Page 68 of How to Say I Do
I’ve been here for an hour, actually.
I could picture him waiting, impatient as Jason, shifting his weight from boot to boot as he paced the terminal or hovered over a table at Starbucks while he stared at the clock. I was doing basically the same thing, tapping the heels of my Doc Martens like I was a backup drummer for Van Halen. I willed the pilot to step on the gas and get us to the gate.
Then: the beautifuldingthat released us. I hustled off with my carry-on into the terminal, alternately speeding up—get moving, get to him faster—and then slowing down.Don’t breathe like a pig, Noël. You’re going to fuck up your hair. You spent an hour on the flight making sure it looked good.
Security checkpoint, the funnel to arrivals. I scanned the crowd—it wasn’t fair, there weren’t this many cowboy hats in New York, but here, God, it was impossible—
“Noël!”
There he was, one arm over his head, waving that Texas hello. He was in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, ironed so neatly the creases on his sleeves could cut you. His cheeks were pink and his hat was perfectly straight, like he’d spent a lot of time making sure it was. I took off, not quite running, but not walking either, scooting around businessmen and frazzled moms and squeaky strollers, and,finally, I was there.
Be cool.
I wasn’t. I dropped my carry-on and leaped, both my arms looping his neck as I wrapped my leg around his thigh like I could climb him, like Ihadclimbed him, in fact, when we’d made out on the way to his hotel room the first night we made love. Who cared? I breathed him in, that warm-sunshine and saddle-leather smell.
Then the embarrassment started to kick in, and I pulled back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
Wyatt held me tight, not letting go. “Noël,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you.”
What a different drive to the ranch that was.
I talked a mile a minute again, but this time I made Wyatt laugh until the warmth of it filled up his truck, and he would flash me that rogue dimple of his that I hadn’t seen since Mexico.
I regaled Wyatt with stories. It was summer in the city, which meant the migration to the Hamptons was underway. I’d successfully gotten out of a Hampton’s lunch party by trading a restaurant opening with Dinah—the restaurant would be gone by the end of the year—and had taken on my first engagement soirée since…
Well, look at that, it didn’t hurt to talk about Jenna anymore.
I’d also decided, before taking that flight, that I was going to be fullymethis week. Usually, I tried to smooth myself over and turn on the charm. I could cover up my “a lotness” for a handful of months until the unbearableness of me bashed its way through and wore out whoever I was with.
Wyatt had seen me at my worst, many, many times, and at my best when I was trying to impress him and be wonderful for him in Mexico. Now? I had to just be me.
If Wyatt liked me—really, honestly liked me, maybe even enough to fall in love with me—then he had toknowme. He had to know all my difficult parts, my moody parts, my high-maintenance parts, and my bat-shit parts. If I was too much for him, it would be better to find out as soon as possible. Like, this week, before I was too far gone and too much in love with him.
He was a bundle of nervous energy when we pulled up to his house. I clocked all the changes: the new shade sails, the picnic tables he’d built from scratch and was letting the sun weather gracefully before he stained them to a mirror shine. The new flowers— Was that hibiscus potted on his porch? It was, and he plucked a bloom for me as we climbed the steps. I buried my nose in the petals and tried to control my smile. Which was impossible.
In the kitchen, a vase of home-grown yellow roses sat next to a bottle of Son’s Tears petite sirah. He pulled out a stool for me with a flourish, and then he told me to wait as he pulled out a fresh charcuterie tray laid out on a Texas-shaped cutting board from his fridge.
“I got it all ready before I left for the airport,” he said. “I wanted to surprise you.”
His wine was just as perfect as the first time, rich with Wyatt’s history and the layers of his love. He stood beside me, one boot heel hooked on my stool, one of his arms slung across my seat.
We drank wine and nibbled on homemade cheese he’d bought downtown, and fed each other plump strawberries and fresh grape tomatoes he’d grown in his garden. Wyatt told me stories about planting the tomatoes as a kid with his mom and how Liam used to eat dirt. Twenty years later, Liam tried to teach Jason how to weed, but Jason had ripped up an entire tomato plant and waddled across the yard to proudly present it to Savannah.
I told him about the thirty-third pair of bellbottoms-and-crop-top combo I’d seen that week on the subway. “It’s all coming back, Wyatt. Chokers and claw clips and matching plaid. Suspenders.” I shuddered.
He eyed my boots. “What about Docs?”
“Please. These never went out of style.”
“My mistake.” He laughed.
When we finished our wine, he carried my bag upstairs.
I rubbed my sweaty palms against my jeans and followed him. Were we— Was this—
But, no, he led me to the bedroom down the hall from his, filled with sunshine and gleaming with a Pledge and Pinesol glow. The bed was done up in delicate floral bedding, with oodles of pillows and a box with a bow sitting in the center. There was rocking chair with a well-worn stuffed elephant perched on the seat in one corner, and a mobile of farm animals caught a sunbeam falling through the window.
“This was Liam’s room, and then his and Savannah’s room. Jason’s crib was there.” Wyatt pointed to the space beneath the mobile. “I haven’t been able to take that down.” His cheeks were magenta again, and his eyes skittered across the floorboards.
