He smiled wider. "I ain't insinuatin' a thing."
A set of headlights swung into the lot.
Wyatt's gaze tracked it—just a flick, quick and automatic—and I caught him reset. The way a horse sets its feet when somethin' new walks up—not givin' ground, just figurin' what it's dealin' with.
An old truck groaned to a stop behind Wyatt's dually. Door swung open.
"Well, hell." Hank squinted his cloudy eye against the overhead light, toothpick workin' the corner of his mouth. He looked at me. Looked at Wyatt. Back at me. "Drive-in's two towns over if you boys are lookin' for somewhere to stare at each other. Some of us got places to be."
He planted himself with his hands on his hips, ready and willin' to wait this shitstorm out.
Wyatt held my eyes one beat longer than comfortable. Then he stepped back, smooth and unbothered, like the last five minutes had been a perfectly pleasant exchange.
"Appreciate the talk." He turned toward his truck. Got the door open. One boot on the running board.
Didn't look back.
"I'll be seein' you tomorrow."
He got in. Rolled out slow. One lazy hand on the wheel, taillights bleedin' red down the highway until they disappeared.
Hank inched up to the pump just as mine came to a stop.
"Friend of yours?" Hank said behind me, already feedin' his card into the machine.
I pulled the nozzle free. Hung it back on the pump. My hand wasn't shaking. I made a note of that.
"Not even close."
Hank grunted. Glanced toward the road. His eyes narrowed before he schooled his features and turned back to the pump. "Drive safe," he said. Like maybe he meant it.
I got in my truck.
I didn't drive toward the house. Not yet.
I drove the back roads for a while. Windows down. The summer air movin' through the cab and Wyatt's voice tryin' to loop—don't matter what she told you—and me lettin' it loop because the trick was the same as handlin' a green horse. You didn't fight it. You didn't argue with it. You just outlasted it.
Calvin had been doin' it for years.
I could do it for one night.
The drive was empty when I got home. Her truck wasn't there. Just the porch light flickerin' the way it always did and the boarded window on the upstairs bedroom and Cat's little silhouette in the kitchen window where she liked to sit when she was waitin' on somebody to come home.
I let myself in through the back.
Cat was on the floor.
Not in the kitchen window anymore. On the floor, in the middle of the room, sittin' up like she'd been expectin' me. She looked at me when the door closed behind me. One meow, short and pointed. Then she walked over and wound around my ankles.
I didn't move.
After a while, I slid down the cabinets and sat on the floor.
Cat climbed into my lap.
She was warm and small and she purred like a beat-up engine. I put my hand on her back and closed my eyes and tried not to hear his voice.
Don't matter what she told you.
