ON THURSDAY NIGHT, ONE WEEK before Thanksgiving, I finally told my parents about Wyatt. I figured if he could let his family back into his life, then mine deserved to know what I’d kept hidden from them all these months.
After Blaire said she needed her own car, I slipped the news into the conversation. They were stunned. My dad stopped eating his lasagna in mid-bite. My mom gave a teary smile like she understood my need to help Wyatt while silently questioning my sanity. She saw my boyfriend as another of my Emma projects. My dad’s eyebrows narrowed, similar to Blaire’s, as he said, “I remember seeing the story on the news about the kid who burned down that town.”
Apparently I was the only person who didn’t remember Wyatt’s story being splashed in the headlines. I politely explained it wasn’t an entire town, but my accurate description didn’t relieve any of the concern expressed by my father.
I’m sure he would love to have a discussion with Wyatt, but that would require a drive out to his confinement, which currently wasn’t a good idea. Showing up unannounced with my parents would be a disaster.
And then I flipped the tables around in my mind, looking at it from their perspective. Daughter finds guy with ankle monitor on house arrest because he got drunk and burned down a town, almost killing his friend and sister.
Those thoughts smothered the argument right out of me. The rest of dinner was relatively quiet. Blaire never said anything while my dad randomly brought the conversation back to my boyfriend. I had buzz-killed the whole meal.
As we left the house, they hugged us each goodbye. I decided to let my parents mull it over for a while. And maybe in a few weeks or months, I would take them to meet Wyatt. Maybe that would make it better.
“Have you ever been to Gibbs?” Blaire asked out of the blue as she leaned against the window in the passenger’s seat.
“No. Why?”
“Maybe you should see the place. You know, see where it happened.”
I thought about her suggestion. The dark sky had a decent moon. We should be able to see the buildings tonight.
“Okay,” I muttered. “Let’s go see the infamous Gibbs.”
I turned around in the middle of the road and headed south, crossing the county line as we traveled the thirty-something miles to Wyatt’s hometown.
Blaire didn’t say much as we rode in the darkness. I glanced over a few times, seeing her deep in thought. “So when are we going to meet Matt?”
“Geez,” she spat. “I’m working on it.”
“Okay, okay.” I decided the rest of the trip might be better in silence. As we reached the city limits, I realized the town was smaller than I’d imagined. I continued driving past houses until the street opened up to the main corridor. The moonlight illuminated the broken shadows, sending a chill up my back.
“Shit . . .” The word slipped out of Blaire’s mouth.
The fire had happened almost three years ago, but like many small places, it had taken time to rebuild. I’m sure there was plenty of red tape with insurance and bills. Parking on the side of the street, I got out of the car, walking slowly over to the brand-new electric pole. My fingers touched the rough wood. This is where it had happened. My eyes closed briefly as I remembered the words of his story. I heard the sound of his deep voice, filling my mind as the ghosts of Wyatt’s past floated around me.
The breeze picked up and the moment was over. My eyes opened back to the present. I walked over in front of the post office, looking at the centrifuge of the destruction. The large lot had been cleared down to the dirt. In the front part by the sidewalk, a single-wide trailer was parked on cement blocks with a tiny sign: US Post Office. I had a sickening feeling this was the permanent new office. Given the terrible economy, I’m sure the postal service questioned the necessity of reconstructing a grand building.
As for the three buildings to the right, they were still charred and black, haunting the residents every day as they drove down the street. Half of the burned furniture store sign still hung in front of the largest building, and caution tape flapped in the breeze, blocking out trespassers, even though the black words had faded from the weather. There were just three buildings, but those three buildings consumed an entire city block of the old main street.
On the left side of the post office, a construction billboard sign read: Future Home of the First Bank of Gibbs. I assumed this was the only business that could afford to rebuild. The walls were slowly going up behind the sign. At this rate, it would be spring before the new bank was finished—over three years after the accident.
My heart beat faster in my chest. Maybe in my naïve thoughts, I had wanted to believe the events of that night were slightly exaggerated. But Wyatt Carter, in his drunken carelessness, had destroyed a large chunk of this town. Gibbs wasn’t a big place, which made any type of destruction hit right in the emotional gut of the residents. And it hit mine.
I felt their pain. I felt his guilt. Wiping a tear from my eye, I quickly got back in the car. They continued to run down my cheeks as we pulled out on Main Street. And then I saw the multicolored light boxes and decorations stacked on the street corner by the chamber of commerce. They must be getting ready to decorate the light poles for Christmas.
And my heart broke for all the people in this town whose lives had changed in a matter of seconds on that cold Christmas Eve. Blaire reached inside her backpack, grabbing some tissues. The tears continued to fall as we left the city limits of Gibbs so I pulled over to the side of the road. My sister voluntarily gave me a brief hug before switching places behind the wheel.
But even in my sadness, I knew something these people couldn’t fathom about Wyatt. A reckless kid had almost burned down this town, but a kind and responsible guy had emerged from the ashes.