Girls of Brackenhill(51)

“I loved you,” Hannah blurted, and she felt the shock of saying that for the first time out loud. She felt bolstered by the invisible presence of Huck. His existence proof that she didn’t still love Wyatt, couldn’t possibly, and she could have pointed to it as tangible evidence: See, I’ve moved on from you. You meant nothing to me. You still mean nothing to me.

“I know.” Wyatt winced and then looked at her earnestly. “I didn’t use you. You have to know that . . . that I was in love with you. Julia . . .” He took a breath. Then another. “It was complicated, Hannah. She was more my age. Listen, no eighteen-year-old with two beautiful girls vying for their attention would handle it one hundred percent correctly, okay? It’s not just an excuse.”

“Sure it is,” Hannah insisted and felt her breathing hitch. She suddenly couldn’t take a deep breath. She remembered this Wyatt. The one who spoke plainly, with an earnestness reserved for lovers and confidants. The one who made every encounter feel intimate. The one who made her do the same. Except she was a different Hannah now: she’d learned how to build walls, cordoned herself off. How easily he’d come back into her life, in whatever aspect, and how quickly she’d given up her feelings, resorted to her teenage self, free with her own emotions. I loved you. Who said that? She was engaged. Huck didn’t deserve this: her racing heart, her inability to breathe properly. No good could come from this. She suddenly felt furious with herself.

“Wyatt.” Hannah held up her hand. “I’m fine, okay? You don’t owe me anything. Young love”—she stumbled over the word, now when it mattered so much less—“is always fraught and messy. It’s how we all learn, how we form real relationships later.” She didn’t say it to wound him, even if that was how it came out. She had no idea if she hit the mark.

Wyatt said nothing.

“Are you married now?” Hannah asked, realizing she didn’t know. Knew so little about him now. Maybe had known so little about him back then.

“Divorced.” He gave her a rueful smile. “So maybe I didn’t learn enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was a decent father but a shit husband.”

Hannah felt her head snap up at this. “You have a child?” She could easily imagine this with his moral compass and what she knew of him as a teenager: playful, fun, insightful, emotionally available.

“I do. Her name is Nina. She’s ten. Knows everything about life and is trying to teach me. And mostly failing.” Wyatt half stood and reached into his back pocket; his shoulders strained against the fabric of his shirt. Hannah looked away. He produced a wallet, snapped it open to reveal a photograph. A child with dark hair, laughing in a field in a gingham dress. Holding a daisy. “My wife—ex-wife—does portraits every year. This was this past spring.” His voice lowered. “She’s amazing. Parenthood is amazing.”

A pang right under her breastbone. Hannah could see it that quickly: Wyatt as a dad, a little ringleted girl on his shoulders, pointing out shapes in clouds, pushing her on the swings, never tiring of it.

“And your ex?” Hannah prodded, then instantly regretted it. It was none of her business.

“Liza? She’s great.” He shrugged. “I didn’t take marriage seriously. Probably didn’t take her seriously. We married too young, maybe.”

Liza Rendell. Hannah vaguely recalled her from the kids in town. Pretty. Dark hair. Tall and gangly. Quiet. Kind. “You married local?” she teased.

“Yeah.” Wyatt smirked at her. God, his smile was so nice. “Well, you didn’t stay. I didn’t have a choice.”

The joke fell flat. Hannah wanted to say, I didn’t have a choice either. Instead, she picked a piece of honeydew melon from the bowl, studied it. Let the silence do its job.

“Back to Ellie,” Wyatt finally said.

“What about her?” Hannah turned her back to him, poured herself another cup of coffee, added half-and-half, a dash of sugar, all very deliberate and slow.

“When do you remember seeing her last?”

An easy one. “The summer Julia disappeared. Left. She was around all summer, off and on.” Hannah thought of Ellie in the garden at midnight. Hovering. Pulling Julia down the path.

“That was . . . 2001?” Wyatt clarified.

“2002,” Hannah corrected.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’d know the summer my sister disappeared. Besides, it’s easily verifiable.” Hannah felt impatient.

“Yeah, sure. I remember too.” His voice lowered. Hannah wasn’t falling for it again, the trip down memory lane, the husky voice, the implicit intimacy of mutual regret.

She straightened her back, leveled her gaze at him. “But?”

“Well, the thing is . . .” He coughed. “Warren filed a missing persons report on Ellie in 2001. There was an investigation, but all signs pointed to a runaway. She was on camera at the bus station buying a ticket with a thick wad of cash. The missing persons case was closed after that. No one reported seeing her again. No one but you, anyway.”

Hannah straightened her back, indignant. “Well, I know what I saw. The summer my sister disappeared, she was with Ellie all summer. I was angry about it. Ellie was always here. I was left out and ignored.” She gestured across the island. “You remember some of it; you must. I talked to you at the time.”