13 days ago
I CRIED. I DIDN’T WANT to cry, but I couldn’t stop the tears. They poured down my cheeks, blocking the sun and my view of the road. I came to a complete stop in the middle of nowhere and put my car in park. Snot dripped out of my nose. Opening the center console, I found an old Sonic Drive-In napkin with traces of dried ketchup on the edges. I wiped my face with it anyway, smelling the stench of tater tots.
I’d known he was messed up. I’d known something terrible was haunting Wyatt. But I think in the back of my mind, I’d created a romantic fantasy story—one where he was the wounded hero who had lost the girl. He had loved her so deeply that it had wrecked him. And I was going to put him back together. I was going to show Wyatt that it was okay to have feelings for someone again.
But this was a different kind of tragedy. His pain was so much deeper and complex than I’d ever imagined. And he wasn’t any hero. By most people’s standards, Wyatt was a bad guy—just like he’d warned on all my visits.
I wrestled with my thoughts. What if I’d done something like that to Blaire? What if I’d gotten high and cracked her skull open? Just the idea caused a flash of deep guilt in my chest, which I knew she would feel all the way back into town. And I seriously doubted my twin would be as forgiving as Willa if I’d messed up her head.
All the twisted bits of truth caused every emotion inside my body to come alive. I thought about the rest of his story and all the people who had suffered because of his reckless stupidity. Some guy was currently sitting in a wheelchair because of Wyatt. Some guy who had been his best friend.
Letting out a deep breath, I leaned my head back against the seat, feeling the cold air conditioner as it blew in my face. My red puffy eyes burned from all the tears.
This was so confusing, but even in my search for clarity, I still hurt for Wyatt. The way he couldn’t even look me in the face as he told me his story. And the way he struggled to breathe at times from the shear agony of saying the words out loud. He cared about these people. His people. The people he hurt.
Wyatt might be the bad guy, but I’d seen the shame in his eyes as he told me the truth. I’d felt the guilt tormenting every thought inside his head. And those feelings made me want to turn my car around and go back. Maybe it was crazy, but I knew the truth and I still wanted to save him. I still believed Wyatt Carter wasn’t a lost cause.
I remembered the way his voice had sounded as he spoke. I knew Wyatt had never shared any of this with anyone. The accident. His grief. His remorse.
I’d pushed him until he confessed. I’d pushed and pushed until he’d broken, turning him into a wild animal backed into a corner, yelling all those terrible things—lashing out, trying to hurt anyone who came near him. He had done his best to push back. And his words still hurt.
I swallowed the knot in my swollen throat. Maybe I should just give him some space. I wiped my face again on the dirty napkin, blowing out a hunk of snot. My heart beat in ragged pieces from being ripped to shreds. Maybe we both needed some space if I planned to continue on with this insanity of trying to help someone who felt he should be left to rot like garbage.
When I pulled into the apartment complex, my mind was numb. The strain of trying to drive with swollen eyes had caused a pounding headache. I just wanted to get in my apartment and bury myself under the covers in my bed.
Crawling out of the seat, I slammed the door and limped toward the stairs, keeping my face cast down. I prayed my sister was away on campus. Blaire would know something had happened, but right now, I couldn’t deal with her stealth-level doom-and-gloom questions.
I’d already made up my mind. Not that I really had much to consider. My cosmic fate had been sealed after our first meeting. Wyatt and I were intertwined now—even when the truth got messy. Helping people wasn’t for the faint of heart and saving them might border on self-inflicted torture.
“Why so sad, Emma?”
My good knee froze in mid-step, leaving all my weight on the bad one. My fingers gripped the handle on the staircase as Kurt came out of my apartment.
“What were you doing in there?”
My mind played a film reel of torrid thoughts, involving Kurt sitting on my couch, running his hands over my bedspread, digging through my drawers, touching my clothes, smelling my panties.
Get a grip! He didn’t smell my underwear. As the apartment manager, there had to be a reasonable explanation as to why the guy was in my home—except he didn’t answer my question. I swallowed hard, trying not to be nervous.
“Why were you in my apartment?” I asked again, hearing my shaky voice.
Kurt came over to the staircase as I stayed perched just a few steps down from the top. His lips curled up on the corners under his wiry beard. “Your neighbor smelled gas. So I took a look around. Thought you might have left the stove on or something. You girls are always running in and out.”
“Was . . . um . . . everything okay?”
“Didn’t smell any damn gas. But that bedroom shit you got in there is gonna cost you. I’ll have to take that out of your deposit when you move out.”
“What bedroom stuff?”
Kurt took a step down to the spot just above my foot. His grin got even bigger, showing bits of chewing tobacco stuck in his teeth. “You painted it some girly purple color. You know that ain’t in your lease.”
“It was that way when I moved in. You even knocked off an extra ten dollars a month if I didn’t make you haul a bucket of paint up there to fix it.”
He pondered my words for a moment as he stood in my personal space. “I suppose I did.”
“Okay, well, thanks for checking on the gas leak.”
He grinned, leaning a few inches closer. “Your eyes are all covered in black shit. You been crying?”
I frowned, leaning backward until I stood at a crooked arch with his face hovering. I put my good leg back one step.
“You have a fight or something with that guy you go see?” His eyes traveled over the smeared mascara to my neck and down to the low V-neck of my shirt. “A pretty thing like you deserves someone better than a piece of shit like him.”
My eyes glanced to my door and then back to where his body blocked most of the staircase, preventing me from running past him. And I wanted nothing more than to get away from this uncomfortable situation.
“I need to get to my apartment, Kurt.” I tried to be firm. He couldn’t keep this up for very long. Someone would pull into the lot soon or open their door.
“I’m just trying to be helpful, Emma.” His drawl pulled on my name. “Girls like you shouldn’t be running off to see guys who live out there in the sticks. All kinds of bad shit can happen.”
I stepped backward with my bad leg, feeling it wobble on the wooden steps, and then it crumbled. My fingers grabbed for anything—the railing, his shirt, his arm, his stupid face—but everything slipped through my hands as I tumbled down into the parking lot.
I landed in a heap at the bottom of the staircase. My head throbbed from hitting it eight times against the wooden steps. The pain caused me to black out for a second. And then I screamed, feeling the stabs in my knee bringing me back to life. It hurt like someone had emptied an entire revolver of bullets straight into the bone.
“Hmm. You really should be more careful.” Kurt took his time walking down the stairs before hovering over me. “Well, I guess I better get you off the ground before you scare the other tenants.”
He scooped me up in his arms. I struggled to get free, seeing stars as I blinked. “Let me go.”
“Now, how in the hell are you going to get yourself to the hospital?”
“You’re taking me to the hospital?”
“You act like I was going to tie you up or something.” He laughed, giving me a strange side smile.
Reaching his truck, I noticed a bunch of chains and ropes in the back. Up next to the cab were several metal cages. I’d never paid much attention to it before since he’d kept it parked out of view on the other side of the manager’s office.
I screamed in pain as Kurt dumped me in the passenger’s seat. He slammed the door, and I slid down in the floorboard as my head throbbed. I struggled to get back up in the seat. My hand slipped under the edge, feeling something cold and metal. A shotgun. I panicked. Kurt had a shotgun crammed under the seat.
Not unusual in Oklahoma, but in this precarious moment of relying on Kurt, I panicked. I kicked with my good foot, trying to get back in the seat. I grabbed at the door handle just as he climbed in the driver’s side.
“Just settle down over there. You ain’t walking to the hospital.”
The motor fired up, and he put the truck into drive. I concentrated on breathing amidst the burning pain. He was taking me to the hospital. He was taking me to the hospital. He was taking me to the hospital.