Blaze

Eleven; Blaise

I've had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach ever since I crossed the county line. I haven't been back to Adair since my father's funeral. I'm nervous about my scholarship interview tomorrow, but equally anxious about spending the night with Wyatt. I'm grateful he offered me a place to stay, I'm just not exactly sure what his expectations are. I am sure, however, that I'd rather endure an awkward conversation with Wyatt than a hostile one with my mother. I'm not ready to be back on Hummingbird Lane, to be back in that house yet. I'll face that challenge after my interview; I can only handle one trigger at a time.

I knock only once before the door swings open and Wyatt grabs my hand. He yanks me into his living room. I drag my suitcase behind me and it thuds loudly as it rolls across the uneven threshold.

"There's my girl!" he says as he scoops me in a hug and twirls me around. I immediately feel better, calmer, when I see the joy in his eyes. "I missed you."

I roll my eyes. "I just got off the phone with you an hour ago."

"I know, but it's been months since I've seen you last. Come on, let's get you settled," he says as he takes my hand and leads me down the hallway to the guest room. He takes my suitcase from my hand and sets it on the bed in the center of the small spare bedroom and clears his throat." There are some extra blankets in the storage bench at the foot of the bed," he says, unexpectedly.

"Um, okay. Thanks." Settling me into the guest room tells me a little more about his intentions. The knot in the pit of my stomach loosens a little. After I unpack my small toiletry bag and wash my face, I walk down the hall toward the promise of comfort food. I notice a cluster of photos on the wall in the hallway and linger.

The first is a picture of Wyatt with two other lanky, teenage boys on a fishing boat. Wyatt is standing in the center, grinning broadly and holding a prize catch.

My eyes move the right, landing on a photograph of Wyatt's high school baseball team. I search for his face and literally laugh out loud when I find it. That must have been the year he tried to grow a mustache. It was less of a mustache and more of a scraggly, reddish-blonde patch of uneven fuzz on his top lip.

My laughter fades and my smile falters when I see the next photograph. Wyatt's standing in the backyard of his childhood home. His left arm is draped over the shoulder of a small, skinny girl. Her dark hair sticks straight out in messy, uneven pigtails. The right side of her mouth is curved up into a half smile, but her eyes are sad and uneasy. 

My heart aches for the little girl I once was. 

Wyatt must sense my sudden melancholy, because he walks behind me and puts his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder.

"We were pretty cute," he says softly.

"We were. That was about a week before we left, do you remember?"

"Of course I remember. That's the last photograph of us together. I was so mad when my mom forced us to stand there and smile so she could get a good shot. After you left I was so grateful to her that I had it."

I smile thinking of Wyatt's mom. Jodi Montgomery was always so good to me. "How is your mom?" I ask. "Maybe I'll go by and see her tomorrow."

""Sorry, kid, but they're at the condo. They spend most of the winter in Florida now that they're retired."

That's disappointing. I stare back into the eyes of that sad little girl.

"Hey," he says, releasing me and stepping beside me so he can look in my eyes. "I can take this photo down, if you want, if it reminds you too much of ... of what happened later." He reaches down and laces my fingers through his like he did when we were kids. I don't immediately reply, but of course I remember that day.