Page 47 of Truth and Temptation
There are moments when Serena is so astute and so insightful into my own thoughts and emotions, it astounds me. With just that one question, she releases the chains that were holding back my hurt feelings. Tears start to roll down my cheeks, unrestrained.
“Oh Paige, I’m sorry.” Serena passes over a tissue, and I wipe my eyes before blowing my nose in an extremely inelegant fashion. A bottle of hand sanitizer is passed to me next, and I take some, giving my best friend a watery smile.
“Thanks. I don’t know why I’m crying.” My voice trembles slightly.
“Well, I do. You spent the day in the hospital, your body feels like crap from fighting a cold and dealing with an asthma attack, and the guy who’s meant to be here caring for you has ghosted you, leaving you stuck with me to play nurse. You’re allowed to cry.”
“Thanks, Serena,” I whisper, sniffling into another tissue. “And you’re a great nurse.”
“I got you, babe. Always.”
Serena squeezes my leg gently, offering a smile that is both sympathetic and filled with so much love.
One thing is for certain. I may not have Wyatt right now, but I do have my friends. And for that, I am so thankful. Because even if romantic love is not in my future, at least I will always have them.
Closing Pages for several days unexpectedly, like I had to do this week, was a hit to my bottom line. My budget can handle it, but not for much longer. Which is why, despite Serena’s protests, I opened the store today, just three days after my visit to the emergency room. A large portion of my income is generated from online sales, and I have a lot of orders to package. Over the course of a few hours in the morning, I manage to take care of those, help a few customers, and book two space rentals for poetry readings.
When the bell above the door rings just as I’m preparing to close early, I can’t hold back a sigh of dismay. But I paste on a smile and look up from my register book to greet my customers. But words escape me when I see Giselle Crawford, COO of Crawford Books, standing in my small independent bookstore, looking around nervously.
“Hello, may I assist you with something?” I close the logbook on the counter and fold my hands together in front of me, swallowing down my nerves. I have no clue what she is doing here, but it can’t be a good thing.
“Oh yes, are you Paige, by chance?”
My eyes widen. How on earth does she know my name? “Y-yes,” I stammer out.
“Would you happen to know where my son is?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, dear, how rude of me. I’m looking for Wyatt Crawford, my son. The young man next door — Sebastian, I believe was his name — he told me you may know where I can find him.”
My mind must still be addled from the medications I’m on because I believe I just heard her say Wyatt Crawford. But that can’t be right, because the only Wyatt I know is Wyatt James. I feel as if I’m fighting against an invisible force, something holding me back from the truth.
Denial.
That must be what it is. My mind is refusing to acknowledge the possibility that Wyatt lied to me about his identity. Then again, he was always evasive with questions about his work, and his agitated behaviour and business attire at the Crawford Bookstore opening now makes a lot more sense.
“You must forgive my confusion,” I say, quietly mustering the strength to confirm what I already know must be true. “The man I am familiar with went by the name Wyatt James. Is it possible that is who you’re looking for?”
The surprise on her face disappears as quickly as it appeared. “Yes. That would be him. I apologize if he misled you, I cannot begin to understand why he would do that. Wyatt James Crawford is my son. He was here for a vacation in between launching new locations of our bookstores. And I’m hoping you can help me get in touch with him.”
I nod slowly, letting everything sink in. But as I prepare to answer, to tell her I haven’t seen her son — the man I thought I knew — for several days, the door to my shop opens yet again and none other than Hank Crawford is holding the door open with one hand, a tray of drinks in the other, and Mila is hurrying in ahead of him with her flour covered apron on.
“Paige? These people say they’re Wyatt’s parents. Is he okay? Are you okay?”
My friend hurries over to me, examining me, as if looking for a physical mark. But the pain isn’t on the outside of my body. It’s inside. On my heart.
“That is correct, Mila. This is Hank and Giselle Crawford, of Crawford Books. Wyatt is their son. Apparently, he works for their company and was here on vacation.”
My voice comes out far stronger and with more clarity than I am currently feeling.
“What the actual fuck?” Mila’s outburst has all the shock and betrayal that I want to convey, so I stay silent as she puts her hands on her hips and glares at Wyatt’s parents. “Can you please explain why he told all of us his name was Wyatt James and he was here to research opening an outdoor adventure tourism company?”
Hank and Giselle share a look, Giselle’s eyes filling with tears. A part of me wants to go to her, to tell her it isn’t her fault. Her love for Wyatt is evident, as is her pain. Hank wraps an arm around her shoulders, holding her briefly before answering.
“I’m sorry, ladies. I wish we could explain Wyatt’s actions, but we can’t just yet. Perhaps after we speak to our son, we can all gain some understanding of the situation.”
“Unfortunately,” I say quietly, my eyes downcast, “I have no idea where he is.”
