CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ryan didn’t know what to do with himself. In his own house.

This was why he’d avoided dating for so long; it always turned him into an unsure neurotic who was always afraid every decision was the wrong one and would doom the relationship before it even got off the ground.

The one good thing, he thought as he loitered in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen, waiting for Wyatt to appear for their dinner date, was that he’d already done the fucking up and probably couldn’t mess the relationship up any worse.

He heard the back door open and close and Ryan sauntered a few casual steps to the right so he could see Wyatt walk in and through the kitchen. He was wearing dark jeans and a light-blue button-up nearly the shade of his eyes. His face was still shadowed, faint circles under his eyes, but he’d lost that pinched, angry, hurt look from earlier, and Ryan was relieved. He didn’t think he could sit through a whole dinner, seeing that look while knowing it was all his fault.

“You look great,” Ryan said enthusiastically. Tabitha had told him how important it was he take every opportunity to show Wyatt how much he meant to him. But that had probably been too much enthusiasm, deployed too quickly.

Wyatt looked taken aback. “Okay. Thanks, I guess?”

Definitely too enthusiastically.

Honesty and the communication were the key, Ryan reminded himself. “That . . . came out wrong. I don’t know how to do this—not the right way anyway. I’ve only had one boyfriend, and it didn’t end well. So I’m almost definitely going to mess up again.” Admitting to failure in advance was not easy, but he did it anyway because it was true.

“I don’t want a perfect boyfriend, I want a real one,” Wyatt told him, voice soft and pleading. “I want you.”

“I want you too,” Ryan said, and he couldn’t help the ache that spiraled through him at just how much. “Exactly as you are. And you do look good. That wasn’t . . . I wasn’t lying. I just haven’t always said what was on my mind, how much I care about you, and I’m trying to fix that. Trying to be better, for you.”

“I want the Ryan I’ve spent the last month with,” Wyatt said, walking over and pulling Ryan into an unexpected hug. “Not some other version of you. Not someone who’s trying to be someone they’re not. When I said I want you, that’s exactly what I meant.”

Ryan ordered himself not to get too comfortable, and not to turn Wyatt’s innocent embrace into something else. To just enjoy it, and not grab hold too tight, afraid that this would be his last chance. Wyatt wasn’t going anywhere. He was sticking around and letting Ryan prove that he was telling the truth.

He let him go reluctantly. “We should go, our reservations are soon.” And because he hadn’t asked last time, he asked this time. “Are you okay doing this?”

Wyatt shrugged. “Do I wish we didn’t have to do this tonight? Yeah. But I understand the reasons why we need to.”

“I’m sorry,” Ryan automatically apologized as they moved towards the garage. “That’s my fault.”

“You can stop apologizing,” Wyatt pointed out wryly.

“Sorry,” Ryan said and grimaced. “I told you I’d be bad at this.”

“Just relax,” he coaxed, reaching out to give Ryan’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

Ryan moved through the garage and opened the passenger door of the Maserati. He’d had it washed and detailed this afternoon until the midnight-blue paint gleamed in the dusk light.

“What’s this?” Wyatt asked, stopping short. “We’re taking the Maserati?”

“You want a real boyfriend, and this real boyfriend intends to give you the best he can,” Ryan admitted.

“Also, because it looks pretty damn cool in the pictures,” Wyatt said, sliding in. Ryan snorted as he closed the door.

“You’re not wrong,” Ryan admitted as he got in the driver’s side. “I’ll admit about ten percent of the decision was how killer we’re going to look pulling up in it.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes as Ryan pulled out of the driveway.

“Where are we going?”

“Some place in Malibu that’s apparently the new restaurant,” Ryan said. “I thought you’d enjoy it. I made sure Eric got us a good table.”

“A public table, you mean,” Wyatt retorted, and there was the faintest edge of bitterness to his voice. And Ryan couldn’t help but think that he also wished they hadn’t had to do this so soon after their fight. They both would have benefited from some time. Even if it was hard. Even if it hurt. Throwing them in together so fast had left a lot of issues unresolved.

Fear bubbled up inside him, but he didn’t have an outlet for it, so he pushed his foot down on the accelerator, feeling the engine roar to life.

“Yes, a public table,” Ryan said. “You know why we have to sit at a public table. And I’d apologize, but you just told me I’ve apologized enough already.”

Wyatt didn’t say anything, just looked out the passenger window as Calabasas passed by. Ryan turned onto a windier road, but didn’t slow down. Pressed down harder on the accelerator, actually. When he’d bought this car, the salesman had promised second-to-none acceleration and handling, and he’d never had a chance to take it out like he should have after it had been delivered.

