The warmth of the sun beaming through the back window …
The rumble of the road under the tires …
The man on the radio talking about cattle futures …
My person …
It all feels like home.
Sometimes I wonder if I chose the wrong path and made a mistake by going to New York. Theater had always been my mother’s thing, and while my father used to say I inherited that love from her, perhaps there’s a chance I fell in love with it to feel closer to her. To know her, in a way.
I used to think I wanted to live a thousand lifetimes. At twenty-eight, I’ve tried countless characters on for size. But none of them make me come half as alive as I was last night.
Ten years ago, I chose pretend … when I should’ve chosen real.
Then again, they say hindsight is twenty-twenty.
I still don’t know what happened or why he stopped speaking to me.
By the time we get to Petty Cash, my heart is heavy. I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to go back to not-pretending.
Wyatt shifts his truck into park, and I sit up.
“Had a good time with you last night,” he breaks the silence first.
“Why do you have a picture of me on your fridge?” I ask the question that plagued me most of the night. I don’t know anyone who keeps a picture of their estranged lover on their fridge where they can see it every day … for no reason.
“I told you,” he says. “I missed you.”
“And why’d you pick that line shack out of all of them?” I ask. As far as I know, there are two closer options … at least there used to be.
“It always felt like home away from home,” he says. He scans the empty streets, though I’m not sure who he could possibly be looking for at six in the morning on a Saturday.
I inch closer to the passenger door, but I’m dreading leaving the warmth of this cab.
“I’ve extended my stay a couple more weeks,” I tell him, quickly adding, “Not … because of you. I just … my dad needs me around a little longer.”
His brows meet and his eyes avert as he runs his palm along his steering wheel. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he has something he wants to say.
“If you want to pretend again sometime …” I shrug before realizing last night was a fluke. A lucky strike. A happy accident. Wyatt doesn’t even have my phone number, and he’s yet to ask for it.
“It’s not that I don’t want to.” He releases a hard breath, his left hand balled into a fist against his forehead. Turning to me, he adds, “I just don’t think we should go making plans.”
I jerk my chin. “So we’re back to this?”
Climbing out of his truck, I stand at the open door.
“I can’t believe I fell for this again,” I say. “For your little … whatever the hell kind of game you’re playing. It’s like you reel me in just to cast me out. Do you get some kind of sick pleasure from this?”
Wyatt hops out of the driver’s side, making his way to me. With one hand on my hip, he pulls me against him then wraps his arms tight around me.
“I wish I could tell you everything, Blaire.” His voice is muffled against the top of my head.
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t,” he says. “Maybe someday.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I ask, pulling away to look him in the eye.
“I’d tell you if I could.” He cups my face in his hands, pressing his mouth hard against mine. “I should get going …”
“So that’s it? You leave me with a kiss and a vague sentiment and ride off into the sun?”
Once again he reeled me in …
… just to cast me out.
My lip quivers despite my best efforts to keep it still. I don’t want to break down like this, and I’m generally in better control of my emotions, but I’m exhausted—physically, emotionally.
“Don’t cry, Blaire,” he takes a step toward me, but I place a flat palm out to stop him.
“I don’t need to be comforted by the one who inflicted the pain.”
His jaw sets, but his eyes hold a hint of understanding.
I hate that I’m stuck here in this town for two more weeks. I hate that everything in this godforsaken place reminds me of him. I hate that I let my guard down once again, only to get burned.
I find my keys in the bottom of my purse and climb inside my rental. In the rearview, I catch a glimpse of him watching me leave. He’s leaning against his truck, arms crossed, his face set into some kind of grimace.
I turn the radio to a local pop station, roll my windows down, and empty my mind for the next couple of miles. As soon as I get home, I sneak in the back door, praying no one spots me in last night’s clothes.