Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wyatt prefers to take the long way home.

Through the woods, weaving in-and-out of rooted, rich trees and sucking in the sweet wind through his teeth. It’s comforting. Much unlike the shorter trail that his brothers and the rest of the miners he works with takes, where people on the streets are either accidentally meeting your eyes or trying to make conversation for some reason. He can’t stand it. It’s exactly why he doesn’t mind this, the extra ten to fifteen minutes. After long days of breathing in dust and feeling it cake and cake upon his skin, all he wants to do is breathe. And this was the perfect place to do just that.

He especially likes it at this time of year, when it’s hot and the sun’s rays are merciless. The thick bundles of leaves above offer him some shade as he waltzes along the muddy path that would eventually lead him to his back door. He continues to flick off pieces of dry mud off his fingers once he turns a corner, flexing his knuckles, sensing the grime stretch and break. A yawn passes his lips, and as the habitual chirps of birds fill the sky, in the distance, an entirely new sound disturbs it, grabbing his attention instantly.

Initially, he had thought it was someone speaking, which wasn’t too different from what he usually hears walking down here, there’s some houses near the tree line, could’ve been a family talking. However after he brings the rough soles of his boots to a stop and actually listens—he realizes quickly that it wasn’t speaking, but crying.

Mind swiveling into the worst, thinking it could belong to someone who was hurt, his first instinct is to follow it. 

It didn’t seem too far either, as it continued on ahead of him. He has to step off the path to bring himself closer, he tip-toes around the land, avoiding sticks and trying his best to not scuffle piles of fronds so he doesn’t end up scaring whoever The Crier may be. By the time he reaches a pair of tall oaks, he spots a crouched body between the bark, propped against the base of another. His heart sinks in his chest, taking this as confirmation for his immediate assumption. 

What now? Approach them? Run for help? His knees wobble forward.

With an inch closer, he can see them a little more clearly now. It’s a girl, sandy hair pinned back with a lacy green bow, covered in a dress of the same apple green shade, fabric dotted with flower petals. Her cries aren’t proud or pronounced, just muffled enough to catch his ears. He can tell she hadn’t wanted to be heard. Though, from here, he takes in how pristine and ironed her gown is. How her black, belted shoes glimmer even though they’re buried in dirt. No girl in the seam had fancy stuff like that.

This was no doubt a merchant girl. A girl with a family who owned a shop and had enough money to keep her dress clean and pretty. It only concerns him further. What on earth was she doing on this side of town? In these woods all by herself? Just to cry?

He doesn’t get the chance to think on it any longer. He takes a misguided tramp forward and crushes a twig beneath his shoe.

It may as well have been resemblant of a gunshot. The girl shoots up to her feet right away, a sharp gasp coming from her mouth. Once she fully spins around, vivid blond tresses swishing over her shoulder, it only takes him a mere second for her face to register in his memory.

Maysilee Donner. Who’s never not behind the Donner’s Sweet Shop’s counter and wears a scowl like one of the many necklaces that encircle her throat. The face she wears now comes as a shock to Wyatt. Shards of the sun break through the branches above, flickering its light onto the traces of fresh tears that pool down her cheeks. Her fists are balled up, too, pulled to her chin. She’s got a scary glint in her eye that makes him straighten up.

“Sorry, I—“

“How long were you standing there?” Maysilee snaps, fingernails still burrowed in her palms.

A rush of burn swallows him from his forehead to his neck. Probably should have said something as soon as he came across her. “Not long,” he says, “I was walking home and heard crying. I thought someone might’ve been hurt, I just wanted to be sure. That’s all.” Wyatt explains with a tone that waves in and out with a stutter, Maysilee squints. “I’m sorry for scaring you. Are you okay?”

Maybe it was the wrong thing to ask, coming from a stranger. He doesn’t think she recognizes him in the slightest. Which, he cannot blame her for. They weren’t in the same grade when he was in school, and the only times they had ever met glances was in the crowded halls. He’s shown up to the Sweet Shop here and there, but surely, never enough for his spiky black hairs, soot dark eyes and strained voice to sit in the depths of her skull.

“None of your business,” Maysilee says in return. Though, there didn’t seem to be much venom behind it. She lets her fists unravel, and she swiftly wipes away her drying tears with the back of her hand like they were never there. A few sniffles pass through her nose as she looks to be studying him, gaze drifting up and down. 

