Dead Letters(45)

“Thanks for your patronizing suggestions. Noted.”

He softens. Wyatt hates to fight. “Hey, I’m just worried, Pea.” His casual use of that old nickname makes my breath catch in my throat. Pea, short for “Sweet Pea.” Corny as hell, but it hits home, like nicknames are supposed to. Shortcuts to intimacy. “Let me take you for a snack, and then we’ll do your errands together. Though I’m afraid to ask what errands you might be doing at this time of night,” he adds with a nervous quirk of his mouth.

I look at him, considering. I am a bit tipsy, and even though it’s all back roads to Kuma’s, given my druthers, I would still prefer not to drive drunk. It also crosses my mind that having him along when I head to the strip club might not be the worst idea. And, if I were to be candid with myself, a glimmer of something else flickers through my mind. I miss him.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask.





12


Like everyone else in Hector, we get dinner from Stonecat, up the road from Silenus. It’s a simple barn-shaped building that appears deceptively hick. Inside, though, there’s a rustic bar, a raised back deck that looks out onto the lake, and a shockingly capable kitchen that whips up gourmet country food. I always struggle to describe Hector to anyone not from here; it is slippery in its distillation of bumpkins, rednecks, foodies, right-wingers, and wine snobs. Some of the people I see at the bar tonight work outdoors with their hands all day and have never left the county. I recognize a neighbor who I know for a fact went to Ithaca for the first time two years ago and celebrated the journey as though he’d ventured halfway across the world. At the other end of the bar is someone who, rarely enough, made some money in the wine business and has a second home in Tuscany.

I can tell from the way the bartender looks at me that Zelda must come here often, possibly with Wyatt; I recognize him from high school and wiggle my fingers in greeting. He squints back at me suspiciously, and without greeting me in return he asks if I also want no red onion on my falafel sandwich. I don’t want onion, but perversely I tell him I’ll have it. I feel like I have to eat it, because Zelda doesn’t. Wyatt squints at me strangely.

“You know, she liked red onion,” he says when I raise my eyebrow at his expression. “She stopped eating it ’cause of you.”

“She did?” I furrow my brows, trying to remember her eating it. “No, she always asked if there was red onion before she ordered tuna salad sandwiches. She said it ruined it.”

“That was for you. You guys usually split your food.”

He’s right. I’m caught off guard, having been so blind to a small generosity. I wonder if there are others I have failed to catch.

As we wait for our sandwiches, we decide to order wine. This, too, is new for Wyatt; in high school he was definitely a beer guy. He orders me a glass of dry Sauvignon Blanc without asking, which both irritates and charms me. Wyatt drinks a red, even though it’s still hot out. The bar buzzes with summer and alcohol. His thigh brushes up against my own, hot and solid, and I feel a tremor deep behind my navel that I’m desperate to ignore.

“So, Wyatt, what are you up to these days?” I say, scooting away from him. I’m grateful when the bartender slides my glass of wine across the old cherrywood bar. The twin of this bar, an identical slab of wood, split from the same tree, props up similarly rural barflies in Trumansburg, a scant fourteen miles away.

“I thought Zelda would have told you.”

“Zelda detected that it was a sensitive subject. She didn’t mention you too much. In the emails.”

“Ah. I knew she was writing you. I assumed it was to, uh, explain. I figured I’d better let her handle it.” I squint at him, wondering if there’s subtext to the comment.

“Nope. I think it was to guilt me into coming home.” I shrug. “Finally worked.”

“Well, I finished up my degree. Environmental science and sustainability.”

“I remember,” I say testily.

“I’ve been at Silenus a lot. Helping out. You know. With the grapes.”

“I figured.”

“Zelda’s done okay, you know. She learned a whole lot, worked her ass off. She can really commit to something when she wants to.” I don’t answer, just swish the wine in my glass. “And the rest of the time, I’m working on the farm with the ’rents,” he continues.

“Soybeans still?”

“And some veggies now. We want to start a CSA, maybe. Eventually.”

I nod. Wyatt’s parents are old hippie farmers who have been out in Hector for decades. When they’re not farming, they run a meditation retreat center that attracts primarily other old hippie farmers. They’re nice people, but they never liked me much. They (quite rightly) thought I wasn’t very good for their son.

“And you don’t mind working with them?” I ask casually.

“It’s been…a little strange,” he admits. “But it feels good too. Knowing they can rely on me as they get older.” He blushes suddenly and looks away.

“It’s okay, Wy. I’ve made my peace with abandoning my mother and my responsibilities. I had to do it.” He nods, unconvinced. “Have they at least gotten less passive-aggressive with their disapproval?” I ask.

He laughs. “Not entirely, but they’ve toned it down. Strangely enough, they liked Zelda. Superficially, at least, she was more their kind of girl.”