Page 91 of When Stars Fall

“You’re right. Sometimes, after a long day on set, I love a glass of wine. Hell, maybe even a whole bottle. But I never disguise my drinking. I don’t pour wine into a flask and hide it on set to drink between takes.” For three years, I bore witness to every trick. If he’s drinking, the wordmoderationdoesn’t exist.

“I don’t do any of that anymore.” Wyatt clasps his hands, and his expression is steady. “I’m not doing that.”

“But you’re still drinking.” My education in the things Wyatt doesn’t say runs deep. He’s being evasive. Not a lie. Not the truth.

“Not anymore.”

“When was the last time you drank?”

“I don’t remember.”

I chuckle. He’ll recall the next one. “When was the last time you took a pill?”

“December, two years ago. Around Christmas. It was . . . Anna was . . . and I couldn’t stand seeing Jamal crying like that.” Wyatt winces. “That was my last relapse. I’ve been good ever since.”

“You’ve memorized that, but you don’t have a clue when you took your last drink?”

His jaw hardens. I’ve caught him. If he digs in, I’ll never believe another word he says. He stands up and crosses the trailer. “I’m not drinking. You want a Breathalyzer installed? You want me to breathe in your face every day? You want to follow me around? I’ll do it to prove I’m sober.”

He’s so close that his body heat warms me. I glance up at him and then I put my hands on either side of his face.

“All I’ve ever wanted from you, Wyatt, is the truth. The ugly or the beautiful.” Rising onto my toes, I hug him tight. “Tell me the truth, please. I want to trust you. I need to trust you.”

He tugs me flush against him but doesn’t say anything, just breathes me in, his lips pressed in my hair.

Haven bursts in the door and stops short when she sees us. “Mom, Dad’s trailer is about five times nicer than ours.”

He draws away, but his hand seeks mine and squeezes.

“He always has better riders than me.” My senses are still tuned to Wyatt, to his smell, to his body heat, to the sensation of being pressed against him.

“That trailer is nothing,” he says. “Sometimes I get a three-story one.”

“Like a house?” Haven gapes.

“How is Stacy?” I interrupt. Haven doesn’t need the details on Wyatt’s sixty-five-page riders. When he and Isaac used to make them up, they sometimes got ridiculous. The person tasked with making sure he had only blue M&M’s, perfectly round, earned their money. He and Isaac held them up to the lights in the trailer, laughing at their roundness, their blueness.

“Nice, I guess,” Haven says. “Do I have to do my schoolwork? Can’t this trip be a vacation?”

“No.” Wyatt and I answer at the same time. I glance at him and smile a little. At least we’re in agreement on the importance of school.

“Is my real school going to care?” Haven puts her hands on her hips. Her bulky jacket is almost comical on her small frame.

“Your mom agreed to let you come if you could stay on track. It’s not negotiable, Short Stuff.”

“What were you guys doing in here?” Haven huffs and flops onto the closest couch.

“Talking.” Wyatt drops my hand and shoves his into the pocket of his jeans.

“Sounds boring.” Haven picks up the TV remote.

“I’m going back to my trailer.” Wyatt ruffles her hair on the way past. “You want to come play some games? I asked for gaming consoles, an iPad, a few other things I thought you might like.”

Her face lights up. “Yes!” She turns to me. “I mean, can I?”

“He’s your dad. You don’t have to ask my permission unless it goes against something I’ve already said no to.” I try to catch Wyatt’s attention, hoping he heard that too. She’ll play us off each other if she can. In the past, she’s tried her luck with me and Nikki.

Haven disappears out the door ahead of him.

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