"What?" The word came out harder than Wyatt had intended. He'd never told anyone about his father's death, or the things his dad had said before. No one, that is, until Lyle.
They'd been out drinking one night, and Lyle had told him a few things about his life back in Iowa, before he'd moved to LA at sixteen. Not much, but enough for Wyatt to realize that Lyle'd had a shitty time of it, too. And when he complained that night about how ninety percent of the people he was meeting in town only cared about what his fame could do for them, Wyatt had shared his own sob story.
He'd thought he'd regret it afterwards, but he hadn't. He had only a handful of close friends, and he was glad to count Lyle among them.
That didn't, however, mean he wanted to talk about it now. A fact that Lyle obviously realized, since his shoulders drooped a bit.
"It's just that I know it's hard. Losing someone, I mean." His voice cracked with genuine emotion. "And you want to honor who they were, especially if you loved them. But that doesn't mean death made them right about things."
"You want to try talking in English? Because right now, this is gibberish."
"I only mean that just because your dad said that your family didn't value him, and that no one gave a flip about him except through your family, doesn't mean it was really true. And even if it was, that doesn't mean it's true for you." Lyle wiped the back of his neck with his towel as he stopped jogging. Then he dropped it on the beach and sat on it. "Or for Kelsey."
Wyatt took a second, then sat, too. He didn't answer; he just looked out over the ocean as he thought of Kelsey, a woman he really shouldn't want, but couldn't get out of his head.
The truth was, he'd never wanted to believe that she was only interested in his connection to Hollywood. He sure as hell hadn't believed it that summer, not during all the time they'd been secretly dating. But that didn't mean that his father's words weren't fresh in his head. And when he'd found his dad's body on the very day that he'd overheard Grace spewing her venom--
Well, he'd been angry.
Angry and, maybe, a little stupid.
He tilted his head back, looking up at clear blue California sky as he remembered Kelsey's words from just the other day. "When I left, you didn't even try to come after me."
She'd surprised him with that accusation. Because if she'd really been playing him, then how could he possibly have hurt her?
And the fact is, her claim wasn't entirely true, anyway. A few weeks later, after he was settled in Boston and had cooled down and his father's funeral was behind him, he had tried to find her. Tried, but failed.
First, he'd tried contacting her school. But she'd transferred, and the administration office either didn't know where she'd gone or wasn't willing to tell.
He'd had no luck by following her dad, either. Patrick managed to find out where Leonard Draper had gone to work after the club, but when Wyatt tried to reach him there, he learned that the man had never shown up.
All of which had made him think that maybe there was something bigger going on. A family thing. An emergency. Something.
But then Grace's words returned to haunt him. Because even if there had been an emergency, wouldn't Kelsey have at least called him? But she didn't. She'd run out of the party, and she'd never looked back.
At first he'd been afraid that he'd pressured her. But then, once he heard Grace, he'd believed that Kelsey had played him. And that painful conclusion had settled deep into his gut, then rotted there for twelve long years.
He'd been an ass.
He'd believed Grace over his heart. Because he'd seen Kelsey. He knew her, inside and out.
And he knew damn well that the only time she wanted a spotlight was when she was dancing.
So why had he listened to rumors instead of his own heart? His own head?
Because he'd been an insecure teenager.
So what did that make him now? An insecure man?
He sighed, then turned back to Lyle. "She messes with my head. She always has. And when she walked into my studio, part of me wanted to kick her out even while another part wanted to kiss her senseless."
He picked up a handful of sand, then let it spill out through his fingers. "She got under my skin twelve years ago, and she's stayed there."
"Because she pissed you off? Or because she hurt you?" Wyatt cocked his head. "Why does it matter?"
"Pissed off is anger, and you can be angry at anyone. You don't have to care about the guy who cuts you off when you're trying to make a left turn, right?" He opened his water bottle and took a long swallow. "But hurt--well, if you don't care about someone, they can't hurt you."
"Then it was both," he said. And maybe that was the problem. He'd been angry at her for so long. But she'd hurt him, too. So deeply it had scarred his heart.