Page 39 of Triple Play
I’ve been staring at my ceiling for three hours, replaying Jordie’s kiss on loop—the way his rough hand felt against my skin, the way he looked at me after, like I’d given him something precious.
The way I sent him away anyway.
I need water. Or air. Or a lobotomy.
The house is dark when I pad downstairs, silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the creak of old floorboards beneath my bare feet.
Then I see the light spilling from the kitchen.
Every single light, blazing like it’s the middle of the day.
Wyatt’s at the table, staring at nothing, a mug in front of him that’s probably gone cold.
He doesn’t look up when I walk in. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
I should leave. Go back upstairs. Let him have whatever midnight crisis he’s having in peace.
Instead, I hear myself say, “You’re up late.”
“Can’t sleep.” His voice is flat. Empty.
“Yeah. Me neither.”
He finally looks at me. His dark eyes track over my face, like he’s cataloging something—memorizing or analyzing; I can’t tell which.
“You want tea?” He gestures to the kettle on the stove, still warm, probably. “I’ve got chamomile or peppermint.”
“Chamomile’s fine.”
He stands and moves to the cabinet.
The kettle clicks on. We wait in silence for it to boil.
He pours and sets one mug in front of me before taking his seat again.
Something shifts in his expression—it’s not quite a smile, not quite approval, but close to both.
Somehow, it’s the most peaceful I’ve felt since I got here.
There’s something about Wyatt that doesn’t demand anything from me. He doesn’t need me to perform, explain, or be anything other than present.
It’s restful in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice comes out quieter than I intended.
“Yeah.”
“That night, you mentioned a fire.” I wrap my hands around my mug, the heat stinging my palms. “Is that why you don’t sleep?”
His whole body goes rigid, every muscle locking down.
I wait.
The silence stretches so long that I think he’s not going to answer, think I’ve pushed too far, crossed some invisible line.
Then his voice comes, low and rough, like it’s being dragged out of him against his will.
“I was fourteen. House fire. Electrical, they said. Started in the walls while we were sleeping.”
