Page 65 of Fly Boy
“Home,” I state, distant, vacant, numb.
Dad bolts forward, his hand wrapping around my arm. “No, Wyatt, you’ve been drinking.”
Shaking my head, I walk on autopilot into the kitchen to find my car keys. “I’ve had one. Hours ago.”
Sadie jolts up from her seat at the empty dining table, worry shining in her brown eyes. “Wyatt? Baby? Speak to me.”
“I need to go,” I tell her, just as I locate my keys next to the fruit bowl and pocket them.
She gasps, glaring at my dad as he watches in the doorjamb, arms crossed, looking imposing, as if his hulking frame will stop me from leaving his house.
“I told you this was a bad idea. I told you to wait.” She’s a blur as I step past my dad, her small hands lacing into mine, tugging me back. “No, Wyatt. You’re not leaving. Please sleep on it. Go when you’re not so upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I say, my voice void of emotion. I turn before I reach the door, meeting her tear-filled eyes as I bend down and kiss her cheek. “Thank you for dinner.”
She whimpers, grabbing my face with both hands. “Please.”
I dislodge her hold, and a tear streaks down her face. Dad comes behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her against his chest. She elbows him in his stomach as I open the door and step into the freezing December air.
I don’t stop as I continue toward my car, hearing Sadie snarl, “I will never forgive you if something happens to our boy.”
“I’ll follow behind him,” Dad says as I slide into my seat and catch the jingle of his keys.
“But…”
“I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, baby. Could you imagine if Ana went into early labor and no one could drive her to the hospital?”
“Oh, thank god,” Sadie sighs. “I’m coming, too.”
I slam my car door as she grabs her coat before they make their way to his truck. Their headlights are in my rearview mirror the entire thirty-minute drive to my house. My mind remains a blur, silent, shutting down.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m lying on myback, staring at the ceiling, when my phone rings. My hand pats the bed beside me, searching for it and then holding it above my face. A smile that has no business being so big twists onto my lips, my heart lurching into a happy little patter when I seeMr. Sexy Pilot Manon the caller ID. Filling my lungs, I try to tame the butterflies in my stomach.
“I was just thinking about you,” I say as I answer, my voice seductive, hoping that if I’m not getting to see him tonight, we can at least turn this call into something X-rated. But when he doesn’t reply, I sit up in bed, a frown touching my brows. “Wyatt?”
I can hear the sound of his car, the low thrum of the engine, and the periodic ticking of his indicators as he drives.
“What’s happened?” Don’t ask me how I know; I can just tell it’s bad. “Wyatt, speak to me. You’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry,” he rasps, and that one word somehow manages to ease the worry wrapped around my heart. Marginally. It’s still beating like a marching band in my chest, though, and I’m desperate for him to say more. “I don’t know why I called.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him, swinging my legs off my bed and begin searching my room. “Where are you?”
“Driving home.”
“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow?” Setting my phone on my nightstand, I smash the speaker button as I grab a hoodie and tug it on. I hear his exhale through the phone. It’s long and shaky and filled with so many emotions I can’t process them all without seeing his face. “Wyatt?”
“I couldn’t stay.”
“Why? What’s happened?” I ask again, pushing my feet into a pair of sneakers before throwing open my closet door and pulling out the pre-packed bag I was going to take to his place tomorrow.
He laughs, the sound hollow and heartbreaking. “This is so fucked up.”
“Okay, where are you, exactly, Wyatt?” I ask firmly as I put the strap over my shoulder and head for my bedroom door. I need to get the basics from him because the man on the other end of the phone is in no state to be alone when he gets back to his dark and empty home.
He hesitates for a second, as if he’s only just aware that he’s in his car. “Greenwich.”
