Chapter 10

10

Ellie

I spend the rest of the day feeling weirdly lonely despite being with Monica and Jason.

Yes, and Patrick and Sloane too, but it's weird to hang out with a man I've seen naked, knowing he gets naked for someone else now, so I'm concentrating on my best friend instead.

And not on Wyatt.

That kiss.

Tucker and his sweet insistence that no one else could ever draw pirates like I could.

"The parents get here tomorrow," Monica tells me with a nose-wrinkle as we reach my car in the parking lot. She insisted on walking with me, and since we haven't had much alone time the last few weeks aside from driving out here, it's good to have a few more minutes of us time. "My mom still doesn't understand the pirate wedding thing, but I think when she sees Jason sword fight the mutinous pirates who want to steal me after we say our vows, she'll get it."

I laugh. "I love you."

"Of course you do. Everyone else you know is B-O-R-I-N-G." She gives a mock eye roll, and we both crack up again, because there's nothing remotely boring about the people I've known longest in my life.

Beck and half the guys we grew up with have been world famous since before I graduated high school, and it hasn't always been easy to find the true friends from the people who just want to get close to Beck and his Bro Code bandmates. But Monica's all country, all the way, and she always has been. She couldn't pick a boy band out of a lineup, and she'd rather drool over Orlando Bloom in Pirates of the Caribbean and Captain Hook from Once Upon A Time than check out my brother's Instagram page.

She also always asks me to turn the cardboard cutouts of him around whenever she stops by his house.

Or my parents' house after Beck's been there and left a few more.

He's such a goober.

"Seriously, though, I will completely understand if you beg off anything with Jason's parents. I sometimes wonder how he came out of the same gene pool as the rest of them."

"Every family has a black sheep." The Dixons' is Jason. He works for a nonprofit whose mission is to provide clean drinking water in third world countries, instead of going into the banking business with his father and brother.

Or even into the socialite business with his mother.

It's been long enough since Patrick and I broke up that I've finally been able to see clearly how my priorities have been messed up most of my life. I thought having a solid career, a stable husband in a complementary career, and adorable children to carry on the Ryder family environmental engineering firm was what it's all about.

But the idea of being one-half of a power couple doesn't appeal to me anymore.

And the more time I spend around Patrick, the more I question everything I ever wanted.

He spent half of lunch checking out his phone. He missed an entire two games of bowling for an important work call. And it wasn't until Sloane took his phone away at dinner that he finally engaged in a conversation that wasn't about his travel, clients, or work hours.

Or baiting someone. Like Wyatt at lunch.

The military? That doesn't pay very well, does it? Oh, that's right, you're divorced. I would never let my child go a week without seeing me .

When we were together, I thought he was charmingly cynical. Now, I can see he's truly an asshole in the way that makes Wyatt look like…not such an asshole.

And Patrick learned it from his parents.

"There's no way I'm making you face Jason's parents by yourself. I'll be there, and if they get snippy, I'll just mention how many of my other ex-boyfriends sent flowers after my accident."

Monica sighs. "They're just so oblivious sometimes."

I bite my tongue.

My brother is oblivious. The Dixons are just mean.

Except Jason.

Who's jogging into the parking lot now after stopping to help talk Pop Rock's cussing parrot off a roof. "Sorry, ladies," he says as he joins us. "Stubborn bird. How's the leg, Ellie?"

"Good." It's almost the truth, comparatively speaking. "You guys aren't going to The Grog without me tonight, are you?"

"Nope, we're saving that for tomorrow after our mothers drive us nuts," Monica replies happily.

Jason shakes his head, making his curls shake too. "They mean well," he tells her. He gives me a sheepish grin. "And I told mine to be nice to you."

"Don't worry about me. I've been through worse. You just enjoy your wedding week."

"Are you having fun?" Monica asks.

"Of course."

"Don't even try that with me. You're one degree of separation from needing to meet Willie Nelson for a joint. Do I need to talk to Wyatt about your need for backrubs and wine this week?"

"No, he's got that covered."

"So what's with the weird tension between you two at lunch? And don't tell me you were embarrassed about the dressing, because your brother models underwear for a living. Nothing short of full frontal exposure in public is grounds for you to get embarrassed."

Oh, fuck, she noticed? I drop my voice and try to come up with a reasonable explanation. "Tucker found my doodle pad this morning."

When the idea of a seven-year-old looking at Dick and the Nuts doesn't seem to faze her, I add, "While we were trying to fix Frogger."

"Holy shit, you broke Beck's Frogger?"

"Ssshhh! We're going to get the high score back," I say quickly. I have no idea how , but we will. "And did you miss the part about my doodle pad ?"

"No, I'm trying really, really hard not to laugh at how Wyatt must've handled his son getting an eyeful of a penis cartoon. It's easier to do when I'm concentrating on the threat of your brother banishing you from ever using his weekend house again. Remember the time we snuck up here for my birthday party?"

"Oh my gosh, and all your friends from work?"

"And the poor shaved poodle?"

