Yeah, me too.
“Are divorce parties not as fun as they sound?” he asks with a wink.
“Something like that …”
“Come in. Sit. Stay a while. Tell me why your eyes are all bloodshot like you’ve been crying.”
I sniff. I’m twenty-eight, and I still can’t get anything past the man.
“I ran into Wyatt at the bar,” I say in one long exhale. “You told me he got married. He’s never been married.”
His lips pinch together and his eyes squint. “Hm. Must’ve confused him with another brother. All those Buchanans sort of blur together.”
“He says he never married, never had kids, never moved on … but he still wouldn’t tell me why he ended things the way he did and cut me out of his life completely. He just … apologized. Like that would be enough.”
“I’m sure he is sorry. Look at how his life turned out compared to yours. He had a perfectly good thing and he let it go for God only knows why.”
He’s just trying to make me feel better, but what would really make me feel better is knowing the truth—and Wyatt’s the only one who has it.
“His brother said the strangest thing tonight,” I say. “He said that I’m the one who broke Wyatt’s heart. And when I asked Wyatt about it, he wouldn’t explain.”
“At this point, the two of you are grown adults. Does the reason matter? The damage has been done, the ship has sailed, and you’re living entirely different lives.”
“Tell that to someone who’s been haunted by a life-altering unanswered question …”
“Life-altering?” He chuckles. “Blaire, come on. Don’t you think you’re being dramatic here?”
“Of course I’m being dramatic,” I say, fighting a smirk despite the heaviness of this talk. “But I was so certain he was the one.”
“Teenage loves are like that,” he says. “First they’re sweet. And then they’re bitter. After that, you move on. Did I ever tell you about my first love?”
“I thought it was Mom?”
He wags his finger. “No. Your mother was my second love. She’s the one who came along and made me forget all about the first love.”
“What happened to the first one?”
My father’s mouth spreads into a slow, pained smile, and his eyes hold the familiar look of unrequited love.
“She found someone else,” he says. “She chose someone else. In the end, I had to respect her choice. I had to let her go, so I could choose someone else. Had I held onto hope that she’d come around again, I never would’ve met your wonderful mother.”
My throat constricts, and I pick at the polish of a chipped nail. I can’t count how many second dates I’ve turned down, how many relationships I’ve burned to the ground before they had a chance, all because a foolish part of me still had hope.
“Listen, Blaire,” my father clears his throat. “Eighteen-year-old boys say a lot of things that sound good in the moment—especially to beautiful girls. I have no doubt that he loved you once. But that was a lifetime ago. It’s time for you to move on. To find your … great, second love.”
The idea that someone exists out there, whom I’ve never met, who could make me feel that sky-high effervescence again is both exhilarating and terrifying.
But my father has never steered me wrong before.
He’s right. Ten years is long enough. It’s time to move on—truly move on—and find peace with the fact that some prayers are better left unanswered.
“Think I’m going to head on up to bed,” I say with a yawn. “Thanks for the talk, Dad …”
I kiss the top of his forehead and make a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water before heading up to put an end to this surreal night.
10
Wyatt
* * *
“Forgive me for saying this, son.” Mama watches me sharpen sickles at six AM Saturday morning. Her floral robe is tied tight on her waist, her hair is a mess, and a fresh cup of coffee steams from her left hand. “But you look like absolute shit.”
I didn’t sleep more than a minute all night, if that.
I couldn’t stop wondering if there was something more I could’ve said to help ease some of the pain, but there’s a thin line between all the things I want to say and all the things she can’t know.
“Why are you out here so early anyway?” she asks. “You’re usually not bustling about until at least seven on Saturdays.”
“Someone’s got to keep the lights on around here,” I say, half-teasing but mostly not.
When my father passed not quite ten years ago, nothing could’ve prepared Mama for the financial mess he left behind. He’d let his life insurance lapse and replaced it instead with a mountain of debt that we’ve been trying to dig ourselves out of ever since. Over the years, Mama’s accountant advised her to liquidate—only there was nothing to liquidate. The bank owned it all.