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“I still hear that ice cracking sometimes. It’s been years, and I can still hear it exactly the way it sounded that day.” He shakes his head. “And every time I think about Wayne, eventually I get back to the same thing. If I hadn’t taken him out there, he’d still be alive.”
I move my chair closer without letting go of his hand.
“You don’t know that it was your fault.”
“I do.”
“You were his brother, Wyatt. You weren’t supposed to be able to predict that the ice would break.”
“I was supposed to keep him safe.”
The certainty in his voice stops me.
This isn’t something I’m going to undo with one sentence. He’s had years to turn that thought over until it’s become something he believes as completely as his own name.
So I don’t argue with him.
Instead, I move closer until our knees touch and bring our joined hands into my lap.
“I’m really sorry.”
His eyes finally come back to mine.
“I’m sorry you lost him, and I’m sorry you’ve been carrying this around by yourself for so long.”
Something shifts in his expression.
“I don’t usually tell people. I’ve never…” He pauses, then shakes his head. “Not like this.”
“And yesterday I didn’t want to talk about Wayne, and I knew if you asked me what was wrong, I’d either have to tell you or lie to you. So instead, I decided the best option was to be enough of an asshole that you’d leave.”
“When you put it that way, it was an excellent plan.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you, princess. I wanted you there, but I also couldn’t stand having you there because I knew you could tell I wasn’t okay. None of that was your fault. I just…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to do this shit, Quinn.”
“What shit?”
He gestures vaguely between us. “Let someone see the parts that aren’t fun.”
The words land somewhere deep in my chest.
I push my chair back and stand.
Wyatt watches me come around the table, and when I stop beside him, he turns slightly in his chair.
His hands settle loosely around my hips, and he pulls me closer until I’m standing between his knees, his forehead pressed against my stomach.
The movement is so unexpectedly vulnerable that it makes my heart squeeze.
My fingers move into his hair. “You can have a shitty day with me. And you don’t always have to be fun.”
“I’m starting to learn that,” he says, his voice muffled against my shirt.
This version of Wyatt isn’t hiding behind a joke or trying to make everything lighter. He’s letting me see more of the man underneath all of that.
And I like him. Every version of him I’ve seen so far.
I brush a piece of hair away from his forehead. “You don’t seem any different to me, you know.”
