**Completed** Colby Byers and Wyatt Matheson shared an enviable love-at least, until that fateful day. Torn apart by tragedy, the stubborn ex-lovers struggle to come to terms with their desire for one another, while reconciling their feelings with t...
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Wyatt
"Wyatt Loring Matheson! Up and at 'em!"
I startle awake. The knocking and hollering at my door is incessant.
"Yeah...yeah, I'm up," I rasp, raking my hand over my face and into my hair. Not gonna lie, my eyes are still pasted shut.
"I'm headed to church," my mom continues from behind the closed door. "I'll see you there in thirty minutes!"
"Yeah," I grunt, rolling onto my side and wrapping my arm tightly around Colby's waist.
Wrapping my arm tightly...around Colby's...waist?
Shit...
My eyes pop open. It wasn't a dream.
"Urrrggg," Colby mumbles, tucking herself closer to me.
I bury my face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent as last night comes flooding back to me. The teasing. The confessions.
I frown, exhaling sharply. Nope, it definitely wasn't a dream.
I know it wasn't easy for her to tell me the truth, and I hate that she was afraid to do so. We may not be together anymore, but I care about her more than she could possibly understand. I want her to know that she can still confide in me, having meant what I said all those years ago. I will always protect her heart, even if it doesn't belong to me anymore.
I'd love to promise her that I'll never let anybody hurt her again, but I know that's a promise I can't keep. Instead, I vow that she'll never be in her grief alone. I wanna be the one person she can count on, no matter what.
"B," I say quietly, giving her shoulder a little shake. "Hey, B."
"Mmm, what?" she groans, stretching. She turns to face me. "What time is it?"
"It's eight-thirty."
"Eight-thirty!" she shrieks. "Wyatt, we have church in thirty minutes!"
"I know," I say, waving my hand in front of my nose. "Damn, your breath..."
"Shut up! I know!" she says, leaping from my bed in a panic. She turns a circle in the center of my floor, taking in the contents of my semi-tidy room. "My dress is wrecked. What can I—oh! Gimme one of your flannel shirts!"
"Another one?" I challenge, eyeing her warily.
"Please? Trust me."
"Whatever you say," I concede, pulling a red flannel from my closet. She takes it hastily, making a beeline for my bathroom.
I pull a pair of khakis from the chair in the corner and throw on a polo shirt. Voila. Ready.
B comes tearing back into my room, and I don't yet see where she's going with this shirt thing.
"Umm, aren't you missing some pants or something?" I ask, indicating her outfit with my index finger. Not that I don't like her legs on full display—they're hella sexy, but shirts usually require pants.
"Go ask your mom for a belt?" she implores, completely ignoring me.
"She left already," I say. "She's got choir."
"Just, go grab one!" she pleads as she jams her feet into her black heels from last night. "Make sure it matches this."
"Right," I scoff, suppressing a laugh and shaking my head. She's trusting me with a fashion choice. What is this world coming to?
I return from my mom's closet with a sparkly black belt, figuring I can't go wrong with sparkles.
"Here you—hey! That's my toothbrush!" I say.
She rolls her eyes, brushing her teeth and hair simultaneously.
I decide that it must be hard to be a girl. I take a seat, figuring I might as well enjoy the rest of the show. She emerges from my bathroom, undoubtedly with much more tolerable breath, and I hold up the belt for her appraisal.
"That'll do," she says smiling. She fastens the belt around her waist and does some sort of ninja magic, tucking and pulling the flannel, bending it to her will.
She turns to face me, and my breath catches. "Hell, B, I think you're too hot for church."
"Thanks," she says shyly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
I'm impressed. After all that, we're actually gonna be on time.
...
We arrive just as the choir is filling the loft behind Nash's dad, who happens to be the preacher. As if by unspoken agreement, Colby and I part ways. She takes a seat with her father and her little brother Luke. I take my usual seat up front, where I can watch my mom and make faces at Nash while he sings his heart out.
As luck would have it, Nash witnessed my arrival with Colby, his eyes narrowing. An unspoken question hangs in the air between us, and I know I'm gonna pay for this.
The choir rises, singing a jazzy version of How Great Thou Art, and Nash grins.
Aw, hell. He's not even gonna wait 'til later.
He casually points in Colby's direction, and to anyone watching it would look like he's just feeling the music. I know he's using this time as an opportunity for a wordless interrogation.
He nods his head, eyes wide. I shake my head no, desperate to flip him off, but I know this isn't the time or place for that.
He persists, drawing an air heart with his index fingers, and then bringing his arms to his chest, giving himself a nice warm hug as he sways in time to the music.
Then he begins making kissy faces, but I only crack a smile when his mama, who is stationed behind him, whacks him on the head with her program.
He turns to face her, and I see that he's pleading innocence, but Mrs. Porter knows better. I smirk, turning my focus to Mr. Porter as he begins the sermon. Mrs. Porter's always had a soft spot for me. I'm grateful to her for ending the harassment. At least for today.
...
It's none of my business. I know that. I should just leave well enough alone, as what's done is done. And yet, I find my feet continuing to carry me toward his house, images of Colby's vulnerability and shame propelling me forward.
I can't help but feel that Trey should've known better. Yeah, I know how stupid that sounds, being that they were both hammered. Still, he went after his best friend's sister, a definitive violation of bro code. Hell, he used to be my friend. You never go for a friend's ex-girl. Another violation.
Okay, I admit it. My justifications for being here are shit. Let's try this: he hurt her. Maybe not physically, but she's been scarred. He took her virginity, and he didn't even care. Just another notch on his bedpost. Colby deserved so much better.
How's that for justification?
I knock, and a red-eyed Trey answers the door. He reeks of alcohol and it's only eleven.
"Wyatt!" he says. "Whattup man?"
"Hey," I say frigidly. "We need to have a little chat."
