16
Wyatt stared at the door. The golden numbers were tarnished and scuffed. Green paint peeled away at the edges of each metal curve, years of layered cheap paint trying to escape.
He’d come to recognize the subtle déjà vu of the situation. How many times did he f**k up and have to knock on Nancy’s door? Apologize and admit he’d been an a*s? Too many, and hopefully this was the end of it.
He rapped his knuckles on the wood, though he didn’t have words planned. No matter how much he thought of it, he wasn’t the poetic type, at least not right now. A year ago, he would have had the perfect words for any situation.
Nancy had a way of disrupting his usual rhythm.
The door swung open. It had to be close to midnight, but her light had been on and she was wide awake. She stepped to the side,
