When I pull up in the driveway, I see Wyatt taking bags from his truck, walking into the house with them. He’s back outside by the time I shut off the engine and step out of the car. He walks right over to me and asks, “How’d it go?”
“What? Shopping?”
“No. Stopping by the funeral home?”
“I survived it. The urn is in the back seat.”
“Would you like me to get it for you?” he asks, his eyes fixated on my lips again.
I swallow hard and say, “Yes, please. I didn’t realize how heavy it would be.”
“Alright. I’ll come back for it after I take these bags in the house.”
I open the trunk so that I can get my bags, too. I make several trips in and out of the house, same as Wyatt, then after bringing the last bag inside, I began unpacking some groceries, placing the non-perishables in the pantry.
“I set the urn near the fireplace in the living room,” Wyatt says. “Is that okay?”
“Yes. That’s fine. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
After we unpack all of our grocery items, he says, “I took the liberty of getting some Applebee’s takeout if you would like to eat an early dinner. Don’t know about you, but I didn’t have any lunch today at all.”
I glance at the four plastic Applebee’s containers on the table, thinking about what’s in them. What did he order for me to eat?
“I got you some chicken penne,” he says as if reading my thoughts.
Good choice, I think silently then say, “Okay. Let me wash my hands and grab some plates. I’ll warm it up.”
“Alright.”
He pulls out a chair and takes a seat at the six-chair dinette. As the food warms in the microwave, I take two cups from the cabinet, fill them with ice and pour Sprite for the both of us. Sprite is his favorite soda, which is perhaps the only reason I purchased it. I walk over to the table, set our cups there, then set his plate on the table in front of him. My food is warming now.
“You should’ve warmed yours first,” he says, looking up at me, trying to force eye contact.
It works. “It’s fine, Wyatt. Eat.”
He smiles, then takes a sip of soda. “I’ll wait until yours is ready,” he says.
Just then, the microwave beeps. I take my plate, then sit across from him. We individually say our own silent prayer then we begin our meal.
“Thanks for dinner,” I tell him.
“No problem,” he says. “So how do you feel about being back in the house?”
“Um...I don’t know. I don’t think the magnitude of what’s happening has hit me yet.”
He nods. “That’s understandable.”
“Do you know how my father died?”
“I’m not sure. I just know that he died by the pond.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m the one who found his body.”
“What?” I say, frowning. “You found his body?”
“Yeah. I came by here to cut the grass and knocked on the door. I didn’t get an answer so I started my mower and began on the yard. When I finally made it to the back, I saw him lying by the pond. I didn’t think anything of it, you know, because he used to sit by the pond every morning and read the Bible.”
“Since when?” I ask. “I don’t ever recall seeing my father read anything, especially not a Bible.”
“Well, he was making an effort to change. He’d been sober for five years.”
“Oh, so I guess you and my father were just good friends, huh, even after all the things you knew he did to me.”
He shakes his head. “No. Your father and I weren’t good friends.”
“Then why did you reach out to him and make his acquaintance?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes. That’s why I asked.”
Wyatt takes a sip of soda then clears his throat. “You know…I don’t remember you being so smart-mouthed.”
I snap my head back. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said.”
“Well, I don’t remember you being my father’s B.F.F.”
I glare at him and he continues eating, avoiding me. So I continue eating because I’m starving, and there’s nothing worse than a hungry, frustrated woman. Deciding not to let him get under my skin, I say, “You know what...I’m not going to do this. I am not going to fight with you.”
“And I don’t intend on fighting with you.”
“Good. So I have a question for you.”
“Lay it on me,” he says.
Lay it on me...he looks like he’s trying to suppress a smile after he said those words. I ignore them and ask, “So I thought you’d be in love, had a few babies and living somewhere on a farm by now.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because that’s what you used to tell me all the time when we were young. You said you wanted to live the same way you were raised.”
He dabs his mouth with a napkin. “I remember.”
“So you didn’t meet anyone? Didn’t date?”
“I dated...was with one woman for two years. We broke up…gosh…must’ve been six years ago.”
“And you haven’t been with anyone since?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“So what about your dream of living on a farm encased in a white, picket fence and having three children? What happened?”
“That wasn’t just my dream. It was our dream, Geneva. And to answer your question, I wanted those things with you. That’s why I don’t have them.”
I choke upon hearing his response. I’m coughing, my eyes are watering because I’m struggling to get my breath back.
Wyatt stands and before he can rush over to assist me, I hold up a hand to stop him and say, “I’m okay.”
“Sure?”
“Yes,” I respond. I drink some soda to help clear my passages and once I’m able to stabilize myself, I say, “Wyatt, what we had was a long time ago.”
“I’m just answering your questions, Geneva.”
Note to self – stop asking questions. I do not want to dredge up all of these old feelings that seem to be bothering him. I know why I left. He doesn’t. So, switching gears, I say, “So, I thought I’d sprinkle his ashes in the pond the first Saturday in October.”
“Sprinkle, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” he says, looking mildly amused. “That’s like a month away.”
“I know, but it’ll give Darnell time to get here.”
“Darnell?” Wyatt says.
“Yes. My fiancé.”
“Why does Darnell need a month in order to come and visit you?”
“He has a very complicated work schedule.”
Wyatt mumbled something inaudible under his breath then looks at me with cold, blue eyes and ask, “Do you love him?”
I hold his gaze for a moment, trying to figure him out. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Just making conversation. Besides, you’ve asked me so many questions, I feel like I’m on an episode of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” He grins. “Now that I think about it, I guess that is the game we’re playing, right?”
I smirk, but in the midst of lighthearted humor, I see him, not just the outer shell of him, but him – the man I used to love. He’s serious and I’m amazed that, even still, he can be totally funny one minute and the next, he has the eyes of an assassin. My eyes gravitate to his mustache. He has a dimple in his chin, and a thin beard that frames his face.
“So...do you love him?” he asks again.
“Yes, of course. We’re getting married, so…yeah.”
He smirks and then smiles.
“Why are you smiling?”
“No reason,” he says. Then he stands, takes our takeout plates and toss them in the garbage.
“No, really, Wyatt. Why are you smiling?”
He shrugs. “Just think it’s amusing how people use the word love so loosely nowadays, so much so that its meaning seems to be dwindling down into absolutely nothing.”
“Soo...are you telling me that I don’t love him?”
“No. I’m telling you that people use the word love too loosely nowadays.”
“Jeez, Wyatt...I can read in between the lines. I’m not stupid. If you have something to say to me just say it, why don’t you.”
“There’s nothing to be said, Geneva.”
“Apparently there is. You’ve been taking shots at me all afternoon.”
He chuckles and a piece of silky brown hair falls in his forehead. “You’re in love. Why should you care about what I, or anyone else thinks about that?” With that, he walks away from me and moments later, I hear him jogging upstairs.