Page 1 of Truth and Temptation
Chapter one
Wyatt
“Trust me, I want nothing more than to be on a plane to St. Thomas right now. But I’ve got to get through the new store opening first. That is sort of my job, you know.” I tuck my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I unlock the front door to my parents’ vacation house. On the other end of the phone is my best friend from college, Jacob, who’s been after me for weeks to join him at the Indigo Royal Resort in the Virgin Islands.
“Yeah, yeah, Mister Hot Shot Director of Expansion and Acquisitions.” I can hear Jacob’s eyes roll even over the phone. “Look, my man, you know next month is gonna be shit for you mentally. So why not spend some time with sun, sand, and beautiful women? C’mon Wyatt.” His voice is cajoling, and the sound of laughter and music in the background doesn’t help. He’s got a valid point, and a big part of me seriously wants to say fuck it to responsibility and go. But the permanent weight of guilt on my conscience holds me in place like an anchor dragging me down.
“I know. Look man, if everything goes smoothly, I’ll try to get down there after the grand opening. Talk later, okay? I need to unpack.”
It’s not often that I’m grateful for the superficial trappings of wealth my family is fortunate enough to have access to. But right now, walking into a house that no one has been in for months, yet still having it warm, clean, and, I know, full of food is a relief. I’m exhausted, having flown the red eye from Toronto all the way to Vancouver. I was in back-to-back meetings about some of the new bookstores our family company, Crawford Books, has opened on the East Coast. Once in Vancouver, I checked in with my parents briefly, only to then grab a chartered sea plane over to Vancouver Island, and finally make the drive to Dogwood Cove.
My parents bought this house when I was young, to use as a summer home. Mom tried to call it a cottage, but any place that has three bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, a gas fireplace, a hot tub, and a view of the ocean can’t be called a cottage, if you ask me. Regardless, this place has always been a refuge for my family. It’s in a small town, but from what I remember, the place is big on personality. The quiet pace is relaxing, and growing up, my brother and I loved boogie boarding at the beach and hiking in the forest.
The usual ache hits me, just as it does every time I think of Ryder. Losing a family member is never easy. Losing a twin? A lot fucking worse.
After dumping my bags in the bedroom I plan on using for the week or so I’m in town, I head to the kitchen. Sure enough, the fridge is stocked, courtesy of the property management company my parents hire to watch the place. I throw together a sandwich, pour a glass of water, and sit down at the breakfast bar. Opening my computer, I scan my inbox to see if there’s anything pressing at work I need to deal with.
At the risk of sounding like a spoiled, entitled rich kid, I’m stuck in a job that I wish I didn’t have and feel like I don’t deserve. It should have been Ryder in the role, not me. He is — was — the business-minded one of us. I hated wearing a tie, and being stuck indoors was torture. But when he died from cancer twelve years ago, I had no choice but to step up and into his unfillable shoes. The harsh truth I face everyday is that he’s not here, and I am. Which means the close to one hundred emails staring at me are mine to deal with.
With a deep breath, and a long pull from my drink, I get to work weeding through everything. An hour later, the unread emails are down to just ten that I have to address, with another twenty sent off to my assistant to be handled. I hate being tied to a screen like this, interacting over emails and phone calls.
Stretching my arms overhead, I shut down my computer and stand to clean up from lunch as my phone rings. Glancing at the call display, I know I have to answer.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey, did you make it to the house okay?”
It doesn’t matter that I’m a thirty-six-year-old man who hasn’t lived at home for almost half my life, my mother will always — without fail — call to check up on me when I travel.
“Yeah, I’m here, just going through my emails. Do you know if Dad saw the one from the team in Calgary? I’m thinking we’ll need someone out there soon.”
“I’m sure he’s looked at it.” My mother’s tone turns chiding. “You need to get some sleep, Wyatt. I can hear how tired you are.”
“I know, but I still haven’t totally adjusted to the time change. I’m gonna try to get a nap later, but I need to finish answering a few of these.” I take another sip of water and stare out the kitchen window. It’s early afternoon, but I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours now and I can feel it seeping through my bones.
“Wyatt…”
I silently curse. I know what she’s about to ask. Every fall, we go through this. Honestly, I’m surprised she waited until October to ask for the first time this year. Normally, she starts trying to convince me to come home for the anniversary of Ryder’s death much earlier.
“Do you think you could come home next month? I’d really like to be together as a family this year.”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“Okay, sweetheart.” Her voice betrays her, letting me know she’s hurting. I mentally add it to the mountain of guilt I’m always carrying. “Well, we’ll see you in a week at the opening in Westport. Let us know if you need anything before then, but I’m sure you’ll have everything running perfectly by the time we get there.”
“You bet, Mom. See you soon.”
“I love you, Wyatt.”
“Love you, too.” My voice sounds hollow, at least to me it does. We hang up and my head falls to the cold marble counter. I hate upsetting my mother. But work has no room for remorse. Lifting my head and blinking away the deep feeling of fatigue, I return my attention to the emails waiting for me.
Sometimes it fucking sucks being Wyatt Crawford.
After two hours of conference calls dealing with a situation at one of our stores in Alberta that is moving to a new location, I’m finally done with the time sensitive work I had to deal with for Crawford Books. Every muscle in my back aches when I stand up and stretch. I need to find somewhere close by to get some rock climbing in. My mind needs the distraction of focusing on nothing more than the rock face and figuring out my next hold, and my body needs the sensation of stretching to its utter limit before proving how much more I’m capable of.
An interviewer for some society magazine once asked me why I enjoy so many activities that are deemed “risky.” They tried to paint me as some reckless rich kid with no respect for my own mortality. I laughed it off at the time, but it was actually chilling how close to the truth they were.
Losing my twin to an aggressive cancer that no amount of money could cure made me look at things differently. I realized it doesn’t matter what the fuck I do — when it’s my time, it’s my time. So why not live my life to the fullest extreme and ignore any fears or worries that I might be pushing things too far.
