“But surely people tried to reach out?” Isabelle asks. “They must have known you were going through a tough time.”
I nod. “The whole crew wanted to help—especially your dad. But I wouldn’t let them.”
I remember a couple of weeks after the fire, Holden came to my cabin in the mountains. I don’t know how he foundthe address, but he nearly hammered the door down he was knocking so hard, threatening to tear it off its hinges if I didn’t come out. He wasn’t kidding—he tried his best, but the door held. He came back nearly every day, banging on my door, yelling at me to open it. After he found Isabelle, he finally gave up, and by the time I realized I’d fucked up our friendship for good, he’d moved.
“Truth is, I was a coward,” I say. “I felt ashamed of how much I was struggling with what happened. Felt like less of a man for being unable to move on. Instead of looking my problems in the face and getting the help I needed, I turned to drink instead. Became an alcoholic.”
The years after I started drinking are vague, like I’m viewing them from the end of a long tunnel. Weeks blended together. Then months.
“Ralph did a lot for me during that time. He’d come over, bring me food, make sure I was still alive. Beg me to get help. It took a long time for me to go through with it, but I finally went to rehab. Got sober. Relapsed a few times along the way, but I haven’t touched a drop in eight years. Never will again.”
“Eight years! That’s amazing.” Isabelle beams at me, her eyes red-rimmed. “You were so brave to get help. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been.”
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Growing up, my dad taught me that men have to keep things inside. He was an alcoholic too, turning to drink to cope with my mom’s death. He thought asking for help was a sign of weakness, so he encouraged me to shut up and deal with my problems alone. That attitude was instilled in me from childhood, and it was so damn hard to shake it. But I know better now. I know that being too proud to accept help isn’t some kind of achievement. It comes from a place of insecurity. Ego. If I hadn’t bitten the bullet and reached out when I did, I’d be dead by now. Ralph wouldhave found me sprawled out on the floor surrounded by empty bottles.
“I owe it all to Ralph,” I say truthfully. “Best man I’ve ever known.”
My throat is dry from talking so much. I feel like I’ve been rambling for hours, but Isabelle doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes are full of warmth as she looks at me, her hand still on top of mine.
“He must have cared about you a lot to leave you half his cabin.”
I nod. “He cared about Holden, too. Think that’s why he left the cabin to both of us. He was sad we weren’t in contact anymore, and I think he wanted a reason to bring us together again.”
“That makes sense.” Isabelle sighs softly. “Thank you for telling me all this, Wyatt. You’ve been through so much…I know it can’t have been easy to talk about it.”
She’s right—it wasn’t. But now that it’s all out there, I feel like a weight has been lifted. It feels so natural, opening up to Isabelle, telling her everything. She’s so damn sweet. So non-judgmental.
“Don’t need to thank me,” I tell her. “I should be thanking you for listening.”
The sky above is pinkening, turning vivid and colorful as the sun sets, and we both stare at it in silence for a while, lost in our thoughts. Eventually, I take a deep breath and force myself back to the present, reaching for the Buttercup Bakery box beside the now-empty plate of sliders.
“Want some dessert?” I ask, looking at Isabelle. “Could use something sweet after all that.”
“Sure, dessert sounds good.”
I open the box to reveal a flaky cherry pie, fresh from the bakery this morning. I cut a slice for Isabelle and hand it overbefore taking a piece for myself. She takes a bite, letting out a hum of appreciation. “This is delicious.”
I nod in agreement. “Cherry Hollow’s famous for these pies. They were your dad’s favorite dessert growing up. Always wanted cherry pie instead of birthday cake.”
Isabelle looks surprised. “I never knew he had a sweet tooth.”
“Only for pie.”
She laughs, but it quickly dies in her throat, her expression turning thoughtful. “Did my dad know how much you were struggling? After we moved to Denver, I mean?”
“No. I told Ralph to keep it to himself. Your dad had enough on his plate.”
Isabelle bites her lip, considering me. “Do you think maybe the two of you could make up one day? Become friends again?”
She says it so innocently, like it could really be that simple, and I set down my cherry pie, looking at her. She blinks at me expectantly, batting her thick lashes as she waits for an answer. There’s a smudge of cherry sauce under her bottom lip, and before I can stop myself, I reach out to wipe it away. She shivers a little beneath my touch, and the world seems to narrow down to a single point—her lips. Plump and sweet.
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen, Pixie,” I say hoarsely.
“Why not?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sure if you explained everything to my dad, he’d understand…”
We’re sitting closer than before. I hadn’t even noticed we’d been leaning in, but now Isabelle’s face is inches from mine, her peachy scent making my heart thud. I can feel her breath on my bottom lip—count the freckles on her nose. My self-control is unraveling. I can feel the inevitability of this moment deep in my bones, and I raise a hand to Isabelle’s soft cheek, moving closer. This was written in the stars from the minute I saw her—it was only a matter of time, and now all my walls are down, the barriers between us burned to the ground.
“Maybe your dad could forgive me for the past,” I tell her. “But he’d never forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
