Page 57 of The Wrecked One

Once he was behind the wheel and had pulled out onto a road, I remembered to buckle up, my nerves catching up with me, and finally asked, “So, where are you taking me, anyway?”

21

MYA

If I didn’t know any better, I would have considered this our first official date. We’d never taken one BT. Sneaking around the team to steal moments together had been our MO. But the gorgeous backdrop setting was perfect for a romantic outing.

The Canadian Rockies were mirrored in the emerald-green water, the thick forest surrounded us, and there was a cute lodge on the other side of the lake like a beacon for all things romance. And then there was the red-and-black quilted blanket cushioning our picnic where we sat quietly eating.

So, yeah, the setting was perfect. If only we could remove the weight of our baggage hanging over our heads and call this a date. Not likely.

“Early for sandwiches, I know,” was a crappy conversation starter, but I supposed it was better than a typical get-to-know-you date question. Besides, I already knew his favorite color and horoscope sign.

In fact, I already knew everything about Oliver. From the little things to the big ones, and everything in between. Well, maybe not everything-everything.

What really happened with your dad? Why’s your mom in your nightmares?

“Never a wrong time to eat a good sandwich.”

Oliver had already polished off his hoagie, as well as eaten the bag of chips and cookie I’d packed for him. The fact he’d eaten every last bite made my heart happy. Well, as happy as it could get given the circumstances, at least.

“This place is beautiful.” Way to state the obvious, Mya. I held back my eye roll since he wouldn’t understand it correlated with my own thoughts and not something he’d done or said.

“It’s not bad.” He pulled his knee up to his chest. “Thank you for the food. I feel better.”

Oliver feeling better was a step in the right direction. Now, what to say next?

“Mya, you can be yourself, you know. Just because I can’t be, doesn’t mean you have to do anything different.”

“How do you always know what I’m thinking?” I swiveled around to better face him, pulling my legs up beneath me to sit on my heels.

“I don’t. Not always.” He stretched out both legs now, staring off in the distance instead of meeting my eyes.

Back to the view, then. A memory from my past tugged at my mind and unfolded as I took in the stunning scenery once again, and I decided to share it with him, because why not? “When I was in high school, every winter break, I used to do puzzles of places that looked like this. I had to keep my hands and mind busy, or I’d get restless. When I was almost done completing one, I’d give the last two or three pieces to my father to hide around the house.”

I could feel his eyes on me, but now it was me unable to give him my attention. Not with what I was about to say—something Doctor Logan had helped me understand in therapy these last few months.

“I’d ask my dad to give me clues as to where he hid the pieces. I hadn’t been quite ready to complete the puzzle, and you know me, always looking for a case to solve. A mystery, even then.” Tipping my chin to the sky, I closed my eyes. “I’ve felt like I’m that incomplete puzzle most of my life. Always searching for a missing puzzle piece. Feeling as though there had to be one, and when I finally found it, all the things would come together and make me whole. But it’s remained completely elusive. All the traveling, hair dyeing, job changing . . . it’s never helped.” I had the urge to drown the butterflies in my stomach with tequila so I’d stop the fluttery, nervous sensation there. “I think that’s why I’ve built so many walls.”

Rolling my lips inward, I finally parted my eyelids to chance a look at him. His brown irises were dead set on mine as he patiently waited for me to continue.

“The problem is, I don’t know why I’m like this. Why I feel incomplete, or have this strange need to keep searching for that missing piece. I’m just . . .”

He opened his hand on the blanket between us like an invitation, and I scooched closer to him and took it. He threaded our fingers together without saying a word. I about cried at that, but I kept myself together.

“I’m done searching for that missing piece. Maybe there was never one.” I tipped up one shoulder, pinning my eyes on his again “Or maybe that piece is you.”

His brows tightened, and I was worried he’d pull his hand away, but instead, he held me even tighter.

“Why’d you bring me here?” I whispered, nervous about how he was interpreting my revelation. One I wouldn’t have ever discovered if not for my work in therapy.

Eyes back on the lake and away from me, he hung his head and murmured, “Because I need to tell you something. I don’t want to, but I think I have to.”

My pulse was in my ears and my heart was stuttering, but I waited for him to continue. Reminded myself patience was both respectful and a virtue, and I needed to have it.

“Mya.” My name fell from his mouth like it hurt him to say it. Or like he might cry.

What are you going to tell me?

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