In the Wake of Touch

Wyatt was right. I'm gonna end up seeing everyone anyway. Might as well

be on my own terms.

His scruffy, square jaw damn near hit the floor when I told him as much

back at the shop earlier, but he recovered quickly.

We traded numbers in case I had any trouble finding this place—or my

car failed me again after he fixed it up for me—and I think there's a sense

of something like comfortable peace between us after we did our little reset.

Honestly? It feels nice to have someone that I know I can talk to about

my mom's diagnosis, someone who won't pry for gossip, who has my best

interests at heart. It feels … mature of us to be able to be friends, or

something close to it, despite our … intense history.

Friends.

F

R

I

E

N

D

S

It's the word I keep repeating to myself as he heads over to greet me on

the outskirts of the party on the old McKay property. Familiar stomping

grounds, from another life. Familiar swooping sensation of the stomach,

from that same life. Familiar territory all around, I guess.

We're friends now, I tell myself. Better than enemies. Better than exes

who no longer speak. Friends is great.

Friends can notice how good one another looks. There's no rule against

that. Trust me, I'm that bitch that would know if there were. The fine print

is where I excel.

So I observe, admire, my new and only friend in Smoky Heights as I

trek closer to him, and he walks across the giant grassy field in the last light

of dusk to meet me. Behind him, a semi-dilapidated red barn is lit from

within, several kegs placed in front of the open door, and a bonfire rages

maybe twenty yards away, logs placed around the perimeter to sit and enjoy

the ambience, the atmosphere, the Smokies just across the way.

Though this "party" is taking up what would be at least an entire city

block back home, it doesn't hold an iota of the hustle and bustle, the

madness, the unquantifiable throngs of rushing bodies I've come to expect

and associate with an open space of this size.

The sheer room in between the clusters of people, the view, the endless

horizon with those postcard-worthy peaks rising and falling against the

purple, pink, and orange twilight sky—there's no towers, high rises or

iconic landmarks blocking my view of what's beyond the next block,

there's no vendors at their carts, a new scent hitting me every ten steps, no

fray of madness, of people just trying to get where they're going, everyone

else be damned. No honking and cursing everyone around them for being in

your way, for simply existing and therefore wasting your precious time.

It couldn't be further from what I'm used to, but I'm shocked to register

that … I don't hate it. In fact, there's an odd sense of peace, my lungs filling

deeper than usual, some sort of calm overtaking part of me when I allow my

eyes to take in the entire view.

It's not lost on me that he's the best part of that scenery. Wyatt's brown

hair looks like it's wet, even darker than usual, near black in the low light,

slicked back and to the side after what had to be a post-work shower. He

didn't bother shaving—no surprise there—but he clearly cleaned himself up

otherwise. His masculine smell washes over me as I step closer, and my

knees nearly wobble when it hits my senses at once.

This is a man that's only gotten finer with time.

Granted, he looked great when he wore a smile back in the day, but I

have a hunch as to why he's so stone-faced, judging from my recent

dealings with him, and the hints my mother kept dropping during our

breakfast conversation this morning.

If he had a reason to laugh again? He'd be deadly. Positively lethal in

his handsomeness. And he'd make someone real fucking lucky then too.

That grayish-blue Henley, sleeves rolled up to show off his black tattoo

I still need to sneak a closer look at. Dark jeans. Same brown work boots as

always. The man looks like he belongs here.

Unlike me, in a long indigo dress, a merlot cardigan overtop to fight that

nightly chill the mountains are privy to, even in late summer, even in the

South, even in the Heights.

I look like I'm a long way from home, among these women I used to

regard as peers, friends, my people, all in jeans, tees from car shows and

rock concerts, or maybe a hoodie they stole from their partner.

My quick initial scan tells me I'm the only one to show up in sandals or

a dress, but it's not like we're going hiking. Gross. Definitely not going

hiking. This should be fine for standing, drinking, sitting. It's always been

fine for those activities in New York. Yeah, this is a bit … grassier than the

hangouts I'm used to, but—

"She give you any trouble on the way over?" His rich, deep baritone

interrupts my internal monologue of overthinking as we finally reach a

distance that allows for conversation without the awkwardness of trying to

shout, like you're over-eager to end the god-awful phase of silent eye

contact and eerie continued smiles as you approach one another for an

eternity. If there's anything worse than that, I don't know it.

