Page 33 of Win Big

“Maybe he has.” I lift my eyes and fasten them onto Wyatt’s face. His eyes are warm and steady. His mouth is beautiful. Wyatt may be the life of the party with not much beneath that, but one thing he never does is judge people. I want to tell him everything and let him be there for me.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “It could be just normal aging. But if you’re concerned about it, you need to talk to your parents.”

Again, he’s right. “I’m afraid to,” I confess.

“I get it. Our parents getting older is hard.”

“How old are your parents?”

“They’re both fifty-five.”

“Young.” I sigh. “My mom’s fifty-two.”

He nods.

The air in the room has become heavy. And then Wyatt releases my hand, leans back, and says, “Well, the good thing about having a bad memory is that jokes are funny more than once.”

I snort out a reluctant laugh.

“And he can plan his own surprise party.”

“Oh my God! You’re terrible.”

He lifts a big shoulder. “Yep. Come on. Life is short. You gotta laugh before it’s too late.”

I gaze at him. He has a point. But it irritates me. Life isn’t all fun and games. What made me think this guy would be there for me if I spilled my guts? “But if all you do is laugh, nothing ever gets done.” I shove back my chair and grab my plate. I reach for his too, but he picks it up and follows me as I stomp over to the dishwasher.

The atmosphere has changed. He made a joke. I didn’t laugh.

Now I’m annoyed atmyself,but it’s too late.

Momand I have shopped for a couple of hours at the Brentwood Country Mart. Despite its cute country name and appearance, it’s home to a lot of high-end shops. We picked up some sweet things—Mom, a gorgeous pair of Louboutin sandals; me, my favorite Deep Blue Ocean candles, some pretty office supplies, and a new jacket. We gossiped about people who’d been at the banquet last night. Then we decided it was time for a late lunch and we headed to Pacifico, an elegant little eatery in the mall.

With our bags and purses settled beneath the table, we relax in comfy upholstered chairs and order cocktails. Mom loves a good martini and I feel like a Bellini. It’s cold and delicious.

Now to bring the conversation around to Dad.

Mom’s perusing her menu. “That salmon we had last night was amazing,” she says. “Dad and I are going to that restaurant next week.”

“Which one?”

“Bambino. The chef is Michael Bianchi.”

I nod. “There was so much good food there.”

“People couldn’t stop talking about it.” Mom smiles at me over the menu. “Another success.”

“Thank you.” My insides warm. Hearing words of praise from my parents always makes me happy. And relieved. Will I ever get over that?

What would happen if I failed at something? I don’t even like to think about it because I’ve experienced their disappointment in me, and I never want to be there again.

We both order salads.

“Did Dad have a good time last night?” I pick up my Bellini.

“Yes, of course. He loves socializing with hockey people.”

“Because he’s the king.” I smile.

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