What was the point of owning a car like this if you didn’t test its limits a little?

“I wish you wouldn’t drive so fast,” Wyatt said to the window, and yeah, he was definitely still annoyed.

Instead of slowing down, Ryan took the next turn at seventy. It was a stupid thing to do. Stupid and reckless, and a remnant of a time when he hadn’t cared what sort of attention he got, even if it was negative. He’d thought he’d left that attention-seeking behind in high school, but the fear kept creeping up.

He didn’t like Wyatt ignoring him. Even if it was Wyatt trying to avoid an argument.

“God damnit, Ryan,” Wyatt ground out as the car flew around another curve in the road, tires squealing.

“What? Is this too fast for you?” Ryan teased darkly as he stepped on the accelerator in the flat, jumping up to triple digits as easily as breathing. Reveling in the attention he was getting again.

“I don’t care if you’re hooked on adrenaline, but this is stupid and reckless,” Wyatt ground out.

Ryan glanced over at Wyatt, and registered how pissed off he looked. But it was a split second too long, especially when he was going over a hundred miles per hour. Especially when the next turn was a lot tighter than he remembered.

He jerked the wheel reflexively, and knew a moment too late that he’d miscalculated. He’d forgotten about the damp road. It had rained early this morning, just enough to bring out the oil on the road, but not enough to wash it away. The tires tried to grip but failed, and before Ryan could even yell out a warning, or brace himself against the roof, the car was flipping, his stomach heaving as they rolled down the road in a cacophony of metal scraping against asphalt.

They finally slid to a halt, and the first thing Ryan did was frantically look over at Wyatt, who was slumped against the leather seat, eyes closed. He unbuckled, and immediately started checking him for injuries, heart beating a thousand miles per hour. Faster than he’d ever driven. Faster than he’d ever drive again.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he chanted under his breath as he realized Wyatt’s arm was crooked at an awkward angle. And when his hands reached up to set his head at a better angle, they came away wet and red.

He smeared blood everywhere as he dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed 911. All over his phone and his shirt and the leather interior of the car. Streaks of rusty red everywhere.

The operator answered immediately, asking him the emergency and taking down the information as Ryan spit it out, voice shaky.

“Are you hurt?” the operator asked.

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine. But my boyfriend, he’s not fine. I think his arm is broken, and he’s knocked out. I think he hit his head against the window. Oh god, what if he’s dead?” It had never occurred to Ryan to check his breathing, but now he did, pressing his fingers against the artery in his neck to feel the blood beating there.

The pulse was faint but it was there, sluggishly beating against his fingertips. “We need an ambulance now,” Ryan demanded. Fear was making him nauseous. Wyatt still hadn’t moved. His face was pale and unresponsive.

“Don’t move him out of the car,” the operator ordered. “The ambulance will be there shortly. Maybe keep talking to him, see if you can wake him up. And if he does, keep him calm.”

Ryan set the phone down and did his best to cradle Wyatt’s head so it wouldn’t flop.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered to him. “And I’m going to damn well apologize for this because it’s my fault again. Showing off, trying to get your attention. I just . . . I’m so afraid you won’t see me otherwise. That you won’t stay. That you’ll find someone else, someone who doesn’t have any problems. Someone who doesn’t do stupid shit like drive too fast and end up hurting you.”

Wyatt’s fingers quivered against Ryan’s, and he took that as the right sign and kept going.

“I love you,” he said. And it felt like such a waste to say it now, when he could have said it fifteen minutes ago, when they were both fine. Angry, but fine. When Wyatt might have been more receptive to hearing it. When they weren’t lying in a heap of mangled metal and plastic, and Wyatt’s blood wasn’t all over Ryan’s hands.

“I love you,” he repeated again, heart in his throat, “please don’t fucking leave me. Not like this.”

———

“Let me get this straight,” Eric said, his voice a hardened mask, no doubt hiding apoplectic anger. He hadn’t been still since arriving at the hospital five minutes earlier, pacing in the hallway with Ryan outside of Wyatt’s room. “Instead of going out tonight and fixing last night, you took Wyatt out to dinner. But you never made it to the restaurant because you crashed your Maserati and now Wyatt has a broken arm and a concussion.”

Ryan hadn’t thought it was possible for the events of the evening to sound any worse, but somehow they did, recited through Eric’s clenched teeth.

“That sounds about right,” he said morosely.

