Breathing Wisteria Read online

  “I am going to kill you,” Charlie’s answering sigh rings through my phone. I have been trying to get a hold of her all afternoon, as soon as I raced out of the diner with promises to Cassidy that I would explain everything trailing behind me. Five hours later she has finally taken my call. No doubt hoping my temper would have had time to cool down.

  Unfortunately for her, she’s all out of luck.

  “I’m not arguing with you about this, Reeses.” I ignore her use of my childhood nickname. “I did what I thought needed to be done and I’m not going to apologize for it.” Charlie’s voice is resigned.

  “What did you tell him?” I’m recalling every confession I made to her earlier in the week, and I’m mortified at the idea of her giving up my secrets to Flynn. Shamed that after everything I did to him, he should be expected to feel sorry for me.

  “Nothing. Christ, what kind of friend do you think I am?”

  I pace around my tiny apartment, bumping into furniture, my hand tensing around the phone.

  “Well, you told him something. How else did he end up ambushing me at Monroe’s?”

  “I only told him—” She cuts off and I hear someone in the background calling her name.

  “Where are you?”

  “At work.” Her voice lowered to a whisper.

  “It’s Saturday, why are you working?”

  “We’re preparing for depositions on Monday. Look, I need you to listen to me.” I hear the sound of air rushing by and I imagine Charlie striding purposefully down a hallway, probably toward some bland conference room, ready to conquer. “You need to talk to him. You both need this. It’s been almost ten fucking years and you’re both still so wrapped up in your own pain. You need to apologize to each other and forgive.” She pauses, and I hear the hush of murmured voices in the background. “You need to forgive each other and yourselves. Then, maybe, you can both finally move forward. I have to go, I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”

  Just like that, she’s gone. I groan loudly into the empty space of my apartment, allowing my frustration and, if I’m completely honest, my fear to have a voice.

  I go back to pacing around the room, bumping into furniture occasionally, cursing and considering for the millionth time that it’s time to find somewhere bigger to live. The second hand on the gaudy pink clock, that hangs above my bed, ticks over loudly. A constant reminder that time is always moving forward, whether we want it to or not.

  Needing something to soothe my mind and heart for the next couple of hours, I drag my comfortable armchair over in front of the picture window and settle myself in, sketchbook on my legging-clad lap and charcoal pencil in hand.

  As always, my mind empties as soon as the pencil begins scratching over my notepad and I allow the feel of the paper and pencil to calm me.

  My career illustrating children’s books has picked up over the last few years and that, combined with the occasional artwork I commission, keeps me busy. If I’m honest, more busy than I would like at times.

  It has been a few weeks since I dedicated any time to my art, the work I create for myself, not a paycheck, and my hand races over the page, images coming to life faster than I can even form them in my mind.

  My hands become increasingly black as I use them to smudge and shade and when I finally start to see the piece come together, I pull back, startled.

  A loud knock on the door shocks me further and I jump up, body tense, and slam my sketchpad closed. On my way to answer the door, I stuff it under a pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter.

  The door rattles again just as I reach it, but I take a moment before opening it. I have no idea how to prepare myself for this conversation, this meeting. No idea, really, how to be around Flynn anymore. There are days I don’t even recognize myself anymore, I hate to imagine how disappointed he is going to be when he discovers the person I have become.

  Shaking my head, I take a final deep breath and pull the door open.

  He’s there, leaning against the doorframe, his thick arms crossed over his chest. A blue cap is pulled down low over his dark brown hair, dark stubble covering his strong jaw and dark brown eyes lazily caress every inch of me. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and dangerous and when my pulse immediately starts racing, it hits me how much trouble I might be in.

  “Took your time.” A belligerent smirk lifts his lip. “You considered leaving me out here, didn’t you?”

  I take a minute, allowing my gaze to wander over his form, admiring the way his worn, faded jeans hug his long legs and the simple black tee he’s wearing stretches over his broad chest, before I shrug my shoulders in what I pray is an indifferent manner. “It occurred to me, not gonna lie. You should probably come in before I change my mind.”

  His eyes meet mine and I can feel the challenge in them. The familiar war of wills that had always been our normal. Before I realize what I’m doing, I begin to close the door in his face, enjoying the look of surprise for a brief moment before the door blocks him from sight.

  Just as it’s about to shut, a hand reaches in and a loud curse sounds when the door clamps his hand against the doorframe. He pushes in, squeezing his large frame through the tiny space, glaring at me.

  “Smartass.”

  I turn and follow him, watching while he takes in the small apartment. I refuse to let my eyes wander to his perfect ass, but just the thought of it reminds me of long, slow thrusts, my hands desperately clawing, trying to bring him deeper.

  Giving myself a mental bitch slap, I take a step forward and point toward the small loveseat. “Sit. Do you want anything? I don’t have any beer, but I think I have some vodka left.”

  He stops in front of the sofa and looks back at me. His face contorts into an expression of humor laced with pain, and my chest seizes with an unexplained pain.

  “We gonna need alcohol for this?”

  My hand that had been reaching for the refrigerator door, stops mid-air.

