Page 112 of Caught Up In You

And even though my life is far from perfect, I feel okay.

“So has this therapist told you to pull your head out of your ass and fix things with Wyatt yet?” Felix asks.

I nearly drop the window.

“We haven’t gotten that far,” I say, swallowing hard.

It’s true. I told Dr. Berry about the night I rejected her, about our relationship, about the pineapple can, about meeting her in the bar back in January and how she was wary of me. How I pushed her and cajoled and convinced her to trust me, only to smash her to bits.

Dr. Berry told me I needed to apologize to her, but he made it sound like something we’d tackle down the road. I’m still working on getting through a therapy session without crying.

And I don’t think any amount of therapy is going to help me come to terms with what I did to her. I’m finally starting to understand that Dylan Anders’s death wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong. But Wyatt? What I did to her was wrong, and it was absolutely my choice.

I sigh. “I don’t know if I evencouldfix things,” I confess to Felix, giving voice to one of the intrusive thoughts that’s been swirling in my brain. Another thing I’ve learned in therapy? If you say something out loud, you take some of its power away. “I hurt her pretty bad. I don’t know if she’ll ever trust me again.”

“Yeah,” Felix says, “but are you really not even going to try? I mean, this window? Everything about this window saiddon’t even try. Decades of paint, some of it lead. Glazing that had degraded, water in the panes, rot taking hold. The sashes were a wreck, and one of the weights was missing. Most people would have taken one look at all the wear and said, ‘I’m better off justtossing it, replacing it with something new.’ But you know what? Historic windows, even ones that have been through shit, will last you longer than some new bullshit you buy at Home Depot.”

The whole time my brother is talking, he’s systematically nailing the window into the frame with precise movements, protecting the glass and the sash, making sure everything is placed perfectly.

“But I like the hard work. I think it’s worth it,” he says. Then he turns to me. “I think you do too.”

I feel my eyes watering, a side effect of all the therapy. Turns out that when you start acknowledging your feelings, you have to let them escape however they want. I’m discovering that for me, that involves a whole hell of a lot of crying.

Thankfully, my brother is unfazed.

“You love that girl. I saw you two together. She was good for you, and you were good for her. Don’t walk away from that,” he says.

I drop my gaze to my feet, because this much eye contact with my twin is a lot. We don’t really do this. In fact, it’s only my foray into therapy that has us talking about real shit at all. I’m learning that my whole family avoids the hard stuff by focusing on the good. And while positivity is great, there comes a point at which it’s more toxic than helpful. This kind of conversation—like everything else in my life right now—is new. And like I said, it’s weird, but it feels good.

Still, I have to cut the tension with a joke. “When did you become Dr. Phil?”

“Dr. Phil is a con man,” Felix shoots back. “I’m just your brother. And I’m telling you to sit down and use that big brain of yours to figure out a way to fix things. Show Wyatt that you love her, that you’re sorry, and that you want another shot.”

CHAPTER 47

WYATT

September 15

Grace

I have something for you. Any chance you can come by the store when you get off?

It’s Friday, and Jonah is closing, which means I actually get to leave the bar with enough energy to enjoy a hot bubble bath and a glass of wine when I get home. But I can swing by Grace’s bookstore first to see what she’s got for me.

It’s probably another romance novel. She’s been trying to get me into them ever since I told her all about what happened with Owen. I assume she thinks reading about love will heal my broken heart, but mostly it just makes me angry. Things always work out at the ends of those books, but that has not been my experience.

I pull up to the old camera store where Dog-Eared Books is housed. It’s after nine, and the shop has been closed since seven,but it’s lit up and warm on this oddly crisp late summer evening. I park my truck and knock on the door of the shop. Grace pops up from behind the counter, a manic-looking grin on her face. She hustles over and unlocks the door.

“I’m glad you’re here. I want to run down to Pete’s and grab a milkshake. Would you mind holding down the fort for me? Thank you so much!” Grace practically yanks me into the store. “Lock it behind me, okay?” she says, then runs out and pulls the door shut.

“Can’t you just—” I start, wondering why she can’t lock up the shop herself and go get a freaking milkshake. The store is closed for the night. There’s no need to bring me into this.

But she’s already trotting down the street toward the diner.

I sigh, flipping the lock, then trudge into the store. I smell like beer and French fries, and Ireallywant that bath. Why couldn’t she just give me whatever book she’s trying to get me to read and let me leave?

I’m making my way toward the overstuffed chairs when my toe connects with a cardboard box. As I walk around it, I glance down and see the words scrawled in messy Sharpie:

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