33
The next morning I can’t stop looking at Wyatt. Something has changed between us now—I can feel it. It’s as if last night wove a tether between us. Even when we’re in separate rooms I’m hyperaware of his presence, a weight tugging at the other end of that invisible rope.
He can feel it too, I think. I catch him looking at me when he thinks no one is watching. Our elbows bump over breakfast, and my skin burns up every time we touch. His cheeks pinken when I smile at him. It’s like we’re kids again, giddy with the secret of a first kiss.
We came down on a Friday—Wyatt had to teach until late Thursday afternoon—so we leave in as little time after the funeral as we came before it. The goodbye is full of tears, just as the hello was. But at least this time there’s no questioning motives: Wyatt’s mother can’t stop smiling as she hugs him, holding on tight as if she never wants to let go. Liam makes Wyatt promise to text him as soon as he gets back to New York and even snaps a photo of the pair of them together for Instagram—although Wyatt, of course, insists Liam doesn’t name him in the picture.
“Am I ever allowed to put you on Instagram?” I tease him once we’re back in the car and well on the road. “You know candid photography is kind of my thing.”
Wyatt shudders dramatically. “Please don’t. I’d rather not have to look at my own face on film.”
“But it’s such a nice face.”
“Says you. I’m the one who has to stare at it in the mirror every morning.”
I wish he could see himself the way I do. The way everyone else does. I have to actively order myself not to start psychoanalyzing all the reasons why Wyatt might not like to have his photo taken. It’s his choice, and that should be all I need to know.
“It seemed like a good trip,” I venture at last. “Your family seemed happy to see you.”
A small smile curves at his mouth. “Yeah. They did, didn’t they? You know my mom already said she wants me to come back down for Christmas? I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“I don’t think there is another shoe. I think she really means it.”
He laughs softly, incredulously. At least the envy is quiet today, nothing but a faint buzz in the pit of my stomach. It’s getting easier to be happy for him. To stop running through scenarios in my mind of what my parents would do if I showed up on their doorstep.
Maybe this is enough. Maybe I don’t need them—I have Wyatt now. I have Ophelia, and Diego, and Michal. I have my sobriety. I have a whole life that they aren’t a part of.
And it’s a pretty good life.
■
We don’t make it back to New York until after midnight. I’m tired enough to consider calling an Uber just to make it from LaGuardia back to my apartment, but I’m also cheap, and it’s a twenty-minute bus ride. I find myself dozing off as the M60 rattles its way down Astoria Boulevard, my weekend bag on the floor clutched between my ankles. My head keeps tipping over onto Wyatt’s shoulder, and he keeps pushing me back upright, even though I wish he’d leave it.
He’s been kind of like this the whole last half of the trip home, really.
The car ride from Wyatt’s hometown back to the airport was normal. We listened to a podcast and had an obnoxiously pretentious debate about the intersection between visual art and conservation during which Ansel Adams was quoted at least twice. Wyatt’s hand rested tangled up with mine between the two front seats, easy and companionable.
Security at Raleigh-Durham was the usual clusterfuck, and by the time we were settled in our tiny economy seats, it was hard to get a conversation off the ground. At one point I offered Wyatt my airplane peanuts, and I swear he didn’t even realize I was saying his name the first three times.
And now the bus. My fatigue. The shoulder pillow that refuses to be a proper shoulder pillow.
Wyatt shakes me all the way awake at my stop. “We’re here.”
I blink the blur out of my eyes and follow him out onto the sidewalk. I keep trailing behind him, but he slows down every time, chivalrous even at one-thirty in the morning. I consider making us stop at one of the late-night shawarma joints, but honestly, even white sauce isn’t worth delaying bedtime.
Only one thing is worth that.
We sneak into my apartment as quietly as possible, Wyatt carrying my bag for me as I lead the way back to my bedroom.
He sets the bag down next to my dresser, then lurks awkwardly in the doorway, both hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “You good?” he whispers.
“Close the door,” I tell him.
“What?”
“Close the door.”
He obeys, although he still looks confused about it—the absolute idiot—so I do what I can to put his confusion to rest. I kiss him.
For a moment he kisses me back, pinned between me and the shut door with his hands on my hips. But too quickly he breaks away, turning his face away from mine and using that grasp of my hips to push me—gently—back.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he says, and something cold shoots into my gut.
“What do you mean?”