"And the stripper?" we say in unison, and we both double over laughing, which sends a jolt of pain to my knee, but fuck it, laughing feels too good.

"You had a stripper?" Jason asks mildly.

"A pirate stripper," I explain.

"A really bad pirate stripper," Monica adds.

"He tripped over his scabbard and accidentally mooned us trying to turn on his music."

"He was so cute."

"In a frat boy out of his element kind of way."

"We ended up getting him drunk and tutoring him in calculus."

"He still emails me his grade reports. I think he's graduating next year."

Monica's eyes dance. "He is? We should go to his graduation! Engineering school, right?"

"No, he decided political science was more his speed. His parents are crushed, but he's riding a 4.0 since he switched majors."

"We are so going to his graduation."

"It's a date."

"Hey, Ellie, you need a ride home?" Grady Rock calls from the edge of the makeshift parking lot.

"Got my car right here, but thank you," I call back, patting my white Prius.

"Still happy to give you a ride. My TV's out. Can't watch the game."

"Go crash Cooper's house."

"Pop's there."

"Go see your grandfather. It's good for your soul."

"Not when Nana's with him. They're disgusting. Heard she was telling stories at Anchovies about him stripping for her. Would you want to watch that?"

"We're going with her to make out on the couch," Monica tells him.

"Fucking hell," he mutters loud enough to carry. "Next time, then."

He waves good-naturedly and heads down the road.

"Aww, now I feel bad," she says. "Where's he going to watch the game?"

"His TV's not broken," I tell her. "He's just spreading that rumor so the rest of his family doesn't crash his place."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"How do you know all this?"

"Spend enough weekends in Shipwreck, you'll know what color underwear everyone wears too."

"What color underwear are you wearing today?" Jason asks Monica.

She grins at him. "Want to see?"

"Ack, not here." I shoo them both away. "Go on, go do your soon-to-be-newlyweds thing somewhere else. I'll see you at breakfast."

We pass around hugs, and I climb into my car for the drive up the mountain. The sky's still a hazy gray-blue, but the sun's dipped below the mountain ridge to the west and dusk is settling. I make it home without incident before darkness has fully engulfed the roads, and when I limp into the basement from the garage, I find Wyatt and Tucker snuggled on the basement couch watching the Fireballs game.

They're oddly adorable, odd in the sense that I shouldn't find anything about Wyatt adorable. He's a military man through and through, his body a machine, his mind sharp, his expectations high, his hair short.

But sitting there with his legs propped up on the coffee table and his arm tucked around a sleeping, bony little boy in pajamas and messy hair, he doesn't look like a military man.

He looks like a father.

Mortal.

Compassionate.

Vulnerable.

Holding his world.

A world I always wanted but might never have.

He glances up at me and shakes his head. "Hurting again?"

"No." It's habit to be a petulant ass around him, and I sigh, because now I'm frustrated with myself. "Yes."

"Sit."

I limp to the edge of the couch and sag into it, then dig into my purse for the over-the-counter painkillers I prefer to the prescription stuff.

He passes over a stainless steel water bottle, and I thank him politely.

Because I cannot use Wyatt as a punching bag.

I'm better than that.

Plus, my problems aren't his fault.

And I really do need to be able to pull off looking like one half of a happy couple in front of Patrick's parents tomorrow.

They're the worst, and they'll throw the sharpest darts.

I lift the footrest with the controller sitting in the couch's cupholder and look at the screen after passing Wyatt's water back. "Do I want to know who's winning?"

"Maybe if you're a Pittsburgh fan."

The inning comes to an end with the Fireballs striking out, and I wince as the score flashes on the screen. "Can't win them all."

"Still three innings to go."

Tucker snores, and a gentle smile softens the hard angles of Wyatt's face. I turn my attention to a commercial about jock itch. "Too much fun wore him out?" I ask without looking their way.

"He's an amateur."

A surprised laugh slips out of me, because fun and Wyatt aren't two things I usually put together.

Except they probably should be. Anyone who hangs out with my brother knows a thing or two about fun.

"I'm sorry about Patrick," I tell him.

He shifts, and I realize he's watching me, puzzled.

"For him being so rude at lunch," I clarify.

"Happens," he says with a shrug. "Not your fault."

"It was my fault I dated him," I mutter.

"True enough." The puzzlement fades into a frown. "Think I deserve to take some shit. I still haven't said I'm sorry for what happened. Six months ago. For making you upset enough to leave. But I am. Sorry, I mean. I didn't mean to hurt you."

I freeze for a half a second, because he's not supposed to say he's sorry. "Can't live in the past," I say quietly.

I should go check my phone to see if it's working yet, but I want to sit for a little bit longer first. Not for the company, I tell myself, but for the rest.

The game comes back on, and he shifts. "Before I forget…"

He holds out my phone.

A shiver rolls through me, because was the man reading my mind?

"It works, and I didn't prank call anyone."

