Page 11 of Breathing Wisteria
Flynn
It’s us. Or at least it’s the us we could have been.
Would have been, if it weren’t for me.
My mind is racing, and I try to take in the image in front of me. It’s this room, sketched in remarkable detail right down to the threadbare rug in front of the sofa. Wyatt is seated in front of an easel by the window, but instead of looking at the view in front of her, her eyes are turned to watch the people behind her, on the couch. I’m there. My old, much-loved guitar, the one I rarely play anymore, on my lap and my fingers strumming the strings. Her imagery is so vivid I can feel the peace that settles over me when I get lost in creating.
But it’s the person drawn to my left that has me unable to breathe. A young girl, with long, dark hair that falls down her back. The same back that is leaning against me at an angle. She’s the right age and I know without a shadow of a doubt who it is.
Carys.
“I’m sor—”
She’s apologizing? She’s fucking apologizing for being heartbroken. To the person that broke her?
“Don’t.” My voice is harsher than I intended, but goddammit. I wanted her to be okay. I needed her to be okay. “When did you draw this?”
She’s not okay.
“Tonight.”
I tear my eyes away from the sketch I wish was our reality and I glance at her. Her face is blank, the same expression I was faced with for days upon months, all of which seemed indeterminately endless.
I thought by leaving I would be helping her. If she didn’t have to face the person responsible for our daughter’s death, she could move on. She could stop worrying about trying to forgive me and just let herself grieve.
Because God knows, I don’t deserve her forgiveness.
“Wyatt?” Her impassive eyes twist my gut painfully. “Fuck!”
I can’t stop myself from striding toward her, desperate to get my hands on her. Grabbing her hand, I pull her into me and wrap my arms around her tightly.
“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I repeat the words over and over until I feel her relax into me. I keep saying them until I feel her arms lift and cling on to my back, clawing at me and pulling me even closer. I continue saying the words to her until I feel her body shaking with the sobs of a pain so intense that only the truly unlucky will ever experience.
Only then do I stop.
“I imagine her as a mini you. I think she would have been serious and snarky.” Her voice is sad. “Sometimes, I dream about her and she has the same evil glint in her eye that you get when someone is being exceptionally stupid.” Wyatt’s face lights up. “And you would think that would get her into all sorts of trouble but, unlike you, she would have the charm to win people over.”
“Hey, I’m charming.” I lean forward, enjoying the familiar roll of her eyes, and carefully place my mug on the coffee table, before giving her a broad smile, enjoying the ease between us.
There was definite awkwardness after Wyatt’s breakdown. I could see how vulnerable she felt, and I know her well enough to know how much she hates that. But I’ve witnessed her defenses drop over the last few hours, she has morphed into the girl I loved all of those years ago, so perhaps it was exactly what she needed. What we both needed.
Forced to face our mutual demons, we have been talking about things we should have discussed all those years ago. Confessions and shattered dreams that broke us, now feel like they could be our absolution.
“I think she would have looked like you.” I reach over and tug a lock of her hair, wrapping it around my finger loosely. “Hair as beautiful as the most stunning sunset and eyes that glitter like emeralds.”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “That was corny as fuck. I swear you used to be better than that.”
A loud laugh rolls through my body and it sounds so foreign to my own ears.
“I never talk about her.” Wyatt’s declaration sobers me. “I just don’t know how, you know?” She glances up at me and my smile fades to a slight grimace.
“Yeah. I get it.” I consider my words carefully. I’m so fucking desperate to reassure her, the need to fix her as fierce today as it was all those years ago. “I feel like actually saying the words is going to permanently wreck me. Like, if I admit how broken I am, there will be no hope of ever being okay.”
She’s nodding, a bright sheen to her eyes as she watches me intently.
“Yeah.” The word is a gentle whisper and she closes her eyes and roughly rubs them. “I felt that way for so long. If I could just pretend it didn’t hurt, then it wouldn’t.” I hear her sigh and watch her chest rise and fall with the deep intake of breath. “I’ve always drawn her. Whatever age she would have been, that’s how I would draw her, and it always brought me a certain amount of peace. But it’s not enough anymore. Not talking about her is becoming more painful. Sometimes I need to say her name, just to remind myself that she wasn’t a dream.”