She probably thinks he’s disgusting—he’s literally still covered in coal dust. From his skin to his clothes to the bag he wears across his chest. He shifts a little, but keeps his heels sunken into the mud below for Maysilee’s own comfort.

Her brows twitch, as if something strikes her mentally. “Do you work in the mines?” She breathes out after a long moment.

Wyatt blinks, fingers intertwining into the loop of his jeans. “Um, yeah.” He nods, “why?”

“It’s just,” Maysilee starts, her head gently shakes, the braids that hug the sides of her hair nearly come loose as she brings her fingertips to her temples. “I lost something. My sister and I rode our bikes around last night and… it might have slipped off by there? I don’t know—it’s just important. Real important. I need it back.”

She isn’t even looking at him now, his lips scrunch as puzzlement clouds his expression. “What is it?” he asks softly, “I might’ve seen it. Or maybe one of the guys I work with did.”

Maysilee stops caressing her skin and slowly loops her arms over her front, drawing the tips of her nails across her elbows, scratches coming up white. “It’s a necklace,” she says. 

There’s at least five linked around her neck now. Some hanging like vines, dangling into the hem of her dress, some tight against her skin. All decorated with a gem or charm. What could make this missing one so special? These ones seemed beautiful enough.

“Gold, shaped like a heart. My sister and I have been looking all day, but no luck.”

He wonders why she’s out here alone then, had she just broke free from her sister to cry it out? Had to be. 

It truly must mean a whole lot to her, then. 

Her features appear almost doll-like as she stares into the weed-littered ground, clearly torn. It makes him think back to all the things he used to overhear about her during school. How she was vicious, mean like a rattlesnake. And she very well may be, but he can’t help the pang of empathy that flicks at him.

“Don’t think I’ve seen anything like that yet. But I’ll help you and keep an eye out,” he tells her, Maysilee finally looks up to him again. The thumping in his chest fluctuates a little louder. “You have my word.”

Silence expands within the summer air they share, he can hear her gulp down a heavy breath from where she stands. “Just… bring it to the Sweet Shop if you ever come up with it? Please.”

“Sure.” Wyatt agrees; promises.

And then she was gone without another word. With her reddened cheekbones and frizzy hair, she gave Wyatt one last look, the kind that caused his joints to freeze up, and ducked away into the trees. Hunks of grass smushing beneath her wedges.

Gold, shaped like a heart. Maysilee’s description echoes and flows through his ears like a prayer the whole way home, he can’t even find a reason why. They aren’t friends, hardly know of one another. 

He’s reminded of his own speech eventually. He had given her his word, and that was enough.

Wyatt didn’t think he’d ever find that damn necklace. And he really had looked, too. He’d kept his stare hard and firm on the gravel as he walked up to the mouth of the mines each and every day, squinting through the half-dark haze that came with the morning. 

He even had told his brothers about it, who were, unsurprisingly, annoying when he’d informed them who the necklace belonged to. When their stupid, irritated giggles had passed because it was somehow so funny, they let him know they would bring it to him if they happened to find it. 

After two weeks, however, he began to believe that thing had become lost to District Twelve’s soil. He almost wanted to apologize to Maysilee.

But tonight, in the midst of the amber lit walls that belonged to the Hob, above the thick cigar smoke and the smell of spilt whiskey, a sparkle nets his eye from across the room. Even through his tipsiness, he can tell that it’s real gold. A necklace that wouldn’t belong to any soul in the seam. A necklace someone like Jude Meeney, a miner Wyatt occasionally worked alongside and a Booker Boy amongst his family in the crummy shed when the nights fell, who enjoyed gambling and trading and everything alike, would snatch up in an instant.

“You ditchin’ us?” Beau huffed out right as Wyatt’s legs began to move for the table Jude was at, throat likely still burning from the swig of booze he just downed.

“No,” Wyatt says, “just… checking something out.”

Kennedy makes a face. “Um… okay.”

“Okay.” he mocks right back, wiggling his shoulders, offering an eye-roll before he resumes his stride again. He hears a faint brat under Kennedy’s breath.