I stare at the device stupidly for longer than I should before taking it. Our fingers brush like they did over ice cream at Christmas. I remember the feel of his lips against mine, and a flush heats my entire body. "Thank you."

He frowns. "You okay?"

And there's more stupid staring going on as I blink blankly at him, because there's something in his tone that's not quite normal.

"You didn't yell at me for not letting you do it yourself," he clarifies.

"Twenty-something years of yelling at you hasn't worked, so maybe it's time I give it up."

He shifts to lean over and touch the back of his hand to my forehead. Tucker grumbles in his sleep, but doesn't wake up.

"Yep, definitely warm," he says. "You should probably strip."

"Ex cuse you?" I gasp.

He grins. "Ah, there she is. Just checking."

"You're trying to annoy me?"

He looks down at Tucker, glances at the game and winces as Pittsburgh gets a double off what should've been a single, then looks back at me. "You remember we used to play basketball at the Rivers house?"

"I remember you used to think I couldn't keep up."

"You couldn't, but that's not the point."

My breathing is coming easier as we slip back into the old habits. "You are so lucky that innocent child is sleeping on you right now, or you'd be dead."

"I used to wait until you'd sink the perfect shot, and then I'd tell you that you could've done it better, just to watch the steam roll out your ears. And it's still that easy."

I gape at him, because he does it on purpose ?

And what does it say about me that I still take the bait?

"You-you're—you're an ass ," I gasp.

Tucker stirs, and I slap a hand over my mouth.

Wyatt just shrugs, but not the shoulder that would disturb Tucker. "I have to have some flaws. Otherwise I'd be insufferable."

That is not the guy who's been Beck's best friend for over twenty years. I narrow my eyes at him, but I don't call him on it. Because I have the oddest feeling that's exactly what he wants me to do.

But I can't resist asking, "Why only to me?"

He holds my gaze longer than I expect. "Because I was so fucking tired of being coddled, and you gave it right back, every time."

Just because I don't know what he's talking about doesn't mean he's not telling the truth. And there's a truth so clear in the ring of his words that I get a bone-deep shiver.

"Who coddled you?" I ask.

He shakes his head with a snort. "Better question is who didn't ?"

"Why?"

He glances at the TV, and just when I think he's not going to answer, he does.

"Last guy my mom dated before she finally realized what she was doing to both of us and moved in with my grandma to reboot her life was a first-rate asshole," he says. "Let's leave it at that. But it meant my gran went around the neighborhood looking for any parents who had enough control over their kids to make them look after me."

"Beck didn't coddle you."

"At first he did. All of them did. I might've been small and damaged, but I wasn't blind."

My heart's starting to hurt, because no kid should ever feel damaged.

"Didn't mean I could take care of myself though. That I didn't need it. Wasn't big enough for that." He shakes his head. "Thought I could. But I couldn't. And Beck saved my ass when I got into it with his best friend. Could've left me behind. Instead, he dropped him. Hard. Broke his nose. Got a detention in sixth grade. And then he thanked me for showing him what a douche Andy Brentwood was. Dude all but saved my life and thanked me for it."

I swallow hard. I remember Andy, vaguely, but I never gave any thought to why Beck stopped talking about him. "That's not coddling you. That's doing the right thing."

"I started it. He got detention. I got chocolate chip cookies and milk. From your mom. From Mrs. Rivers. From my grandma. I shared so the Wilsons would teach me to lift weights and so Davis would teach me his Tae Kwon Do moves. I didn't want to be fucking helpless."

The groan of the crowd carries through the television, even at low volume, and I glance at the game, almost relieved by the distraction.

I had no idea I'd been being an asshole to a kid who'd had enough asshole in his life.

And that doesn't make me feel any better about my life choices.

Two-run homer. Fireballs are down by six now.

In the fifth inning.

It's going to be a blood bath.

Copper Valley's home team has never won a World Series, but they've never been quite as bad as they are this year either.

Even with Cooper Rock and his unbelievable gymnastics at second base.

"I always appreciated that you didn't cut me any slack, and I admired your determination," Wyatt says, speaking so softly I half think my ears are playing tricks on me. "If you could be that determined, then I could damn well be that determined too."

When I glance at him, he's still staring at the game.

But I know he said it.

And I know he knows I heard.

He settles deeper into the reclined seat at the other end of the couch. Tucker sighs and snuggles closer to him.

Little Tucker, safe, happy, and loved.

I overheard Wyatt telling Beck once, about eight years ago, that he didn't want to be a dad. He didn't know how. He was going to fuck it all up, and it wouldn't just be himself, it would be him and a wife and kid.

But Tucker?

That kid is so very, very loved. With two parents who might live in different states, but still happy. Well-adjusted. And loved .

And I realize I need to go.

Not so I can check my email and any messages that came in while my phone was drying. Not so I can call Beck and give my brother grief for sending Wyatt here during Monica's wedding week.

No, I need to go before I start seeing Wyatt as the man I glimpsed the night we hooked up in my parents' basement six months ago.

The angry father who just wants to be with his son.

Because that man is dangerous to my heart.