“You told me you want this,” Eric said. “You begged me to find a way to fix your management’s opinion that you’re reckless and careless with your personal safety. I told you I’d help you, and I’ve been fucking trying.”

Nobody liked Eric much, Ryan included, but it was hard to deny that he’d been trying, despite all the ways Ryan fucked up.

Eric threw his hands up in frustration. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself,” he continued.

“It was a mistake. A mistake that won’t happen again. I was . . . messed up over Wyatt.”

“And just like that, you’re not messed up over Wyatt?” Eric asked in disbelief. “To be honest, he’s messed you up since the first night you met him. I don’t think crashing your Maserati is going to help with that.”

“It’s not, it’s not. I’ve been messed up because I was fighting how much I cared about him, but I’m not fighting it anymore. This is where I’m meant to be.”

“In a hospital,” Eric muttered under his breath. “Standing vigil over your injured boyfriend.”

Ryan couldn’t help but admit he wasn’t always the world’s quickest learner, but he’d learned now. He’d felt how easily it all could end. How silly it felt to keep fighting something when it felt so natural. He didn’t know how he could have let it go on so long. He’d been a fucking moron, and maybe he could get out of this without paying the heaviest price. He leaned against the wall and wished Wyatt would wake up so he would know if he’d ever forgive him for almost killing both of them.

“I called you because you always told me to call if you things got . . . rough.”

“It got rough alright. I’ll clean this up because that’s my job,” Eric said. “But no more bullshit. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Agreed,” Ryan said miserably.

Eric turned to go, but held back for a split second. He reached out, and for a grade A asshole, he had a pretty convincing sympathy face. “You’re a good kid, Flores. Don’t let the system change you.”

Then he was gone, walking down the corridor with purpose, no doubt to start handing out non-disclosure agreements like party favors.

Ryan heard a very familiar shriek and looked up to see Flor walking fast and determined towards him, fury in her eyes.

He closed his own in supplication. This night had already been so long, and was growing longer.

———

Wyatt’s arm really hurt. His head too. He didn’t want to open his eyes because he was pretty sure that would hurt just as badly, but he needed to know who was saying those words. It was a voice he recognized. He was sure of it. He just couldn’t place it right now because his brain was so fuzzy. He didn’t even know why he was hurting.

“We could charge you for reckless driving,” he heard someone say. Not a voice he recognized. It was harsh at the edges, and clearly pissed off. “And even though there weren’t any other vehicles involved in the accident, your passenger could file charges since he ended up in the hospital.”

Accident. He had vague flashes of screaming metal and a surge of fear and then nothing. A voice in the darkness, reaching out to him. Begging for him to wake up.

Wyatt strained, anxious to hear the other voice in the conversation, hoping that it was the man who had been so desperate for him to be alright.

The man who loved him.

But the voice who responded wasn’t his at all. “Officer,” the accented voice said insistently, “it was just an accident. The road was slick. You said so. And Ryan, he’s sorry. He’s learned his lesson.”

“To the tune of a wrecked Maserati?” the same official voice retorted dryly. “I’m sure he has. But I will need to check in with Mr. Blake and make sure that he doesn’t want to file charges.”

“When he’s awake, you can speak to him if you like,” the accented voice continued. “Right, Ryan?”

Ryan. That sounded familiar. Was Ryan the man who’d professed his love in the car?

Wyatt, struggling through the fog in his brain, thought that might be the same man.

“I . . . Ryan . . .” he forced in a harsh whisper. His mouth was so dry and tasted smoky and metallic. The echo of blood and pain.

He hadn’t managed to open his eyes yet, but the moment he spoke, there was a person at the bed next to him, cradling his hand in his two hands. They were big palms, creased with callouses. Capable hands, hands he could be safe with, despite his presence in a hospital bed that seemed to prove otherwise.

“Wyatt, are you awake?”

That was the voice. This was the man.

He finally opened his eyes and a thousand memories came rushing back at the sight of his face. Dark eyes, pleading and terrified, stared back at him. Blood spatter on his white button-down shirt.

They were supposed to be on a date. At a restaurant. At a public place. Getting their pictures taken. He’d been angry; so angry, but that felt so far away now.

“I’m sorry,” Wyatt said, and Ryan laughed wetly, wiping his face with a blood-splattered hand.

“If I’m not allowed to apologize again, neither are you,” he said, leaning down so Wyatt could catch the words.

“My arm hurts,” Wyatt said matter-of-factly. He didn’t want to look over and see why it was immobilized. Did he even still have it? Was the pain just a phantom reminder of the limb he’d used to have?

