body still remembers the hookup like it was a promise.
Not when Marshall’s presence keeps appearing in the corners of my thoughts, heavy and watchful, a storm that refuses to move on.
Too many men.
Too much attention.
Too much… me in the middle of it all, flailing. I’m not built for this.
I lift my head again, blinking hard.
“Okay,” I say. “Focus. Bees. Market. Order for Maeve. Letters later.”
I say it like I have control. Like my heart isn’t still a mess on my porch.
I gather a stack of labels and begin sticking them onto jars with aggressive precision.
Golden Meadow.
Morning Sun.
Wildfire Bloom.
My hands keep moving because if they stop, my brain will go right back to Wyatt’s eyes and that quiet disappointment he tried to hide.
I line up the jars. I check the lids. I stack candles into a box with tissue paper.
I’m busy.
I’m productive.
I’m fine.
And that’s how I think it should stay.