For a long time after our parents died, I cried a lot. Anything set me off, and nothing anyone said or did made it any better—except for Finn. He knew what to say, or what not to say. And he never cried. Not that I ever saw, at least. He was the strong one of the two of us, and if I gave in and let myself cry for him now, there’d be nobody there to stop it.
I let go of Wyatt’s hand and looked over at the ramp we’d used to get in. He nodded wordlessly, and we made our way to the edge together, leaving Sam and Corrie floating in the middle of the blue. When my toes scraped the rough stone of the bottom, I stood slowly, avoiding Wyatt’s eyes, and began to unhook myself. My fingers fumbled when they got to the buckle of the weight belt around my waist, and I clamped my lips together, angry at this little thing that was about to break me.
“Here.” Wyatt’s hand stilled my own. “I’ll get that one. It jams sometimes.” I let my arms fall at my sides, and he unclicked it easily, then bent down and forced me to meet his eyes. Water droplets still clung to his face. “You seem like you’re not okay.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and looked down. “I’m sorry. That really was beautiful, and you . . . it’s just . . .”
“It’s all right.” He bumped my shoulder gently with his. “I have that speechless effect on a lot of girls, really.” I smiled but didn’t say anything. When he spoke next, it was softened, sincere. “I’m really sorry about your brother, Honor. I’d be a lost wreck if something like that happened to Sam. But you seem strong to me, which means you’re probably doing things right. Like I said, people deal with stuff in all different ways, and maybe you’re someone who needs to keep moving. . . .” He kind of trailed off, maybe realizing what that meant.
My eyes went to his, and I felt a rush of gratitude for Wyatt. For the second time, he had said the right thing at the exact moment I needed it. I didn’t know how he could understand, but that didn’t really matter.
“Thank you” was what I said, but there was so much more behind it, it didn’t seem enough. I wanted to tell him that he was the kind of person you don’t meet very often—one who is good and kind and really sees people. The kind I wished I’d met under different circumstances, when I wasn’t in the middle of a ridiculous road trip, with Rusty tagging along, and an impossible goal. The kind of guy I might have fallen for without a second thought.
Instead, I stood on my tiptoes, wrapped my arms around his neck, and whispered it again. “Thank you, Wyatt, for saying that, and thank you for . . . this.” I gestured at the water behind him. “It was perfect.” His arms came around my waist and, despite the coolness of his skin, wrapped me in solid warmth. Where the general’s arms around me had communicated a respect and shared grief, Wyatt’s were comfort and compassion. And I wanted to stay like that as long as I could, because I knew that on the other side, I’d keep moving, like he had said.
I was pretty sure he knew too, because when we let go of each other, he stood there looking at me the way you look at something you wish you could have but know you really can’t. He smiled at me, sad, in the warm morning light, and we were one of those songs that talk about a missed moment or chance that you go back and think about over and over, wondering, What if?
He straightened his shoulders and shook the disappointment from his smile. “Well . . . we should maybe get back . . . before your good ol’ boy wakes up and thinks you ran off with me or something.” He held my eyes a long moment. Long enough to be an invitation.
“Wouldn’t want him to think that.” I sighed, wishing for a second I could accept. And then I just stood there. I didn’t want to move from where we were or go back to Rusty or leave here with one of those “what if” moments to wonder about down the road—literally. Instead, I took a step into Wyatt, stood once again on my tiptoes, and kissed him lightly on surprised lips that took a heartbeat to catch up. It didn’t last more than a few seconds, but when we pulled back and smiled shyly at each other, it felt a little more like a sweet conclusion than a missed chance.
That sweetness lasted even after we exchanged phone numbers, promises to keep in touch, and more than one lingering hug. It lasted right up until I ducked through the trail in the bushes between our campsites. And then it ended abruptly. Just as I saw Rusty leaning shirtless into the open hood of the Impala. He stood casually at the sound of my footsteps, and I felt myself tense up with irritation as he wiped the grease from his hands on his balled-up shirt. He eyed me a moment, then shut the hood, hard.
“Mornin’.”
He said it just like nothing. Just like he hadn’t been a total ass the night before, just like he figured I’d forgiven him and all was well. He didn’t even ask how the dive was or if I was okay. Which made me even more angry. I’d expected him to be asleep still when I got back, or maybe awake and wondering when I’d be back, feeling bad for what he’d said the night before. Instead, he was up, showered, and indifferent. I walked past him without saying anything and leaned into the driver’s side to pop the trunk.
“When’s the last time you got this thing a tune-up?” He leaned against the hood, squinting into the sun.
I ignored him and huffed back to the trunk, pulled out underwear, a tank top, and a pair of cutoffs. And socks, too, for under my boots. I didn’t want to give him anything to complain about. Then I ducked behind the open trunk and rearranged my towel so I could change beneath it.