Love Song(103)

And on and on it goes. They talk in circles. They scowl. They demand details.

Until finally, I do a very un-Blake-like thing. I hold up my hand and snap, “Would you both shut the fuck up?”

“Language,” my dad chides.

“I’ll mind my language when you mind yours.” Tamping down my frustration, I focus on my mom and Hannah, because they’re clearly the most reasonable people in this room. “Wyatt and I formed a connection while we’ve been here. We like spending time together. But I’m going back to college in the fall, and he’s going back to Nashville to record his album.” Now I turn toward the dads. “Nobody is pregnant. Nobody is dropping out of school. Nobody is breaking anyone’s heart. And even if any of that happened, we are adults and perfectly capable of handling it on our own. With that said, we love you all very much—”

“Well, not right now,” Wyatt drawls, then grins when I flash him a dirty look.

“And our families are going to be just fine,” I finish.

“I’m not fine at all,” Dad gripes. He shakes his head at Garrett. “I don’t like this.”

“Oh, because I’m jumping for joy?”

“I hate it more.”

“Would you prefer it was a Di Laurentis?” Garrett counters, at which point my father rises to his feet and stomps out of the room.





I spend the rest of the day in my room faking a headache. Which isn’t a total lie. My head is throbbing from all the nonsense it had to endure today.

After the fallout from the hookup bomb, it was decided that everyone was going to “digest” things. As if it’s anyone’s business but mine and Wyatt’s. But I should’ve anticipated this.

Fortunately, the girls know to back off when I tell them I don’t feel like talking about anything tonight. And the Golden Boys have disappeared for the night, thank God. I think they went drinking in town.

Deciding to go to bed early, I shower and change into my pajamas, returning to my room to find Mom sitting on the bed waiting for me.

“Got a minute for me?” she asks. “Or are we still hiding out?”

“We’re still hiding, but never from you.”

I close the door and get comfy on the bed. Mom comes up and lies beside me, both of us curled on our sides. Growing up, this was one of my favorite things to do with my mom. We used to cuddle in bed and talk for hours. I would ramble on about school and friends and whatever other random topic I had on the brain. Mom would tell me stories about her college days, meeting my dad, her time at the news network where she worked as a producer for almost twenty years.

“So. I don’t need details. In fact, please don’t give me details,” she begs, and I snort. “All I want to know is are you being safe, and are you happy?”

My heart expands from a rush of emotion. I love my mom so much. “Yes, we’re being safe, and yes, I am happy.”

She hesitates for a beat.

“Say it,” I urge.

“Look, you know I love Wyatt. Your father is just being dramatic right now, because that’s who he is. But I’m not worried about Wyatt’s intentions. I don’t think he’d ever set out to hurt anyone…” Mom pauses again.

“But you think he’ll hurt me,” I finish.

Her tone is careful now. “I think…he’ll leave.”

Pain shoots through me. “He’ll leave me, you mean?”

“No, he’ll just leave. That’s what Wyatt does. He left Nashville and took off for Tahoe without telling his own family. He doesn’t like to be rooted to one place. He never has.”

Because he’s trying to outrun the chaos.

Because he’s lost.

I don’t express any of those thoughts; I don’t feel right revealing the vulnerabilities Wyatt has shown me. I know that’s why he fled to Tahoe, though. Because his head gets too loud, and he’s desperate to quiet it, but more than that, because he’s stuck in this narrative he’s created for himself, like a car spinning its wheels in the mud.

I don’t know if he’ll ever break free of this rigid perception he has of himself, but I’ve definitely noticed a change in him. He’s not the same man he was when I arrived here at the end of May. He doesn’t chain-smoke on the dock anymore. Doesn’t pour alcohol down his throat to help him sleep. Doesn’t snap at me in frustration or insist I’m not worth his time.

These days, he sneaks into my room at night and stays sound asleep until morning. He spends hours writing music instead of fighting it. He asks for his mom’s input about his songs when before, he would’ve rather swallowed broken glass than ask for her help. He’s starting to find peace within himself, and maybe that’s all he needs to…not leave.

To stay.

After Mom says good night, I reach for my phone to text Wyatt. Even though we’ve kept our distance, we’ve still been texting all day.

I’m going to bed soon. Today was intense.



SONGBOY

Baby, I believe you’ve perfected the art of the understatement.



“The art of the understatement” would be a good name for a song.



SONGBOY

Nah too wordy.



Are you sleeping here tonight?