The glimmer that drips upon the necklace’s chain just gets brighter and brighter as he gets closer, it’s all wrapped in Jude’s fingers, probably tangling it—now, he may not know Maysilee full-heartedly, but he knows good and well no woman likes her jewelry to be tampered with. He’s watched his Ma rip his Pa’s head off for cracking the jewel on her ring. Jude doesn’t notice him at first, as he’s so tuned in to whatever the man in front of him is jabbering about.

“Hey,” Wyatt says, loud and broad above all the chatter. Jude’s attention pops to him. He weakly points toward the wisps of gold in his grasp. “Can I have that?”

Jude’s eyebrows rise, a smirk that’s colored in disbelief on his mouth. He actually laughs at him. “Hell no. Are you crazy?”

Wyatt shrugs. “Someone I know lost it. She’s been looking for it.”

He thinks this would convince him to just hand it over. But it doesn’t, and Jude just chuckles at him again. Irritation seeps into Wyatt, how obnoxious. “Yeah, right. Heard that one before. You just want the cash I’m about to get for this beauty.”

“I’m not lying.” He gets out.

“I don’t care,” Jude asserts, “finders keepers.”

“You’re a thief.”

“I’m not a thief, I found it.”

“You took something that isn’t yours, that makes you a thief.”

Jude goes to open his mouth to argue against that, but Wyatt lurches forward, closing the small gap between them and attempting to snatch the necklace from his hand. He yanks back at once, and Wyatt nearly busts his chin on the splintered table.

“Uh-uh, Oddsboy.” Jude taunts, a vexing cackle coughing out of him.

“It’s Wyatt.” He corrects him, wiping his palms on his thighs.

“Whatever,” he dismisses him. As if to brag about having it in his possession, he gradually lifts his arm and spreads his fingers, allowing the dozens of twinkling links to curve and spill around his knuckles. The heart pendant sways in his palm. Wyatt’s certain it looks much prettier on Maysilee. “You want it so bad? Beat me in a game of Blackjack, and I’ll give you a cheap deal.”

Wyatt resists the urge not to smile. He’s made a mistake. 

He’s real good at Blackjack, it was Beau’s favorite card game and he had practically forced him to sit down and play it with him when he was little. They only played more when Wyatt had been brought to the run-down, barely lit shed behind the Hob. Where he was introduced to betting and odds and everything that’s made him into who he is at twenty.

Jude gestures to the man in front of him. “Alder will be our dealer.”

A prolonged pause filled with hesitancy passes through him, and he finally says: “Alright,” swooping a chair from one of the unoccupied tables. Jude pulls out a card deck from one of his pockets and slaps it onto the table’s surface. Alder unboxes the cards, beginning to warily shuffle them.

For the first few rounds, it’s simple; fair. They go back and forth, steadily placing bets, neither of them have gotten to a count of twenty-one yet, which would beat the dealer and declare one of them the winner.

It isn’t until Jude keeps throwing down high bets and suddenly has enough to overtake victory, that Wyatt realizes something had been up the whole time. Alder had rigged the deck.

Wyatt’s knees send him into a standing position, his palms gracing against the table as he leans into Jude’s space. “You cheating son of a bitch.” He hisses through his teeth.

He contemplates on trying to grab the necklace from Jude again, but right as his muscles start to twitch—Jude has catapulted from his seat, and Alder has planted his big hands on Wyatt’s shoulders, pushing him as hard as he could. Sending him into the wall. There wasn’t much else he could do after that. With his head spinning from a lingering buzz and now from being blasted into the Hob’s wooden bones, he can’t chase Jude down. 

He isn’t very fast anyway.

A minute or two afterward, Beau’s leering over him, reeking of whiskey. “Damn, Wy. Was that your big head hittin’ the wall?”

Then there’s Kennedy, slithering beside Beau and closer to Wyatt’s face. “Follow my finger, Wyatt. Follow my finger.”

Wyatt grimaces, urging his body to curl up, a huge blunt of dizziness follows. He slaps Kennedy’s hand away. “Can we just go home?” he whimpers, his brothers’ features blurring. “I need to lie down.”

“You are lying down.” Beau points out.

“At home.”

“Beau, really?” Kennedy sighs, and suddenly Wyatt’s being pulled up. His forehead bobbles against Kennedy’s shoulder, the jean material warming his skin. “Can you walk the whole way back?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, his vision straightens a little. “I think. Just… stay close.”

