Page 19 of Fly Boy
“When you live on take-out and basic-as-fuck home-cooked meals, it’s easy.”
“Why don’t you ask Mom to teachyou how to do it properly? You know she’d love it.” He looks at me contemplatively until he gasps, clicking his fingers like he’s just remembered something. “That’s right. You can’t because you only have one pan.”
“I have more than one,” I grumble at his mocking, mentally picturing the small saucepan I somehow acquired sitting in a drawer next to…my other single pan.
Bowie snickers. “Whatever you say.” Pushing away from the counter, he opens the fridge door, looking over his shoulder to ask, “Are you staying for another beer?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m going to head home. Need to catch up on a couple of things before flying tomorrow morning.”
“See you soon?” Bowie pulls me into a hug before pressing his ice-cold bottle to the back of my neck. I shove him away with a hiss as the bastard laughs, jogging to the other side of the room.
“Dick,” I mutter, wiping away the condensation with a smile. I turn to grab my keys from the counter, pausing when I see Dad in the kitchen doorway.
“You alright, old man?” I joke, but my smile falls as he awkwardly shifts from foot to foot.
“Wyatt, can I have a word before you go?” Dad asks, his expression more serious than I’ve ever seen.
I glance at Bowie, who shrugs before sneaking past him and out of sight. “Sure.”
He nods toward the backdoor, and I follow him in silence out onto the deck. The sound of crickets fills the quiet, and the yard dances with fireflies as he takes a seat on an Adirondack chair, gesturing to the one beside him. Sweat lines my palms as I sit, the food in my stomach slowly churning as worry infuses with it, making it turn sour.
“Is everything okay?” I ask as different scenarios flood my mind. Is he sick? Is there something wrong with Teddy? Sadie? Should Bowie be here, too?
“It’s your mom.” He gets straight to the point. I frown and glance over my shoulder at the backdoor, noticing Sadie through the kitchen window, her focus on the sink in front of her hidden from view.
“No, Son,” he continues, drawing my attention back to him. “Fiona.”
My entire body turns to lead at the mention of my birth mother, a name that hasn’t been uttered for almost thirty years. At least not on purpose. Abruptly, I stand, wood angrily scraping against the deck as the chair careens backward, nearly toppling over.
“Wyatt,” Dad snaps, but my name barely registers as my blood thunders in my ears.
“No.”
“Son…”
“No,” I say louder, raising a hand and cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear whatever you have to say about her, Dad. I don’t care.”
“Wyatt, this is diff—”
“Different?” I huff, finishing for him, the word nasty and dripping with venom. One name, and I’m on fire. One name, and I’m ready to detonate like a volcano that’s been overdue for far too long, ready to cause devastation to anything around it. One name that turns me into the little boy, crying, hands pressed to the cold windowpane, staring outside, watching as taillights disappear, wondering what he did wrong, why hismommydoesn’t want him.
Again.
“Nothing is ever different with that woman,” I snarl. “It wasn’t different when I was only days old. It wasn’t different when I was five, and it’s not fucking different now.”
My breathing is ragged, shoulders rising and falling with each inhale-exhale, balled hands shaking by my sides. Dad’s blue eyes shine with sadness as he stares up at me, and his face looks older somehow. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything else, I turn on my heel and storm to the door, yanking it open so hard it smacks against the outside wall.
“Wyatt? What’s wrong?” Sadie gasps, rushing toward me, but I barrel past her. “Baby, wait.”
Dad’s heavy footfalls sound behind me, but I don’t stop. She calls my name, following me to the front door as I thunder through it and down the steps.
“Sadie,” I hear Dad say, his voice soft in the way that’s reserved just for her, and I know he’s stopped her from coming after me.
Unlocking my car, I throw myself into the driver's seat and turn on the ignition. The lights blink on and illuminate my family, all with worried expressions, watching as I back out of the driveway. My hands strangle the wheel, the leather biting into my palms uncomfortably as I tear down the road.
I welcome it. I welcome the rage that pulses through my veins.
Fiona isn’t my mom. She never was from the second she birthed me and didn’t even care enough to give me a goddamn name. She wasn’t the moment she left me to be found by my dad on his parents’ stoop hours after her discharge from the hospital. She still wasn’t the day she turned up at our house, begging Dad for another chance, only to leave two years later without saying goodbye. And whatever reason she’s reached out now, that sure as fuck doesn’t mean I need to listen.