“It’s broken, but it was a clean break. The doctor thinks it’ll heal quick and you’ll be back in the ocean with me soon,” Ryan promised. “And you have a mild concussion, from a contusion on the back of your head.”

“The blood?” Wyatt asked, lifting his good hand, and gesturing to the bright red all of Ryan’s shirt.

“It’s yours,” Ryan said wryly. “I only have a few minor scratches. A bruise or two. I’ll be fine.”

And then it hit Wyatt head-on. Ryan had been the driver of the car. The rest came rushing back: Ryan driving way too fast. Wyatt demanding he slow down and Ryan not listening. Hitting the slick spot.

“Eric is gonna kill you,” Wyatt said. “If I don’t first.”

“You’re upset,” Ryan suggested hesitantly.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Wyatt demanded, even though the tone of his own voice made his heart hurt worse.

Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not sure we should be talking about this now,” he said hesitantly, voice wavering. Wyatt had seen Ryan Flores in a lot of moods, but never like this. Never diminished, scared, guilty.

Wyatt looked around, taking in Flor hovering in the doorway, blocking the police officer he’d heard earlier. “Can we have the room, please?” he asked, and Flor nodded immediately, shutting the door behind her a moment later.

Leaving him and Ryan alone.

“If you want to call it off, you can,” Ryan said nervously.

“I don’t want to call it off.” Wyatt’s head kept aching and Ryan’s behavior was somehow making it ache worse. “I want to figure this shit out, once and for all.” He paused, collecting his thoughts, the shards of memory that kept fitting back in place, one at a time. “You told me you loved me.”

“I do, I do love you. I was . . . so scared you’d leave. Scared you were only sticking around because you said you would. Maybe because you didn’t want to get sued.” Ryan laughed, self-consciously and without much humor. “You told me you’d stick around because you wanted to learn to trust me again. But you were angry in the car, and I was afraid it was all ending again, and I . . . got desperate.”

Wyatt took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper because the closer he got to the edge, the more he hurt. And he didn’t want to have any more to blame Ryan for. “I love you, you fucking idiot. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hope flared in Ryan’s eyes. “How can you even say that after . . .”

“After you wrecked your Maserati and almost killed us?” It was Wyatt’s turn to chuckle at the irony. “God only knows. Maybe because I know how much fear can control you. It controlled me for so long, how can I blame you for falling victim to it?”

“I didn’t think about it that way,” Ryan said and the stiffness in his back was softening a little, bringing him closer to Wyatt’s side.

It was all instinct to reach out and take Ryan’s hand, curl it in his own, despite the ache in his bones. Ryan gripped it fiercely, like a lifeline.

“We don’t have to know everything right now. We don’t have to figure everything out right now,” Wyatt said. “That’s all I meant earlier. Honestly . . . I couldn’t leave. Not now. Not before. I . . .” Maybe he should have felt ashamed as the tears clogged this throat and made it difficult to speak, but it had been an emotionally trying forty-eight hours, and he was reaching the end of his rope.

“I love you,” Ryan said, finishing his own sentence. “I meant it earlier. I’m not . . . going to do this right. I promise. But I promise you that I will be there to figure it out afterwards. Every single time.”

There wasn’t complete peace and acceptance in Ryan’s dark eyes as he gazed down at Wyatt, but there was more. The fear was receding, and Wyatt felt it leaking out his own mind, along with the anger.

On cue, there was a brisk knock at the door. Ryan raised his head and reluctantly let go of Wyatt’s hand to answer it.

It was the police officer. Of course.

“I need to take his statement,” he said gruffly. “Now that he’s awake.”

Ryan looked over at Wyatt, who inclined his head in agreement.

The police officer walked in, and took up a spot at the end of Wyatt’s hospital bed. Ryan resumed his previous spot, and grasped Wyatt’s hand like he’d never let it go again.

“Mr. Blake,” the officer said, “could you please tell me what you remember about the accident?”

“Do we have to do this right now?” Wyatt asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” the officer said, unrelenting.

So Wyatt quickly and efficiently rehashed what he remembered from the accident. They’d been driving fast, maybe, he relented, but not outrageously fast. The road had definitely been slick. They’d flipped a couple of times. He didn’t remember much else.

“And what about charges, Mr. Blake?” the officer asked expectantly.

“Charges?” he asked blankly. “Why would I want to file charges?”

“Mr. Flores’ reckless driving endangered your life,” he reminded Wyatt.

“Mr. Flores,” Wyatt pointed out, voice as clear and strong as he could make it, “despite some lapses in judgment, is mine.” Ryan’s fingers spasmed against his. Flor reached out a reassuring hand towards Ryan, but he brushed it away. “I’m not pressing charges against him.”