“I’ve got ya.”

He wants to physically shrink into the size of a coin while being escorted out the Hob, he can feel dozens of eyes on him and he knows some of the men he works with are gonna ask him if he was alright tomorrow, when he’d rather just not think about this night ever again. 

With the embarrassment that came with being straight-up concussed in public, he also felt like shit for letting Jude get away with Maysilee’s necklace. Even though he was the one that cheated and couldn’t play right, all he can think of while shaking off his pants and boots once he slips onto his cold bed, is the sound of her crying between the trees.

About three days later, he feels well enough to head up to the Sweet Shop and tell Maysilee about her necklace’s whereabouts, or lead her in the right direction, at least. His temples still ache whenever he grits his molars, but he was fine, really.

He spent an extra ten minutes at the cleaning station today after his shift. Wiping and scrubbing down every crevice of his skin so he wouldn’t look a damn mess at the Donner’s front door. He runs his drying fingers through his thin strands of hair once he reaches the merchant side of town, checking himself in nearby shop windows.

When he eventually reaches the shop and shambles inside, digging the toe of his boots into the welcome mat, a bell rings at his arrival, and the vibrant smell of blueberry and toffee ambushes him. Through the rows of warped glass jars and marshaled shelves of taffy, he spots a bundle of blond hair by the counter. 

Now, he’s aware Maysilee’s got a twin, but she’s pretty distinguishable from her sister. With the loops of jewelry on her neck and wrists? He knew instantly who he was looking at.

She’s wrapping up some mini lollipops, all a shade of lavender, when his presence finally gets her attention.

Her eyes light up as soon as she sees him, and a punt of guilt kicks his stomach.

“Hi,” Wyatt greets with an awkward cough.

“Hi!” Maysilee mirrors, the ends of her radiant cotton candy pink and blue dress rippling in her pace. All her accessories match. She meets him in the dead center of the shop, staring up at him with wide, excited eyes. “So? Do you have it?”

Wyatt anxiously cracks his knuckles. “No, but—“

Her expression drops at once. “What?”

“Listen, just let me explain, and—“

Maysilee’s mouth burns into a deep, angry frown. Nostrils flaring. He’s one-hundred-percent sure he’s about to get concussed again. He’s preparing to feel the sharp ends of her jeweled rings in his flesh when she aggressively grabs the crease of his elbow, slinging him into a secluded aisle of fudge. 

“You better.” She threatens, placing her hands on her hips.

He doesn’t know why blooms of heat burn up to his cheeks, but he prays Maysilee can’t see it. Spreading all over his face like an open ember. “I know who has it. I saw him playing with it at the Hob the other night—“

“And you went over there, right?” Maysilee interrupts.

“Yes. I went over there and tried to convince him to give it back, but he wouldn’t, and instead told me if I could beat him at a game of Blackjack he’d give me a cheap deal on it,” Wyatt heaves in separate breaths, going on with a gently shaking hand. “And I’m real good at Blackjack.”

One of her brows curve in suspicion.

“But he cheated. Him and the guy he was with.” His eyelids flutter shut at the memory, “when I tried to grab it anyway, his friend pushed me into the wall and nearly knocked me out cold. Then they ran away.”

Maysilee’s arms lift from her sides and intertwine over her chest, pushing her tongue into her cheek. “You’re kidding.”

“No. Wish I was.”

She goes silent for a second before looking him right in the eye. “Where does he live?”

Wyatt would laugh at that, but the seriousness in her voice glues his lips together. “What? I don’t—I don’t know.”

“For heaven’s sake, Wyatt.” Maysilee groans, tipping her head back. The glossy tint on her cheeks shimmer beneath the shop’s lights.

“I’m sorry! I just know him, not—not where he sleeps at night.” He scrambles out, and he’s preparing to go on when every piece of him tumbles to a stop. “Wait, you know my name?”

“Yes?” Maysilee snorts, she almost sounds offended. A real sour look on her face. “We went to the same school? Like everyone else? And you’ve come in here before.”

“Oh,” he says, “I just… thought you didn’t really notice me around.”

“I noticed.” She retorts, and it actually comes out quite softly. That, for an unknown cause, brings his throat to a close and for a brief amount of time, they don’t say anything. 

