Page 10

But my father isn’t as easily persuaded. “Do you think now’s the best time to be homesick, or whatever?” He narrows his eyes. “Did Wyatt agree to this?”

“Last I checked, I’m an adult capable of making my own decisions. I wanted to come see Sycamore Falls at Christmas, so that’s what I’m doing. Now if you don’t mind, I’m exhausted and would like to get some sleep.” I turn to my mom. “Can I stay here, or should I go to a hotel?”

She opens her arms and pulls me in. “Of course you can stay. You’re always more than welcome. You know that.” I don’t have to look to know she’s glaring over my shoulder at my father. “Regardless of Wyatt’s schedule.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She holds on a beat longer before letting go. When I turn to my father, I expect him to renew his objection to my being here. To my surprise, he doesn’t.

“I’ll grab your bags from the car,” he mutters, disappearing from the kitchen.

“Thanks, Dad. It should be unlocked.”

Once he’s out of earshot, my mom leans toward me. “Don’t pay him any mind. You know how he is. He thinks of Wyatt as a son and just wants to make sure he’s happy. That you’re both happy.” She pulls back, her searching gaze tracing over me. “You are both still happy, right?”

“Of course we are,” I lie for what feels like the hundredth time since I pulled into the driveway.

Relief rolls off her in waves, and guilt twists in my stomach. Every lie only makes the conversation I eventually need to have that much harder.

“Good night, Mom,” I say before the guilt swallows me whole.

“’Night, Wynter. It’s great to have you home, even if it’s only for a little while.”

With a brittle smile, I slip out of the kitchen and head up the stairs, Gary trailing behind me.

I’m not sure what I expect when I reach the door to my room and push it open. Considering I left home fifteen years ago, I assume my parents would have remodeled my old room. Repainted the walls. Replaced the furniture. Made it more of a guest room than a high school cheerleader’s room.

They haven’t.

My bed is still covered with a floral duvet, the walls painted light pink. The room smells faintly of lavender and old books, the shelves against the far wall filled with some of my high school favorites — The Great Gatsby, The Outsiders, East of Eden.

My old pointe shoes still hang from the back of the chair near the vanity, dozens of photos framing the mirror. Dance recitals. Photo booth prints from the spring carnival. Selfies with the cheer team at football games. There are even several photos of Wyatt and me. Of course, teenage me had to draw a red heart around his face in lipstick.

And in each of these photos, I look so happy. So full of life.

So full of hope.

Of course I was.

Back then, I had my entire future ahead of me.

I was going to become a professional dancer, regardless of what it took. I was going to dance with the New York City Ballet. And Wyatt would be in the front row cheering me on.

I never became a professional dancer.

Never danced with the New York City Ballet.

And Wyatt was never in the front row cheering me on.

I was the one who cheered him on. Who sacrificed my dreams so he could follow his, going so far as to drop out of college after he was drafted. And where did it get me?

In my childhood bedroom after learning he’s been sleeping with his assistant, who looks like I once did.

“Here you go.” My father’s voice startles me, and I spin around.

With a furrowed brow, he sets my suitcase and backpack down, then crosses the room toward me. “Why are you crying?”

I blink hard, swiping at the tears I didn’t realize had fallen.