Page 67 of Caught Up In You

Bryan Adams - Please Forgive Me

Cake - I Will Survive

Foreigner - I Want to Know What Love Is

Journey - Who’s Crying Now

I gape. “Is this their breakup?”

She grins.

“This guy scored his breakup? And sent it to her?”

“Yup. It’s an amazing listen. I’m guessing it’s got to be from 1996 or ’97. The Cake cover is from ’96, so it’s after that.”

“I don’t know what’s more heartbreaking—that he made this, or that she sold it at a garage sale almost thirty years later,” I say.

Wyatt plucks the tape from my hand, flips open the case and slides out the tape one-handed, popping it into the tape deck. I have to shout over the opening strains of Jeff Buckley. “All these love letters, and this one is your favorite?”

She casts a glance at me sideways, a half grin on her face. “I’ve never lied about who I am.”

“Then why are we going to a Griffin Stone concert?”

She freezes, frowning, then sighs, her chest sinking in on itself.

“He’s my ex,” she says.

Thank god I’m not driving, because I think I would have swerved off the road at that little piece of information.

“Your ex? I’m sorry, you had aboyfriend?”

She lets out a rueful laugh. “I love that you’re more shocked that I had a boyfriend than that it was that poser douche-canoe.” She tips her head back against her seat and presses harder on the gas. “Remember how you said you were gonna hurt him? Don’t do that.”

I’m putting it all together now: the way she charged into my living room like a lit sparkler, the way she holds back, the walls she’s built.

That fucking guy?Really?

“I think you’re going to do that just fine on your own in that outfit.”

I watch the tension melt off of her as she laughs, deep and throaty. But she doesn’t say anything else, just keeps her eye on the horizon, the two-lane highway rushing at us as we head toward Indianapolis.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but we’ve got about an hour on the road, so…”

I can practically feel her eye roll, but she starts talking anyway.

“First, I should tell you that we’re not actually going to see Griffin Stone. I don’t plan to hear that asshole sing a note,” she says. “We’re going to see Romy Maxwell, who’s opening for him. She was my best friend and roommate back in Nashville…and I haven’t spoken to her since I walked in on her kissing my boyfriend. Griffin. Well,hewas kissingher. But I don’t really know what all happened, because I walked out and moved here the next day.”

It’s then that I realize just how little I know about Wyatt Hart. And it’s not because I’m not curious. She plays her cards so close to the vest that I’m not even sureshecan see them.

I let the information roll around in my brain. She poured that story out like it was bullet-pointed, like she was testifying in court. Just the facts, no emotion.

But when I glance over at her, I see that despite the way she’s holding her face still, impassive, focusing on the road, there’s a watery sheen to her eyes that betrays the heft of this situation. When she finally looks over at me, there’s a touch of fear in her expression.

Like I’m going to ask more questions.

Or bolt.

Or both.

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