I shake my head no. "She was perfectly well-behaved, thank you."

"Bet no one's ever said that about you," he quips back, no reload time

needed.

"Hah." I give him a dry snort. Very elegant. He's not wrong, though. I

bet my fellow associates, the partners and my immediate team are the only

ones who find my sharp mind and tongue to be an asset. In any other

setting, they tend to be my downfall. Where I have patience for the

pedantic, the details, in my work—one thing that makes me so good at what

I do—I have only impatience outside of work. Yet another reason I drive

everyone who gets to know me crazy. And away.

His voice cuts into my thoughts yet again, and my eyes wander from the

mountains and the skyline back to his own green ones, this hue that nearly

matches the shade of the tree line. "What'll you have tonight? A beer?"

Wyatt gestures with a rough hand, thick fingers wrapped around a Solo cup

to the kegs by the old barn where a majority of the attendees are standing

around. "Or a beer?"

I tap my chin in mock thought, pretending to consider my options. "I

think I'll take the house recommendation, whatever the locals like to

partake in," I tell him seriously.

If I looked close enough, I might think the corner of his mouth ticked in

a distinctly not-downward direction, but I wouldn't dare look that closely at

him when he looks and smells like this, so I can't be sure.

We walk a couple steps apart, leaving enough space between us to try to

get some fresh air into my nose, my lungs, something that clears the

unwelcome fog in my head, the one that's tainting everything Wyatt does or

says in this pink haze.

No thinking with the bean tonight, I tell myself. This is just so I can dip

my toes into temporary life back in the Heights in a way that won't make

me feel like the one hairy goat at the petting zoo full of cute bunnies. Your

mission orders are to unwind, relax, get settled into your time in the Heights

and just let your hair down after the last few weeks of misery.

No matter that the way for me to actually unwind would involve a hot

guy, preferably one who knows his way around female anatomy, a shit ton

of cursing that's probably looked real down upon in this part of the country,

a few positions that would most definitely get me kicked straight to hell in

the eyes of most of this town, and about a half-gallon of sweat.

But, no, that's not on the menu tonight.

What is? This half-flat, not-quite lukewarm beer. Tastes like what I

imagine cow piss would. I'm sure a number of people in attendance here

tonight have taken the dare and could tell you for sure whether this cheap

beer actually tastes like cow piss, but I'm not one of them, and I'd be

willing to bet Wyatt isn't, either.

But alcohol is going to provide the only kind of release I'm getting here

tonight, so I throw about half of it back when he hands it to me, without a

grimace, because I'm a trooper. With time, I've learned when to make a

stink and when to bad bitch up and suffer through it. This is one of those

times to be grateful for what I've got. I don't see any Empress gin with

grapefruit flavored sparkling water and fresh squeezed lime around, so I'm

out of luck, I guess.

"Everyone," he gestures with his beer to the loose assembly of bodies,

faces I vaguely recognize, some I'll never forget. "Aurora's back in the

Heights for a while. Let's show her some of that Southern hospitality we're

known for." His eyes are screaming that if they choose not to, they'll catch

a free beer in their face, or maybe a fist, or worse.

A chorus of greetings, mostly friendly, a few lackluster, are shouted

from nearly everyone within a fifteen-foot radius of us, and after I do my

best to give a polite smile and nod, I'm thankful when Wyatt gestures with

his head toward the glowing bonfire and starts to head that way.

I duck my head as I pass the strangers I used to consider kin, the

thoughts a cacophony in my head, hammering me on every weakness and

insecurity I possess as I go.

Everyone is just waiting to see how fast you take off again.

How's that better you left to go find working out for you?

Just as I get past the final ring of the seventh circle of hell, the toe of my

sandal gets caught on something on the ground—a rock, maybe?

"Oof," I grunt out as I start to stumble, but quicker than I can process, a

strong arm grabs my free one and I'm stabilized, not even a drop of beer

spilled from the mishap.

"This isn't pavement," what used to be my favorite voice in the world

says, and I swear there's something jovial in his tone. "Our ground is that

organic, all-natural shit you New Yorkers are so into. Grass-fed, comes with

dirt, and rocks, sometimes sticks and roots too. You gotta watch out for

those surprises."

Again, coming in clutch with the levity. He looks so broody, yet he's

navigating this treacherous ground—physical and metaphorical—so well. I

go with it.