  “I guess I just kind of assumed.” Again, memories slap me up the side of my head. “Seems to me, most of our conversations after—” My throat closes, and I struggle to continue, tugging on the hem of my oversized sweatshirt nervously. “I just remember needing a lot of alcohol.”

  Flynn scrubs his hands across his face and flops down on the seat.

  “I remember.” His voice is sadder than I remember. “Coffee would be good. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  Nodding, I set about making some. Strong, black coffee for him and something much more palatable for me, full of sugar and caramel creamer. I try to ignore the awkwardness that blankets the air between us, but it’s really all I can think about. My movements are stilted, and I don’t remember ever feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin. It doesn’t help that his eyes have not left me the entire time. I feel them as surely as I would feel his touch and it’s making me incredibly self-conscious.

  “Here you go.” After what feels like roughly seventy-three hours, but was more likely less than five minutes, our drinks are finally ready. I grab the two mugs and begin to move toward him, embarrassingly captivated by the small smile he gives me. Not watching where I am going, my elbow bumps the pile of junk mail from earlier and I watch in horror as it, along with my sketchpad, crashes to the floor.

  I turn around and the coffee mugs make a loud bang as I dump them on the counter. Coffee sloshes over the sides and my hands sting from the burn, but I quickly try to get to the spilled puddle and snatch up my book.

  My heart slams into my chest when I turn and see Flynn already kneeling down, gathering everything up.

  It feels as though he’s moving in slow motion and the needle of despair pricks harder when I see his eyes light up at the sight of my sketchbook. He never could stop himself from looking, no matter how many times I told him to fuck off.

  I watch him stand and straighten, I want to scream at him to stop, but I’m paralyzed, completely unable to move or speak.

  His large hand begins turning the pages. I notice ho
w the charcoal smudges his fingers slightly as they trace lightly over the drawings. His jaw relaxed now and his expression curious.

  I watch this all dispassionately, knowing what’s to come. Dreading it.

  I know it as soon as he reaches my sketch from earlier. I can see it in the way his body tenses, his hand stilling. I watch as his eyes widen briefly, before closing tight, shutting me out.

  “I’m sor—”

  “Don’t. When did you draw this?” His voice is tight, harsh, and I know that any hope we had of sorting this shit out tonight has disappeared.

  “Tonight.” I slip my mask on, falling into old habits, removing any emotion from my voice and face.

  Flynn is the complete opposite, his face a riot of conflicting emotions and I prepare for him to storm out. For this to be my last memory of him.

  “Wyatt?” The sound of his broken voice draws my gaze back to him and I can’t help but admire the rawness of him.

  “Fuck!” he roars out and before I can make any sense of what is going on, he is bearing down on me, a look of exquisite torture painted on his face.

  Flynn

  It’s us. Or at least it’s the us we could have been.

  Would have been, if it weren’t for me.

  My mind is racing, and I try to take in the image in front of me. It’s this room, sketched in remarkable detail right down to the threadbare rug in front of the sofa. Wyatt is seated in front of an easel by the window, but instead of looking at the view in front of her, her eyes are turned to watch the people behind her, on the couch. I’m there. My old, much-loved guitar, the one I rarely play anymore, on my lap and my fingers strumming the strings. Her imagery is so vivid I can feel the peace that settles over me when I get lost in creating.

  But it’s the person drawn to my left that has me unable to breathe. A young girl, with long, dark hair that falls down her back. The same back that is leaning against me at an angle. She’s the right age and I know without a shadow of a doubt who it is.

  Carys.

  “I’m sor—”

  She’s apologizing? She’s fucking apologizing for being heartbroken. To the person that broke her?

  “Don’t.” My voice is harsher than I intended, but goddammit. I wanted her to be okay. I needed her to be okay. “When did you draw this?”

  She’s not okay.

  “Tonight.”

  I tear my eyes away from the sketch I wish was our reality and I glance at her. Her face is blank, the same expression I was faced with for days upon months, all of which seemed indeterminately endless.

  I thought by leaving I would be helping her. If she didn’t have to face the person responsible for our daughter’s death, she could move on. She could stop worrying about trying to forgive me and just let herself grieve.

  Because God knows, I don’t deserve her forgiveness.

  “Wyatt?” Her impassive eyes twist my gut painfully. “Fuck!”

  I can’t stop myself from striding toward her, desperate to get my hands on her. Grabbing her hand, I pull her into me and wrap my arms around her tightly.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  I repeat the words over and over until I feel her relax into me. I keep saying them until I feel her arms lift and cling on to my back, clawing at me and pulling me even closer. I continue saying the words to her until I feel her body shaking with the sobs of a pain so intense that only the truly unlucky will ever experience.

  Only then do I stop.

  “I imagine her as a mini you. I think she would have been serious and snarky.” Her voice is sad. “Sometimes, I dream about her and she has the same evil glint in her eye that you get when someone is being exceptionally stupid.” Wyatt’s face lights up. “And you would think that would get her into all sorts of trouble but, unlike you, she would have the charm to win people over.”

  “Hey, I’m charming.” I lean forward, enjoying the familiar roll of her eyes, and carefully place my mug on the coffee table, before giving her a broad smile, enjoying the ease between us.