He scrubs a hand over his face, blowing out a heavy breath. “I mean this isn’t a good idea. You and I, doing this again.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I take a step back, both arms lifting to wrap reflexively around my middle. “It’s not a good idea? That isn’t what you thought last night.”
“I know what I thought last night. And it’s not—I don’t—it’s not that I regret it. I don’t. I just—”
A brittle laugh finds its way up out of my chest. “You don’t regret it. Right. And that’s why you’re suddenly changing your mind on all this again—because you regret sleeping with me exactly zero percent.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again. After all this time—after everything. He still sees me as someone who needs protecting. Someone who can’t make her own decisions. Or maybe he doesn’t feel like I do, that we’re inevitable.
Maybe last night, when I thought we felt the same way, I was wrong. Maybe it was all in my head.
And he’s still squinting at the wall like it might be hiding an escape route from this conversation.
“Can you at least look at me?” I say, and he finally does. His eyes are huge and doleful, like a kicked puppy’s. I really wish he wasn’t so good at making facial expressions that make me feel like an asshole.
“Nothing has changed since the last time we talked about this—”
“Everything has changed. What do you even mean?”
“You’re a student under my care,” he presses on doggedly. “Not to mention, you just relapsed. And we’re both obviously going through stuff.”
This has gotta be a fucking joke.
“I never should have brought you home with me,” he continues.
“And why is that?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I can’t help the tears in my eyes. I cry when I get angry. And right now—right now, I’m fucking furious.
But I don’t think I ever could have predicted the actual words that come out of his mouth next.
“It was a bad idea. You told me about what happened with your own family. Bringing you home to mine was…You still haven’t really faced your family, have you?”
“Excuse me?” That came out of left fucking field.
“That’s why you are struggling so much with your project. You’re avoiding them.”
It feels like he’s shoved me and I’ve toppled all too easily. I’m left choking on my own rage. He’s coming up with every goddamn reason we shouldn’t give in, because god forbid he let himself want me. God forbid he relinquish one ounce of control.
And I hate him even more because I fucking fall for it.
“Wow,” I say. “Low blow, thanks. Easy for you to say considering your family welcomed you back with open arms. At least you get to have a family. I went with you to North Carolina to face them, for your father’s funeral, and back then it was okay to sleep with me. So what does that make me? Your security blanket?”
I pace the brief distance to my bed and back, wishing I could stop myself from crying. But unfortunately, the old angry cry is back again. It’s a curse.
“Fuck you,” I mutter. “Fuck you, fuck you. Fuck all of this.” The tears are coming too fast to stop now. I wish Wyatt would be decent enough to turn his goddamn back.
So convenient, Wyatt’s boundaries. All firm and self-righteous, right up until he’s all fragile and needs some warm human comfort.
Wyatt has the decency to look hurt by what I said, and for a second I regret it. He’s given me no reason to think he isn’t full of shit, but that’s…It’s so inconsistent with the man I know. The man I thought I knew, at least.
Maybe I’m the problem—maybe it’s the same story playing out over and over again. It’s not even about me being his student at all. It’s just me. Maybe it’s the same thing Chaya said: that I’m too intense. I’m too much for anyone—no one can stand to be too close.
And I’m too cowardly to face the consequences of my own mess.
I swipe both hands across my wet cheeks, furious with myself for not seeing it sooner. I’ve been humiliating myself this entire time, throwing myself at him repeatedly. He doesn’t want me. He pities me.
“I’m not trying to hurt you.” Wyatt’s voice is gentle, as if he’s trying to calm a wounded animal. “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I promise this is the best thing for both of us.”
I snort. “And you would know all about that, right? Just go. Just…leave. Get out.”
But he stays where he is, shifting his weight from side to side. “Ely…”
“I said get out!”
Wyatt shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, do you? You’re upset. You’re angry…. You just had a relapse. Someone should be here to make sure you’re okay.”
It takes every ounce of self-control I’ve got not to literally scream at that. “And you think that person ought to be you, huh? Can’t be Ophelia, or Diego, or my own goddamn sense of self-preservation. Nope. It’s gotta be you, Wyatt Cole, white knight and Most Responsible Man in the World. How long is it you’ve been sober for again? Ten years? Don’t know how I could forget considering you bring it up all the fucking time.”
He flinches as if I’ve physically struck him, recoiling back toward the shut bedroom door. And every part of me wants to dig in deeper, peel back layers of skin and fascia until I know he really, truly hurts. Until he hurts like I hurt.
“Get the hell out,” I say, and this time he listens.