Usually, Wyatt finds something else to look at when he’s being glared at, but he doesn’t seem to want to when it’s Maysilee’s eyes. They’re piercing and vital with ocean blue and reeling. 

“So—“ she blurts out, tucking a strand of her loose hair behind her ear. A strange, weak smirk builds on his own lips. “I—I thought we could, you know, find out where he lives. Tonight.”

“What? How?” He asks.

“Take me to the Hob,” Maysilee says, “then, we’ll follow him home and break into his house. Easy-peasy.”

Wyatt’s eyes go as wide as one of the Sweet Shop’s rainbow spiral lollipops. “That does not sound smart.”

“I’m not worried about being smart, Wyatt,” she says, voice cuttingly small, head faintly quivering side-to-side. “I’m worried about never seeing my grandmother’s necklace again.” She sounds anything but frivolous. “I need to know who this guy is, and I need your help to do that.”

He swallows deeply, rushes of images from that day in the woods filling his mind. How he saw this tough-as-nails girl sobbing rivers over this lost piece of jewelry, how intimate and personal it was to her. And, of course, how he had given her his word that he’d help her find it. 

Well, he supposes there was no more perfect time than now to prove that.

“Alright,” Wyatt exhales with a shrug, nerves already beginning to stir. “What if he’s not there tonight?”

“Then we’ll go tomorrow.” Maysilee answers, she’s about to add something else, but a man’s gruff tone from the counter interrupts her.

“Maysilee!” He shouts, her whole body spins immediately. Wyatt’s left staring into this man’s eyes, who’s got golden blonde hair like Maysilee and looks to have her high cheekbones, too. “What are you doing, Honey? Get these lollipops done before we close.”

“Right. Sorry, Papa. I’ll be there in a sec.” Maysilee says. Her father gives her a nod, taking her words as truth, then backtracks into the swinging door. The little heels of her shoes click as she turns to face Wyatt. “Come by at sunset? I’ll be way ready by then.”

“Sure, yeah.” He works out a smile, “am I… supposed to dress nice?”

“No harm in it,” Maysilee replies, snickering. “Would for sure impress me.”

He dresses as nice as he could manage.

How nice are you supposed to dress when you’re attempting a break-in directly afterward? He threw on a plain black tee, dark red flannel over-top, with the usual jeans. When his brothers and parents had given him a weird look after dinner, obviously wondering what the hell he was doing, he lied and said a friend down at the mines had invited him for a drink at the Hob.

Tell me if you see that asshole, Kennedy had whispered to him before he walked out the door. Beau and I are gonna give him a taste of his own medicine.

Wyatt had just sucked the salt off his teeth and nodded.

His stomach aches walking up to the square. It could be the dinner he’d inhaled less than an hour ago, but he knew deep down it was his anxiety. Twisting his guts in the most violent way, thinking of every terrible thing that could happen tonight. Maybe he and Maysilee could just have a drink, try and talk her out of this whole thing. 

He’s sweating like a stuck pig when he makes it to the Donner’s Sweet Shop for the second time that day, rubbing his palms on his pants so the thick sweat comes off. He paws at his face with his sleeve, too, batting down the bridge of his nose.

Before he even makes it to the door himself, Maysilee steps out. It doesn’t come as a shock to him that she’s entirely dressed up. Sleek black flats and a ruby apron dress, she’s got a plastic bag on her shoulder as well.

“Those are your break-in clothes?” Wyatt asks.

Maysilee clicks her tongue. “What do you think’s in the bag, silly?” She then looks him up and down, he can see the reflection of the setting sun in her glassy black headband. “Not impressed, by the way.”

“I only have so much,” He reasons, following behind her as soon as she passes him. “I tried.”

She glances over at him across her shoulder. “Trying isn’t doing. But I guess it’s the thought that counts, huh?” She grins, orange light catching the sparkle in her hair.

So, was she impressed, or not? He blushes, despite being dwindled with confusion.

It doesn’t take long to get to the Hob. They hardly talk on the way there. Wyatt doesn’t mind, really. He likes quiet. He steals quick shots of her, how easily she strides against the rough gravel, the way her necklaces clank atop her chest. The flowery perfume that swims over to him.

Almost as soon as they enter together, Maysilee’s scanning the floor with squinting eyes. “Where is he? Point him out!” She whisper-yells in his ear.

