Page 66 of Fly Boy
So he’s at least twenty-five minutes out.
“I’m leaving now. I’ll get to your place—”
“No, Pippa,” he says, sounding pained. “I’ve already ruined your Christmas by calling. Don’t leave your family for me.”
“Wy—” The call disconnects, and my stomach bottoms out when I hear the three beeps coming from the speaker.
I pocket my phone and race down the stairs, plastering on a smile when I walk into the smaller of our two living rooms. A fire roars in the hearth, the giant Fir tree sparkles in the corner, and Dad and Nancy are snuggled on a sofa watchingIt’s a Wonderful Life,only looking up when I clear my throat.
“I’m going to head out for a bit,” I say, thumbing toward the foyer. “I’ll be back sometime tomorrow, okay?”
“But it’s Christmas,” Dad replies, pointing the remote at the TV and pausing the movie. “Who are you going to see? Anyone we know?”
“Gigi’s in Bedford spending the holidays with her folks,” I lie, hating the sticky coating it leaves on my tongue.
Dad’s eyebrows knit together as he stares at me. “And her parents are okay with her ditching them, too?”
Guilt worms its way into my gut, and my eyes flicker over to Nancy as she stares at me with this knowing look before placing her hand on my father’s arm. “Charlie, Pippa’s a big girl. If she wants to spend time with her friends, let her.”
The lie and deceitfulness wrap their ugly hands around me as Dad sulks into the sofa cushions, but then I remember Wyatt on the phone, and it no longer becomes a choice to stay or to go.
I lean over and drop a kiss on his cheek, “Love you, Dad.”
“Clearly not enough,” he mutters, and Nancy playfully slaps his chest.
“You are terrible, Charles Cartwright.” She rolls her eyes before gazing up at me. “Have a nice night, sweetheart.”
My smile is tight as I dart from the room, grab my bag in the entryway, and head to the multi-car garage. I punch the code into the lockbox in the wall and snatch the first set of keys that my hand finds. Pressing the unlock button, a sleek black Mercedes flashes, and I rush over to it, open the back door, and toss my bag inside before getting behind the wheel and drive.
My thumbs drum against the steering wheel as I sit outside Wyatt’s lifeless house. The driveway is empty, the lights are off, and he should have been here by now. Any movement outside catches my attention, my heightened nerves making me hyperaware of everything.
What if something happened during his drive? He sounded distracted. What if…
Lights at the end of the street have me sitting straighter, holding my breath as I wait to see if it’s him. I squint as the headlights of the vintage Range Rover blind me as it turns onto his property, the engine cutting off and the driver's side door flinging open before I’ve clicked off my seatbelt.
Wyatt storms across the grass, marching up the path to his front door, not even registering as I call his name. I’m about to follow him, when another car pulls up, parking on the street. The passenger side swings open before it’s fully stopped, and a petite woman with a pixie haircut jumps out. Worry and panic line her face as she stares after the man disappearing inside his house. She freezes when she sees me, her hands clutching around the top of the door.
I blink at her for several seconds, trying to figure out who she is. She doesn’t look like Wyatt, and her features are darker than his—dark hair and dark eyes, even in the light from the streetlamp overhead.
“Sadie,” the driver calls, making her jump.
She exhales, her lips pulling into a tight line. “We wanted to make sure he got home okay,” she explains, her eyes darting behind me. “He shouldn’t have driven like that.”
“Oh,” I say dumbly, only now realizing who these people are. “You’re his parents.”
She nods weakly, “We didn’t know he was expecting his—”
“Friend,” I finish for her, but her eyes lower to my overnight bag in my hand.
“Friend,” she repeats, not quite believing me. “Thank you for coming. He… He shouldn’t be alone.”
I nod in understanding, and that gut feeling that something bad has happened returns, making my heart splinter. The man, Wyatt’s father, leans across the console, raising his voice as he says, “Have him call me tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I say, watching as Sadie lowers herself slowly back into the car, looking torn between leaving and wanting to run into the house and check on her son.
I don’t wait for them to drive away. I don’t want to waste another second outside when he’s in there alone.
Sprinting up the path, I dump my bag by the entryway table and lock the door. I can’t hear anything except the sound of him pacing his kitchen until he yells, “Fuck!”
