“I blame him for what happened to Mateo,” he admitted. “And… I blame myself. I don’t know if I can ever go back there.”
John stilled, holding his gaze.
His fists curled into his lap. “My father worked those horses into the ground. Him getting cancer was the best thing for them.” He knew it sounded cruel, but he didn’t care. His relationship with his father was complicated and layered. He loved the old man, but in some ways, he hated him, too.
He glanced over the slope of John’s neck, seeing the bruised hickey he had given him last night, and some of the anger released from his gut. Not at the sight of the bruise, but the shoulder. Seeing him so relaxed, no longer in pain, settled his raging heart.
“It’s why I recognized what was happening to you. How burnt out you were,” he said. “The horses would get like that sometimes. So beaten down by his grueling fuckin’ schedule that they’d lock up—freeze. I spent hours at the barn after the ranch was closed, working those knotted muscles so they could walk pain-free the next day. Mateo knew what I was doin’. Didn’t say anything about it. Had the best summer of my life, and then all hell broke loose and I was banned from ever coming back to the ranch—to those horses. I didn’t even get achance to say goodbye.”
John reached for him, gently opening his fists and slipping his fingers through Wyatt’s. His hand was warm and comforting. Emotion welled in his throat, hating himself still for what had happened all those years ago.
“Then one morning, I got the call about Mateo. That he had to be airlifted to the hospital. His back was broken because a horse fell on him,” he gritted out. “But she didn’t fall. She didn’t get startled on the trail either, because she was the most fucking experienced horse on that ranch. She locked up on Mateo and fell, crushing him and breaking her shoulder. She wasmyresponsibility. I should’ve told my dad she wasn’t good to ride. Her shoulder was frozen,” he admitted, and John’s eyes widened in surprise.
The shame welled up inside him like a crushing avalanche, and he jerked his hand away from John’s soothing touch. He didn’t deserve it.
Wyatt pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes, refusing to imagine Mateo, strong and sure, broken beneath his favorite horse. Both were so scared and hurt, clinging to each other, neither of them knowing that the fall would be fatal for them both.
“They shot her in the head on the trail. Nothing they could do. They might as well have shot Mateo, too, because he died the second he got on that horse. And that’smyfault. That’s my father’s fault. I knew, and I didn’t do anything.”
John’s hands framed his face firmly, shaking his head, eyes intense. “No, you can’t think like that.”
“I can’tstopthinking like that,” Wyatt croaked out, painful tears finally breaking him. “It’s why I can’t go back there. I look at that dyin’ old man, and it should be me.”
“I’m so sorry,” John whispered thickly, embracing him.
“It should’ve been me,” he ground out harshly between sobs. “I should’ve been on that horse. I should’ve told him…”
“Wyatt, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Horrible things happen all the time. We see it at work every day. We can’t put that on ourselves. We can’t, or it will kill us.”
Wyatt blinked through his tears, holding to his anchor—his rock. And yet, John wasn’t perfect. He struggled, just like Wyatt, and there was something about that fact that calmed and reassured him.
“You’re a good man,” John whispered. “It’s why Mateo loved you. It’s why…”
John’s words stopped short, and he leaned back, eyes clear despite the emotion reflected in the dark ocean blues. Wyatt stopped breathing, heart hammering so hard he was sure John could hear it.
John slowly wiped his thumb across Wyatt’s face, chasing away a tear. “My older brother committed suicide when I was in high school.”
Wyatt sucked in a breath, stunned.
“I was the last person he ever talked to,” John admitted, grief lining his expression. “He called the house to talk to Mom. She was out with Dad, seeing a movie with our sister that night. I was at home because I was supposed to be studying for a test. But I wasn’t. I was waiting for…” he shook his head, and his eyes crinkled with that half-smile. “The version of this story I usually tell is that I was waiting for my friend, James Day, to call. But the real version of events was that I was agonizing over my ‘friend’ calling. “Because I had a crush. My first ever, and I was so nervous and confused…”
John paused to drop soft, delicate kisses over Wyatt’s knuckles. “I’ve never told anyone that. I was so ashamed of myself because I didn’t want to talk to my boring older brother who was away at college. I couldn’t wait to get off the phone with him. And Jacob, my brother, was in pain. He was suffering, and I had no idea.”
Wyatt opened his hand, dragging John’s open palm to his mouth and kissing it, throat aching from the story and unable to imagine the grief—the trauma—the blame he must have felt for a long time, never getting to be fully honest with anyone until now.
He understood now why John was so closed off. Because he felt responsible in some ways for his brother’s death, the way Wyatt did with Mateo.
“I hated myself so much, for so long, that I buried that boy deep, deep down until there was nothing left of him.” John’s tears fell, and yet he wasn’t fighting them this time. He accepted them, without shame, and Wyatt had never seen anything so strong, so beautiful in his life. “I thought that I had to do right by Jacob and give back to others, the way I should’ve given to him. I spent nearly my whole life in blame and shame, Wyatt. And I can tell you one thing that I have learned from it.”
John’s gaze impaled him. “Nothing. Because the truth is, I got to be the one who talked to my brother on the last day of his life. I got that. Not my parents or my sister—me. And I love the fact that my brother got to hear my voice before he left us. He got to hear someone who loved him, even though he couldn’t love himself enough to stay with us. And that day you found me at the bar, I didn’t believe anymore that I was enough…”
Wyatt stilled, fingers clenching over John’s hand.
“Our minds take us to dark places. The shame will invade your thoughts, your feelings, and your memories if you let it. But you can’t let it. I won’t let you,” John's voice broke. “This last month has changed me. You’ve changed me. I’m not selfish for wanting to talk to my crush instead of my brother. I’m not selfish for wanting you. And God help me, I want you. No, I need you, Wyatt. I need you here, with me, through all this shit—this pain—this crazy fucking life. So, please don’t blame yourself for what you couldn’t have stopped. You did what you could, and Mateo knows that.”
Wyatt’s heart broke and reshaped in that instant. He leaped into John’s arms and held him close, the pieces of his heart melding together. His heart took on a new piece—a piece of John.
“How are you so good?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