He does as she says, Jude Meeney shouldn’t be too difficult to find. Since he’s the only Meeney who gambles with the Booker Boys, Wyatt’s got a good image of him. But he comes up with nothing. “I don’t see him yet.” he tells her.

She scoffs. “Well, what should we do in the meantime?”

“Just… hang around, I guess?” Wyatt suggests. 

She makes a little purring sound, and by side-stepping by him and squeezing her way to a pair of bar stools in the far corner, dragging him along, she seems to be willing to do just that. 

His hands have already resumed their quivering by the time he sits down.

“What’s wrong with you?” Maysilee mouths, it doesn’t sound condescending, but genuine. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“I know,” Wyatt says, letting one of his palms lie flat on the bar, fingers tapping against the jagged wood pieces. “I’m… not feeling too great about this whole breaking-in thing.” He slightly turns in his seat, “feels dangerous. I don’t like halfwitted plans.”

“I know, I don’t either.” She agrees, her own fingers tangling in one of her many beaded necklaces, “but that necklace is all I have left of her. I’ll do anything.” The warm exposure that brightens the Hob almost shadows over the saddened glint in her eyes. “If you just show me what he looks like, I’ll go on my own.”

“No.” He shoots back right away, the idea of talking her out of going flies out the window, knowing she wasn’t giving it up. “I wouldn’t let you do that. I gave you my word that I’d help you.” He reminds her, the arising scent of cigarette smoke creeping around him. “This is just, um, my first breaking-and-entering rodeo. Nerves are all over the place.”

A real attractive laugh bubbles out of Maysilee. “Maybe you should have a drink, then?” She quips, “loosen up. God knows I need to.”

Funny. To Wyatt, she’s looked completely strung together this whole time. She’s got a damn good poker face.

He orders what he always gets, just some whiskey, and Maysilee asks for a black coffee, which has the bartender lifting his eyebrows—but he gets it for her anyway. 

Wyatt practically chugs the bitter stuff within minutes, the intense fragrance of Maysilee’s beverage mixing in between it all. It’s not enough to get him drunk, but he’s a little loopy when the last drop slips down his throat. 

Once he brings the empty glass back to the table, he feels the manicured end of a nail brush a piece of jagged hair behind his ear. Maysilee’s touch lingers, brings thousands of needle-like sensations across his skin as his slowed gaze travels to her, wide and blinking with surprise.

Just a stage away, a band—The Covey, he thinks, starts to string along their instruments while a girl whose voice is as haunting as the night reverbs throughout the humid air. The music somehow makes him feel closer to Maysilee than he actually is, sweat beading on his brow. 

She offers him a warm, all-knowing smile, dropping her hand back to her lap. “Your hair’s a mess.”

His anxiety has deflated, though this still sends a punch to his abdomen. 

In a desperate attempt to force it to fizz away, he tips his chin up and allows his eyes to walk across the area, and his breath freezes on his tongue when a familiar face burns in his vision.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

“What?”

“That’s him!” 

The soles of Maysilee’s shoes clack against the smooth gray floor. “Where?!”

“Right by that table in the back,” he says, lifting an instructive finger. Jude’s up against the wall, strangling a beer by its neck, speaking to Alder with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Do you see him?”

Wyatt has to physically stop Maysilee.

“No, no—Maysilee, we’re sticking to your plan. Remember?” He’s got his hands on her shoulders, the fabric of her dress straps wrinkling under his palms. She’s looking up at him like she was earlier at the shop, anger coloring her cheeks, lethal, threatening eyes. “Just… breathe. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Maysilee says through gritted teeth.

“Let’s find something to do. He’ll end up recognizing me if we keep staring at him like this.”

She shakes her head. “Do what exactly? We’ll lose sight of him.”

Wyatt heaves a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe we can walk around. Didn’t I tell you how his friend nearly knocked me out the other night? I really don’t want them to pick me out.”

Maysilee considers his reminder, expression relaxing. “Right. Fine.” She rolls her eyes, rubbing the back of her neck. Eventually, her focus drifts to the Covey, to their dancing and sweet songs. “Come on, let’s dance.”

He blurts out a quick “Wait!” But Maysilee’s already got a hold of his wrist, hauling him into the smattering of couples who were linked around each other. “I’m—I’m so bad at dancing.”