  There was definite awkwardness after Wyatt’s breakdown. I could see how vulnerable she felt, and I know her well enough to know how much she hates that. But I’ve witnessed her defenses drop over the last few hours, she has morphed into the girl I loved all of those years ago, so perhaps it was exactly what she needed. What we both needed.

  Forced to face our mutual demons, we have been talking about things we should have discussed all those years ago. Confessions and shattered dreams that broke us, now feel like they could be our absolution.

  “I think she would have looked like you.” I reach over and tug a lock of her hair, wrapping it around my finger loosely. “Hair as beautiful as the most stunning sunset and eyes that glitter like emeralds.”

  “Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “That was corny as fuck. I swear you used to be better than that.”

  A loud laugh rolls through my body and it sounds so foreign to my own ears.

  “I never talk about her.” Wyatt’s declaration sobers me. “I just don’t know how, you know?” She glances up at me and my smile fades to a slight grimace.

  “Yeah. I get it.” I consider my words carefully. I’m so fucking desperate to reassure her, the need to fix her as fierce today as it was all those years ago. “I feel like actually saying the words is going to permanently wreck me. Like, if I admit how broken I am, there will be no hope of ever being okay.”

  She’s nodding, a bright sheen to her eyes as she watches me intently.

  “Yeah.” The word is a gentle whisper and she closes her eyes and roughly rubs them. “I felt that way for so long. If I could just pretend it didn’t hurt, then it wouldn’t.” I hear her sigh and watch her chest rise and fall with the deep intake of breath. “I’ve always drawn her. Whatever age she would have been, that’s how I would draw her, and it always brought me a certain amount of peace. But it’s not enough anymore. Not talking about her is becoming more painful. Sometimes I need to say her name, just to remind myself that she wasn’t a dream.”

  She reaches over and places her hand on my knee, squeezing gently.

  “Do you ever worry that she’s watching us, and she doesn’t realize how much we love her? How sorry we are?”

  My hand finds its way to hers. “No. Carys knows. She has to.”

  She huffs out a small laugh and leans back into the large, overly stuffed cushions.

  “You’re right.” Her long legs slide up and under her ass before she turns to fully face me with an expression I can’t quite place.

  “I’m sorry for what I said to you. It was cruel, and I have spent every day since regretting it. I don’t blame you for leaving.” Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. “How could you stay after that? I was so wrapped up in my own pain that I didn’t have room to care about yours as well. Oh God.” She curls into herself slightly and covers her face with both hands. “I sound like such a bitch.”

  I reach across and gently pull her hands away.

  “You sound like a mother who lost her child. Christ, we were so fucking young, we did what we had to do to survive it the best we could. I don’t blame you for anything, Cherry.”

  Her eyes soften, and I remember when she looked at me like that on the regular.

  “I miss that name. I feel like she’s who I was before it all happened.” Her teeth find her full lower lip and she bites down. “Sometimes I want to be her again so badly, it’s a physical pain.”

  I want to drag her to me, feel her body against mine and convince her that she will always be that person to me. But we’re not there yet.

  Yet.

  “There’s not a damn thing wrong with who you are right now. Look at everything you’ve done over the last ten years.” I gesture to the photo collage she has created along an entire wall of her apartment. “You’ve traveled, you’ve built friendships with people who would kick my ass if given half the chance.” I grin as I remember my run-in with her friend at the diner. “And, from what I hear, you’re
killing it with the whole artist thing.”

  “From what you hear? How are you hearing things about me? Ahhh.” She rolls her eyes. “Charlie.”

  “Don’t get pissy with her, I never really gave her a choice. I hounded her until she would tell me what I wanted to hear, just to get rid of me.”

  She laughs, and I feel an answering smile spread across my face. Wyatt Monroe happy is a sight to behold.

  “It’s good to know you haven’t changed at all.” Her lips purse slightly and her eyes narrow as she holds my gaze. “Despite you being a super famous rock god and all.”

  “Fuck that.” I groan. “You make me sound like some douchey cliché.”

  “Weeelll, I mean, not that I’ve followed you or anything.”

  Yeah, my ass she hasn’t. I’d bet my last dollar she’s followed me just as closely as I’ve followed her. She just had the luxury of being able to do it through the media and not having to resort to bribery and demands of old friends.

  “But according to the tabloids you are kind of a douchey cliché.”

  “They’re all a bunch of assholes. I keep my shit to myself and so they create stories that are ten times worse than the worst fucking thing you or I could ever imagine, just because they’re pissed you’re not giving them anything.” Tension is pulsing through me at the thought of her believing all the fucking ridiculous things written about me over the years.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Her hands are thrown up. “I was just messing with you, I know that stuff is bullshit.”

  “Yeah?” My shoulders relax slightly.

  “Yeah. I mean you used to go out of your mind if another guy even flirted with me, there’s no way you’re sharing your girl in a threesome. Even if that guy did win an Oscar.”

  She winks at me. Fucking smartass.

  “I mean, okay, maybe they weren’t all lies.” I do my best to sound self-conscious, but it takes all my restraint not to lose it at the small pout playing on her lips.