"Hey, I'm used to watching where I'm walking. Vents, manhole covers,

things I can't even voice in polite company … trust me when I say I've

tripped on worse than a rock before. At least I'm not in heels this time." I'm

surprised to hear a small chuckle come out of my own mouth, as flashes of

some of those times revisit me.

"Thank God for that," Wyatt says dryly, eyes flashing down to my feet

as he walks by my side now, rather than a few steps ahead. "Do they not

sell tennis shoes in New York?"

I roll my eyes at him and scoff, pretending his teasing, this distraction

from my situation, my own head, isn't the most healing thing that's

happened to me since I've been back in the Heights.

"If you think I was going to risk getting mud on my eight-hundreddollar Gucci sneakers … you're dumber than you look."

"If you paid eight hundred dollars for a pair of tennis shoes, I'm not the

dumb one of us," he shoots back.

A laugh bubbles out of me, and I don't stop it this time. It's a sound I

haven't heard in a while, and I know I'm not imagining the tick of his lips

now.

We make it to the empty log in front of the fire, Wyatt rounding the end

of it and holding out a hand to help me over. We're far enough away from

the burn that the smoke isn't hitting us, but I can still feel the comforting

warmth of it, pleasant in the evening chill that's setting in the mountain air,

the promise of fall in the air.

I accept, gripping his free hand while holding my beer with the other,

and swing one leg over the low-to-the-ground log, then the other. It's a little

awkward with the dress, but I can admit that his assistance made it easier

without giving up my feminist card, right?

Chivalry might be extinct on the dating apps I use back in the city, but it

appears to not be completely dead and gone down here. That's reassuring, at

least. For posterity's sake. Not mine.

He waits until I'm seated, my dress repositioned for comfort and

modesty, before he eases down next to me with something between a groan

and a sigh. I think I hear some things pop and crack as he does, and I look

over at him, a brow raised in question.

"It was a long week," he tells me, taking a huge drink from his cup.

"Tell me about it," I retort with a snort I'd never let loose in NYC and

take a sip from my own. I think the taste is growing on me?

Both of our gazes drift forward, to the last vestiges of the sun setting

behind the mountain range. Laughter bellows out behind us, drowning out

the other soft murmurs of conversation from anyone else within hearing

distance. The breeze picks up, pleasantly cool and carrying the smell of old

loam, pine trees, and something crisp but indiscernible, maybe from the

nearby river that flows from the lake. It also brings a fresh influx of Wyatt's

heady scent.

I gulp down another mouthful of the stuff in my cup to distract me from

the unwelcome attraction brewing without a safe outlet. And actually, this

beer's not all that bad. Down another couple gulps and I think I can almost

feel the hint of a buzz, which is promising, so I throw back some more.

When I lower the empty cup Wyatt is staring at me, a bit incredulous.

"Thirsty?"

My throat bobs as I swallow at the word he probably meant innocently,

but all I can think is yes. I'm so fucking thirsty for a night of forgetting

everything with him. Remembering what it's like to feel the height of bliss.

Of someone who knows all the secrets your body has to tell and uses them.

A flutter ripples up through my core into my lower stomach, and my nipples

tighten.

"Yeah," I croak out.

My eyes drop down his frame, his built torso, that chest and those abs

that I'd be willing to bet you could still do laundry on, and—my favorite—

those thick, broad shoulders. My maverick eyes ignore all social protocol

and keep traveling all the way down to his tattooed arm, hand resting on the

log just a few inches away from my own, and I tighten my thighs in an

attempt to fight the sensations stirring between them.

He holds that hand out for my empty cup, completely unaffected by me

and my wandering gaze, so I pull myself together and pass it over. If he can

keep this PG, so can I.

"I'll get you another one. Hang tight."

Wyatt swirls the last of the dregs of what's left in his cup as he stands,

and I try not to watch as he strides away, the way those jeans hug his hips

and legs, the way he fills them out with muscle and that fucking ass. What,

does he just do squats all day at the garage?

Yikes, Aurora. What happened to pulling yourself together?

I force my eyes to the property, the skyline beyond it, and I take in the

last of the shadowed mountains against the night sky as darkness settles in

and falls around us. The campfire provides enough light to see by, as does

the lit barn behind me, but this is a kind of dark I haven't seen since I left.