“That stops being cute when you’re, like, twelve. You know that, right?” She teases, head twisting over herself.

“I’m not trying to be cute.” Wyatt states with heightened brows.

She spins around, cheeks still flushed. “Considering you tried to look nice tonight, and even wore some cologne,” Her arms encircled his nape, tugging him closer. The act instantly prompts him to connect his hands with her waist. “I disagree.”

He grins a little, trying his very best not to step on her feet as they gently sway to the lyrics. “Okay, you win.” he says, and Maysilee’s mouth twitches into a simper.

He can tell the song is halfway over, how the vocals are slowing and breaking apart, Wyatt’s gape flicks from Maysilee’s shoes to her eyes, each and every time, she is already staring him down when they meet. A bundle of words ball in his throat like powder. “Have you ever been here before?”

“Not really. Just rode by on my bike a few times.” She answers, “is this where you met that guy? Here?”

“No. He gambles a lot with my family in that gross looking shed behind here, met him that way.” 

“You gamble?”

His palm slips up her spine, fingers then scratch the back of his hair. “Not exactly, I just set the odds for people that are.” Maysilee tilts her head to the side, she genuinely looks interested. But she may be just pretending. “Like on dog fights, appointments, races… things like that. Won people some big money. Probably the only thing I’m good at.” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh, and a light flickers above them.

“So… probability theory?” Maysilee asks, and when he gives her a slight bow, she smiles. Beneath the dim lighting, her red lipstick looks darker, almost black—and somehow, that just makes her appear even more elegant. The hue that surrounds her pupils have even darkened, the blue falling into a softness that reminds him of moonlight on a lake. Mean-as-a-rattlesnake be damned, he’s never seen anyone carry beauty like Maysilee Donner. “That’s really impressive.”

“Thanks,” he smirks gently, and musters the courage to not look away from her. “What do you like to do?”

“Making, creating.” She replies in a sing-song voice, “mostly jewelry and hair accessories, but I’m working on sewing so I can make my own clothes, too. Only thing I’m good at, too.”

“You made all those?” He nods at her chest.

“Uh-huh, all of them except… well, my grandmothers.” Maysilee falls quiet, touch retracting from his neck to the open space on her skin. “Feels so empty without it there.”

“We’ll get it back.” Wyatt says, “you’re very talented.”

“Thank you. At least someone recognizes my effort.”

The girl at the mic releases a high note, and closes out the tune. They continue to embrace one another, though he can feel the warmth leaving, slinking away from him. There’s a weak moment where he wants to pull her closer, leaning in, maybe in a way of comforting her, or just because he wants to hold her for a little longer, but he stops himself before the idea goes off on its own.

For the first time in a minute, he glances over to the area where Jude was. And clocks that he’s about to head out. Hat off his messy hair, wobbling out into the night. “Shit—he’s leaving.”

Maysilee hurdles into action in the blink of an eye, ungluing herself from him and sprinting back to her seat to grab her bag. She returns as swiftly as she left. 

“Go time,” she says as she locks her arm with his, luring him away from the dying crowd. 

“Okay, what’s your plan? These thorns keep stabbing me.” Wyatt hushed into a group of mud drenched leaves, sticks piercing through his jeans.

“See that window over there?” Maysilee leans into him, the cloth of her threaded turtleneck grazing against his shoulder. She changed out of her dress and into an entirely black outfit almost as soon as they left the Hob, hopping into sleek leggings and laced boots. “It’s cracked. Let’s try that way first.”

Following Jude wasn’t as difficult as he’d imagined. The guy was for sure drunk, or at the very least tipsy, so he paid no mind when Wyatt continued to step on and crack twigs as he and Maysilee scoured through the tree line like a clumsy dumbass. She’d give him a pair of squinting, warning eyes every time. He blamed it on the alcohol.

“Alright,” he says, and then she’s on the move. 

He hunkers behind, smacking off bits of prickles and grass off of his jeans in the process. They cross the patch of land together, and he’s wheezing like a teapot by the time they’re standing beneath the window. A cool breeze combs through his hair, drying some of the sweat on his cheeks. He’s about to start climbing, lungs still gasping for air when Maysilee presses her hand on his chest. 

