Page 111 of People Like Us

Wyatt. Of course.

He looked older in the way good men often did. Softer around the edges. His dark hair was flecked with gray at the temples now, and there were tired lines around his eyes that hadn’t existed when we were teenagers. He carried himself less like an apology now, though. Straight-backed, and broad-shouldered.

“Wyatt.” I said politely, my gaze flickering to his wife who was still rambling endlessly. Lindsey would go on forever if you let her.

“Can we talk?” he asked

My stomach tightened. I looked away, focusing on the row of cups stacked beside the punch bowl. “I told you at the wedding I didn’t want to talk about it.”

His expression pinched like he’d expected that answer. “I know.”

I picked up a cup. Filled it. Set it back down untouched.

“I meant what I said then,” I said firmly.

Wyatt rubbed the back of his neck. For a second he looked oddly like the eighteen-year-old version of himself. The boy who used to sit beside me in marine biology and pretend he wasn’t paying attention to every conversation happening around him.

“I just want to say I’m sorry.” That finally made me look at him.

The words landed so unexpectedly I almost laughed. “For what?”

His jaw shifted. “I was such an ass back then.”

A humorless smile tugged at my mouth. “Back then?” I asked.

“Generally,” he corrected. I snorted despite myself. Wyatt smiled faintly. Then the smile disappeared. “Back then, specifically.”

The gym seemed louder suddenly. People laughing, and the thump of music radiating in my stiff shoulders. I folded my arms over my chest.

“You had good reason. You were just being a good friend to him.”

Wyatt immediately shook his head. “No. No, I wasn’t.”

I looked away again. Toward my husband. Toward Lindsey. Toward anything else.

He sighed. “Lola.”

I hated the gentleness in his voice.

He kept talking, “I knew how he felt about you. The guy was obsessed. You know he dug through the trash to get the wrapper to one of those cough drops you were always eating once?”

My pulse stumbled, and my thumb brushed over my right ring finger instinctively. I stared at the floating fruit slices in the punch bowl. For a moment I considered plunging my head into it, just to drown out the sound of his confession.

Wyatt continued quietly. “And if I’d known…” His eyes flickered toward my husband, briefly. “If I’d known he meant that much to you too…”

“Wyatt.” I cut him off immediately. My voice came out harder than I’d intended. A warning, a plea, a command, anything that would get him to stop talking.

He nodded, accepting the boundary. At least partially. But there was something heavier in his face now. “And as for—”

“Don’t.” My throat tightened. I could feel that awful pressure behind my eyes. “Please. I don’t want to talk about Morgan.”

“Felix,” Wyatt said softly. When my brows pinched he added, “He goes by Felix now. Not Morgan.”

It took a moment for the words to register. He stared at me as if he were waiting on me to give him some speech on how God didn’t make mistakes. But I wouldn’t.

“Okay,” I said slowly, “Well, I don’t want to talk about Felix either.”

Wyatt’s shoulders sagged. For a moment neither of us spoke, then he said quietly, “It wasn’t your fault.”