I tilt my head back, let my long wavy hair fall all the way down my

back as I look straight up, at the stars starting to twinkle to life above me. A

smile stretches across my face when I see just how many there are. How

small it makes me feel. So inconsequential, but in a way that feels like

relief. Like my problems, my issues, are so much less than they normally

feel, when I get some perspective like this. It's a welcome vantage point for

me.

Footsteps crunch on the ground behind me before his voice hits me.

"See anything good up there?"

And then his face is in my line of sight. Scruffy, gruff, maybe even a

little mischievous. That might just be the first wave of buzz hitting me,

though. A hallucination from the cow piss.

I let out a sigh, a small, sad smile on my face. "Just remembering there

are bigger things out there than my problems."

He extends a hand with a fresh beer for me, and my head comes back

down to its normal position, and I find myself looking straight at his groin,

right at my eye level. A flush heats my cheeks as I realize I'm staring, and I

wonder how much stronger this beer is than I gave it credit for.

I take the drink from him and swig back another sip rapidly, averting

my eyes, focusing on literally anything else at the moment, as he sits down

next to me, and I swear there's a smirk on his face as he lifts his own fresh

cup to his lips.

This cup is cooler than the first, maybe from a fresh keg? I kinda like

the taste, actually.

After a second of slurping and silence, he says, "If I didn't already say it

… I'm really sorry about your mom, Rory. It's a shitty fucking hand she

was dealt, and you're doing a really honorable thing by being here for her.

I'm sure it's not easy. None of it. But not many people would do what

you're doing. It takes guts. Regardless of anything else, our past aside, I'm

really proud of you for this."

A knot forms in my throat and moves down to my stomach, where it

starts churning.

A flurry of all of the reasons he shouldn't be proud of me ambushes my

head.

"Wyatt, can I ask you something?"

He looks back over at me.

"Why do I feel like you're about to ask me if I'd still love you if you

had a silkworm instead of a clit or some shit?"

I burst out with a laugh, and who is she? Same done-up face, same nails,

same high-maintenance bitch that left NYC earlier this week, but there's a

side coming out that I'm not entirely recognizing. At a party in a field,

drinking beer, staring at the stars, an occasional laugh on her lips as she

comes face-to-face with her demons in the place she once ran from. I don't

think I know her tonight.

For a second, just a blip on the radar of time, I wonder what I was

running from? What I was so scared of here, that had me hightail it away

and never come back, not even to visit?

I shove that thought away and get back to the present. Present company.

"Because you've dated some real winners since we last saw each other?" I

toss it out there lightly, like it's not my fault. I know if I never left we never

would've broken up. He never would've had to date some chick who asked

him questions from some Buzzfeed quiz or some inane trend on TikTok.

But if someone asked if he'd still fuck them if they had a silkworm instead

of a clit, they deserve to be made fun of, I'm not even sorry.

"That I have," he says with a smack of his lips, and another pointed sip

of his beer.

I don't know how much longer we'll be able to tiptoe around this

Claymore between us without setting off the tripwire (again), but I

appreciate that we're both trying.

The chatter behind us turns into more raucous laughter, and a smile

curves my mouth for them. For this happiness these people have found.

Despite how shitty and sucky life can be, they've found something that they

enjoy, people they care about, and like spending their time with.

We should all be so lucky.

When I get back home, it'll be back to thirteen-hour days, sprinting

down Amsterdam in a Reformation dress under a blazer and whichever

Valentino Garavani heels I could sneak in the budget that month as I hustle

to or from work, unsatisfying nights with Trevor (or some other unlucky

schmuck who has to go to bed with me and pretend I'm the girl of his

dreams while I convince myself he's half-decent in the sack), and a sea of

unfamiliar faces, none of whom give a single fuck about me.

But that's why I love it. Me and my problems disappear in the sea of

random motion. Endless opportunity, unlimited variety, infinite choices.

Impossible to get bored, nothing is dull in New York. If it is, it doesn't

survive the frenzy of the free market. And, perhaps most importantly,

enough insanity to make my own feel less significant. The way the

incessant noise calms me. So much for me to focus on, so much to hold my

attention on the world around me, that the assault of my own thoughts falls

into the background. My problems don't compare to the whirlwind around

me.

That would never have been my life here.

But I can't get the question out of my mind. I have to voice it, it'll eat

away at me until I do, and the alcohol is making me a lot braver than I

maybe should be, than I deserve to be with him. But it slips out of me

anyway.

"Could you ever forgive me?"

The silence that follows might be the worst one I've heard yet.