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As I turn onto my lonely cul-de-sac, I spot Wyatt’s black SUV in front of my house. I pull into the driveway to find him sitting on my front steps, wearing the same clothing he left in yesterday. His arms rest on his knees as his head hangs down. After Battle, the last thing I want to do is have a confrontation with Wyatt.
He lifts his head when I approach, staring at me with swollen red-rimmed eyes. His unshaven face, combined with his messy hair, conflict with a man typically pristinely groomed. I wonder if he’s slept?
“Where were you?” he asks, his voice cracking. He clears his throat and continues. “I’ve been here since four am, and I’ve called you a dozen times.”
I haven’t looked at my phone all morning. It’s buried in the bottom of my purse on silent.
“I … My battery died,” I lie. Oh, God. Do I lie to him about where I was, too? Or do I owe him the truth? Of course I do. “Wyatt…”
“No,” he says, jumping up to his feet. He grabs me and hugs me, squeezing the air from my lungs before he pulls back and holds both of my arms above my elbows. “God, you’re beautiful. I love you, Faye. I went home last night, and I thought about everything you said. You’re right. You’re so, so, right. I’ve been such an idiot. Please forgive me.”
The onset of guilt wraps around my heart, pressing tight. What have I done?
“Wyatt.”
“No. Shh. I’m not finished.”
The nosy neighbor across the street catches my eye. “Let’s go inside and talk.”
Wyatt trails close behind me as we enter the house. I set my purse and keys on the coffee table, dreading the conversation we’re about to have. My head throbs violently, and I excuse myself to the bathroom.
My eyes stained with smeared mascara in my reflection fill me with regret. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and take a couple of pain relievers before I go back to Wyatt. He’s standing exactly where I left him. His messy blond hair hangs in his cloudy green eyes.
“I love you,” he says.
“We need to talk. I’m so confused.”
“That’s because you’re always thinkin’ about things. Don’t. You love me, and I love you. There’s nothin’ to think about.”
My gut clenches. Tears burn my eyes, but I fight them off. We broke up before he left yesterday, but I still feel like I cheated on him. “Wyatt. We need to talk. I…”
“I know we do,” he interrupts. “I stayed up all night thinkin’ about us. When I left for the airport this mornin’, I drove past the highway entrance and straight to your house, because I realized that I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I wasn’t fair to you, and I owe you an apology.”
The sincerity in his words, his expression, and his warm gaze weighs heavily on my thoughts.
When did I move beyond the absolute certainty of my future? Somewhere between graduating college and a desolate wheat field I strayed severely off course. One night with Battle McCoy made me forget I’m supposed to be a good girl.
I feel possessed. My father’s preaching no longer seems ridiculous, his words forever gospel. Sticking with the game plan will keep me grounded. What was I thinking last night? Behaving poorly, and irresponsibly? Obviously, I wasn’t thinking past the blue-eyed adonis I allowed to seduce me.
My night with Battle may have been the most intense and amazing moment of my life, but it was nothing more than a brief instance of immature rebellion. Perhaps if I’d spent more time in college at frat parties and sleeping during lectures, I would have purged the need for such reckless upheavals. But I didn’t and the last couple of months I’ve craved a spontaneous moment of utter stupidity. Now it has passed, and I can resume my regularly scheduled life.
Being with Battle was a fantasy, an experience women cross off a bucket list, a hall pass fantasy of sorts, but Wyatt is my future.
“Faye … Faye … Did you hear me?” Wyatt asks, drawing
me out of my thoughts.
“Sorry. What?”
“I mean it. I love you, and I’m sorry. Please, say yes.” Yes to what? I gaze at him confused before he drops to one knee, producing a black velvet box from his pocket. I cover my mouth with both hands as my eyes well with thick tears. He flips the lid on the tiny box, exposing a round solitaire diamond set in platinum. “Faye Callahan, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I answer and the tears fall.
“Oh, Faye, you’ve made me so happy.” He lifts me up and spins me around. Once my feet hit the floor, Wyatt smiles and slides the ring onto my finger. It’s much too large. His brow creases as he removes it. “I’ll have it sized immediately,” he says returning the ring to the box and slipping it into his pocket. “I know I’ve been an ass, but I’m gonna spend a lifetime making it up to you.”
The ring doesn’t fit. How could it not fit? He’s bought me other rings before, most recently on my birthday, one with my birthstone and diamonds. And they’ve always been the right fit. It’s a sign, or a warning, or a wake-up call. Maybe it’s not the ring. Maybe it’s Wyatt who doesn’t fit.
I’m not crazy, and as silly as it seems, the ring not fitting reminds me of what I want for my future. I may not know exactly what it is, but I’m positive I have to figure it out on my own.