“Are you sure?” Ryan asked, but his voice was so hopeful. So full of love that Wyatt could almost block out the pain in his head.

“I’m definitely sure,” Wyatt retorted dryly, tugging his hand and bringing Ryan closer. Close enough to kiss. Maybe he shouldn’t have been, but he was.

The nurse outside must have heard the commotion, because she bustled in then, giving him some ice chips for his dry mouth, and talking about discharge papers after he saw the doctor again.

“I called Miles,” Ryan admitted. “I left a voicemail. I think he was filming or something.”

“Why did you call Miles?” Wyatt questioned.

“I wasn’t sure . . . wasn’t sure you wanted to be in the same car as me again. Not so soon, anyway,” Ryan said, voice halting.

“Do you think I didn’t mean it?” Wyatt asked.

“I know you do,” Ryan said, his voice growing stronger again. “But I didn’t know that then, and I wasn’t ever going to presume your feelings for you again. But,” he added, a wry grin blooming on his face, “I should probably call Miles and let him know his services are no longer required. And that you’re not dead.”

“Does this mean we can finally go home?” Wyatt said, in relief.

“I think the doctor needs to discharge you still,” Ryan said.

Wyatt knew the look he shot his boyfriend was unfair. He did it anyway. He hated these hospital sheets—they were scratchy, and he had a feeling they’d frown at Ryan climbing into bed with him. And he definitely needed to feel Ryan against him very soon.

Ryan reached out and carefully pulled him against his side, hugging him close. “You want me to go get the doctor and get it over with,” he stated, amusement bright in his voice.

“I do,” Wyatt admitted. “Let’s go home.”

Ryan reached out and intertwined their hands together, and helped him sit upright in the bed. “Let’s go home,” he agreed easily, giving his hand a final squeeze before he turned away to go take care of the rest of the paperwork.

———

Ryan drove like Wyatt’s nana the whole way home. Wyatt, a little tired and loopy from the pain pills, didn’t tease him about it. He figured there was lots of time for that later. And just that thought was miraculous. Instead of an enforced ending, and a time limit, there was endless time extending before them, the possibilities never-ending and boundless.

The gate opened and Ryan carefully drove the rental Prius into the driveway. Right next to a looming black mass that hadn’t been there when they’d left in the Maserati earlier in the evening.

“What’s this?” Wyatt asked as Ryan came around to help him out of the car. He was a little unsteady on his feet, and the doctor hadn’t wanted his arm jostled the first few days. Of course, that was the excuse Ryan had latched onto to practically never let go of him. Wyatt was definitely not going to tease him about that, because he was enjoying it too much.

It all felt like a dream come true, a hope and a wish coalesced into reality.

A fake boyfriend evolving into a real one.

Ryan helped him out of the car and they walked a few feet to the left of the big mass, just enough so that with the lights of the house, Wyatt could make out the faded writing on the stainless steel side.

“Tacos,” Wyatt recited, realization dawning. “It’s an old food truck.”

“It’s yours,” Ryan said. “I love you being my personal chef. I hope you never stop. But I’m not selfish enough to want to keep you all to myself. You need to spread your wings. Experiment somewhere other than our kitchen.”

Wyatt was speechless, staring at the stainless steel shell.

“It needs a lot of work,” Ryan rambled on, “but I’m going to help you. It can be our project. Maybe even Tony will want to help. I got the impression he might, and you and your brother could use something to bring you together.”

“You bought this for me,” Wyatt said incredulously.

“I was trying to grovel. Might have gone over better if I hadn’t wrecked the Maserati first. Oh, well. Anyway, in the morning, you can look in it. It’s basically a wreck. I wanted to buy you a brand-new one, but Tabitha said that was overdoing it.”

“She would be right,” Wyatt said. “This is still too much.”

“Trust me, you haven’t seen the interior. It needs a lot of work. You might think it’s not enough in the light of day.”

“I don’t think so,” Wyatt said, and turned towards Ryan. “I thought you were afraid of me leaving. But you just gave me the ability to leave.”

“I was, I am. But someone told me once that letting love in means you need to accept what you’re afraid of.” Ryan’s voice was wry. “I told you before I’m not going to be good at this. But I’m going to try, every single day. Today, this is me trying.”

Wyatt raised his good hand to Ryan’s face, cradling his jaw. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you try and fail. Even when I fail. We’re in this together.”

“Together,” Ryan echoed, and leaned in and kissed him.