Page 63 of Caught Up In You

Owen

You get a break at any point tonight?

I’m suddenlyveryvery aware of the ache between my thighs, the heat and the slip of my skin. I press my legs together, but that only makes the throbbing worse.

I glance down the bar, where our new hire, a raggedy hipster called Jacob or Jonah or Jimothy—he’s only been here a day, so I haven’t bothered to learn his name—is staring at the cash register like it’s one of those puzzle boxes in an escape room. He’ll be very little help tonight, since he knows how to make barely any drinks that don’t come directly from a tap. Still, we usually have a slight lull around eight before the late-night crowd shows up.

Wyatt

I can get off for a few around 8

Owen

Yeah ya will

Wyatt

Doc!

I expect time to crawl by until Owen’s arrival, but it’s Friday night and we’re down a man. I spend the hours pulling drinks and closing tabs, hauling kegs and wiping up spills. Jonah proves just useful enough that I learn his name.

And when I have a spare moment to catch my breath, it’s Romy’s text that invades my brain, not Owen’s.

I was already in a bad place when I walked in on her and Griffin all those years ago. I’d just gotten the call about Libby’s arrest, and my mind was whirring with plans. I’d have to quit my job, probably find a subletter for the apartment I’d moved into with Griffin. And my bank account was empty enough that I couldn’t survive long without a job. I’d visited Cardinal Springs a few times for holidays so I could see Hazel, but I had no idea what the job landscape there was like. Or how to care for a thirteen-year-old by myself. Or if the state of Indiana would even let me.

And there he was, pressing Romy into the couch, her guitar on the floor, his slung around his back like a cowboy.

I took in the scene just long enough for him to look up and see me.

He smirked.

I remember Romy yelling my name. I remember that Griffin didn’t.

I walked out.

I spent that night sleeping in my truck at a campground outside of Nashville. I ignored all her texts.

He sent only one:

C’mon, Wyatt. Things haven’t been good between us for a while

No apology. Barely an explanation. More like an excuse.

I waited until I knew he was at the studio where he was trying to crank out his debut EP before going back to the apartment, throwing things in suitcases and trash bags like I was on a fucked-up episode ofSupermarket Sweep. I was so wracked with rage and heartbreak and fear about what awaited me inIndiana that I could barely think about the scene I’d walked in on.

But now, eight years later, I try to call up the image.

I can see it. Surprisingly clearly. Romy’s hands were on his chest, and her guitar was on the floor.

In all the years I’d known her, Romy had neveronceput her guitar on the floor. It was a Martin acoustic that had been passed down from her grandfather. It was her most prized possession, not only because she hoped it would make all her dreams come true, but because it was the only thing she had left of her granddad. He had died only six months prior but had been lost to her for much longer thanks to Alzheimer’s. When she put that guitar down, it was always on a stand. She kept one in her room and one in the living room. She had a fold-up one she brought to gigs.

That guitar wasneveron the floor.

And her hands were on his chest.

Like she was trying to push him away.

The first year I was in Cardinal Springs, I could barely hold myself and my sister together. Hazel fell to pieces when Libby went to prison, and she had nothing—nothing—but me and my half-assed attempts to provide a stable home. By the time I got my feet under me, it felt too late to reach out to Romy. I was living a different life by then. There was no way I was getting down to Nashville, and I figured her life had moved on too.

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