“Really?” he asks, half laughing.
“Mondays were blue, Tuesdays were gray, Wednesday–”
“That’s…” he interrupts, shaking his head with a grimace.
“Spoiled? Entitled? Completely and utterly insane?” I finish for him. He chuckles under his breath, and then pushes to his feet and moves to the chair beside me. He’s so close that I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. “And the mommy issues?”
This man is patient.That’s what I’ve learned in the past four hours that we’ve been talking over drinks and fries. Drinks that have gotten better since Wyatt Conway decided that I was worth a conversation. He listens. Not in that half nodding and half waiting for his turn kind of way, but with genuine focus. He only asks questions when necessary, and never interrupts. He watches me for most of it, in a way no one ever has. Like he’s hanging onto every word and still wanting more.
When Wyatt jumps behind the bar and starts pouring shots for us, I know I’m in for a dreadful hangover tomorrow. But I don’t care, because this,thisis exactly how I need to end a day like today. He talks to me about his father—what he was like growing up, and how it affected him when he passed. I tell him about both of my parents. We swap childhood memories. Talk about what we want out of life, and how we can achieve it.
His jaw visibly tightens when I finish telling him about my parents. He doesn’t try to comfort me with useless words. He just mutters, “Maybe your final stage of healing is telling them to fuck off.”
“Maybe.” I let out a tired laugh. I can feel my energy draining, the reality of not just today, but the past few years caving in. Wyatt’s quick to catch it, and a handsome smirk lights up his face. It doesn’t look forced, though. “How about we play a game?” he asks.
I blink. “A… game?”
“Yeah.” He props one of his elbows on the bar top. But his eyes have sharpened with something else. Something that makes my body heat and my pulse skip.
“What does the winner get?”
“If I win, you get to kiss me.” Wyatt leans in, so close that his whiskey covered breath brushes against mine. His arm reaches out, and my body jolts as he tugs the barstool closer to him. My knees bump into his and the heat between us flares. God, am I seriously flirting with Wyatt? WyattConway? The Conway brothers are practically royalty in this town. Getting tangled up with one of them sounds like enough trouble to last me a lifetime. But… I’m surprised to find I don’t care. Not even a little bit. “How about you just kiss me?” I blurt, voice catching on the last word.
“You always this bad at games?” he rasps, eyes flicking between mine and my mouth.
“If it means you get to kiss me? Sure.”
And he does.
God, he does.
Right there in the bar, until long after the lights dim. The bar has emptied, and even Mr. Sanders has gone home for the night. He kisses me in the alleyway, pressed against the brick wall, eagerly nipping and biting at every inch of exposed skin. And later, in my apartment, with the door half-open and the town quiet outside, our clothes hit the floor while he kisses me like he means every second of it.
Little did I know just how quickly my entire world will get flipped upside down, and Wyatt won’t be a part of it.
Chapter One
WHITNEY
Istare down at the bottle of pills I have clutched in my hand, and when I let them flicker to the picture of Brinley on the dash, my eyes begin to burn for what must be the fourth or fifth time today. It’s a picture of her the day after she turned six months old. It was the first time she sat up on her own, and she was wearing the best kind of gummy smile on her face. My heart squeezes at the sight, remembering how excited I was to catch the moment on camera.
How is time such a thief? How did she get so big, so fast? It’s like you blink and all time does is slip between your fingers like water. I would have done anything to get through those first few newborn nights, but God, it hurts to know she’s growing up. It hurts to know that I wasn’t all there the first few months and missed out on some of the best days of my life. That I let myself become a shell of who I used to be. That, in some ways, I still am a shell of the woman I was.
It’s the very reason I’d gone to the clinic today.
Postpartum hit me harder than I could have ever imagined. It doesn’t matter how many people warned me to prepare forthisor forthat–I quickly learned that you can’t possibly be fully prepared for something you’ve never experienced.
There were days when I couldn’t even pull myself out of bed. Days when I’d cry and beg for her to calm down. When I’d get frustrated and scream and then wallow in guilt and shame at the tears I had caused. When I’d look in the mirror and not recognize the woman staring back at me. Messy hair, puke-covered T-shirt, and eye bags so dark they seemed never-ending. I was in denial for months, because I grew up in a family that taught me mental health is not something you run to pills for. But Brinley deserves a mom who’s present. Who wants to wake up energized and ready to play with her. Who’s excited to start the day, and one who doesn’t break down at the slightest inconvenience.
She doesn’t deserve a mom like the one I have.
A knock on my window causes me to jump, and I quickly wipe the tears that have gathered under my eyes as I shove the pills into my purse. “You, okay?” My little sister asks as I step out of my car. “Fine.” I give her a small smile in return. “How was she?”
“Good. She’s down for a nap now.”
“You got her to nap?” I groan, tipping my head back. “Thank god.” She hums, giving me a conspirator’s grin. “Had to bribe her with a bag of chocolates, but it worked.”
“Vivienne, I swear to –” She throws her head back and laughs, cutting me off and throwing an arm over my shoulders. “Kidding! I’m just kidding. She had a big lunch and lots of playtime to tire her out.”