“Wait,” she whispers, and begins to rip off his flannel. Goosebumps shrivel up his arms. “Said you didn’t want him to recognize you, right?” She questions him as she starts to wrap the flannel around his head and neck, shaping the fabric so it covers his face from the nose down. “That helps.”

“Good thinking,” Wyatt praises, he earns a smile from her. “Should do that for you, too.” He reaches for her folded over turtleneck, unraveling it and pulling the soft, fuzzy material up until it shields her features just how his are. In the midst of slipping it beneath her ears, his fingertips clutter forward and cradle the sides of her jaw. It could be his own mind making things up, but he swears he can feel her skin warm up. Blushing against his touch.

He steps away.

Maysilee just swipes the flowing curls that crown her temples out of her eyes.

“Come on, muscles. Enough stalling. Give me a boost.”

He cocks his brow. “Muscles?”

“Yes? Your biceps look like a busted can of biscuits in that shirt.” Maysilee quickly motions toward his arms, and he instinctively claps his palm over the cloth that capes upon his shoulder. He can’t see her mouth, but he can tell she’s got a big grin on her lips, as the creases in the corner of her eyelids give it away. “It’s a compliment, Wyatt. I’m complimenting you.”

He’s gonna end up melting into water if he flushes any more tonight. He doesn’t even think that was an exaggeration. “Thank you.” He says over another rush of wind. Maysilee’s long, thick lashes blink up at him impatiently, and he tracks back, dropping to a knee. He curves his hands into a small bowl for her shoe. “Be careful. Yell for me if something’s wrong.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assures him, steering herself with her nails digging in his frame, sliding the heel of her boot into his grasp. “See you soon.”

He sends her up, and watches her carefully as she pries open the rest of the window effortlessly, throwing over a leg and dropping in. His racing heart stills when he can faintly hear the sound of her footsteps.

He’s thankful he’s able to scale the wall without much trouble. He reflects Maysilee’s exact movements, as it seemed to work fine for her. Slipping the inner flesh of his thigh over the sill, tucking his head beneath the wall, and falling to the hard concrete of the basement.

The air stinks of mold. Of age. Wyatt’s more than grateful for the flannel in his nose.

“I can’t see anything,” Maysilee says, “we should’ve brought flashlights.”

Wyatt concurred her concern with a soft hum, how did that not cross his mind? 

There was nothing they could do about it now. With the moon’s dying light, he can make out Maysilee’s silhouette in the darkness. “Here, I’ll go first.” He slides next to her, he doesn’t even have to suggest holding onto him, as she does it entirely by herself. “Gotta be some steps somewhere.”

His feet move hesitantly and gently, cautiously gracing upon the dust of Jude’s uncleansed cellar floor. It helps when he thinks of the mines, how, sometimes, the circular light on his helmet would flicker off because he forgot to change the batteries the night prior and he’d have to find his way back to the surface in those tight, hot tunnels through memory alone. He’s obviously never been in Jude Meeney’s basement, but he uses the same strategy here. The layout couldn’t be that different from his own home, all seam houses were similar, in a way.

He’s dragging his fingertips across the cold brick wall when Maysilee coughs into his shirt. “You okay?” He asks, slowing down his stride.

“Yeah,” she exhales quietly, her breath sticking to his skin. “It’s just… really dusty down here.”

“Your turtleneck isn’t helping at all?”

“It’s thin.”

His knuckles curve around a wall. “Keep close, then.” 

In response to that, the shape of her nose buries into his plush muscle. He can feel her shallow breathing, suppressed coughs, over and over up until the barrel of his boot hits a chunk of wood. He neatly dismisses it at first, considering how many times his fingers had grazed a wooden pole down here, but it wasn’t a plank—it was a slab. Followed by another, then another.

“Stairs!” Wyatt blurts far too loudly.

Maysilee pinches him, but sighs in relief. “Take it easy.” She says in his ear, and he does. He’s as vigilant as he can be, chest beating faster at the slightest sound above comfort. Along with each rising step, he lets his hand dangle, just barely touching the end of the stair, just in case Jude’s got some fall-to-your-death boobytrap fixed up in his chamber of a basement. 

Finally, in due time, they’re rewarded. Wyatt bonks his head on a doorknob when he bends down and Maysilee leaps to it before he can even register what hit him. A satisfying plunge of cold air spills onto his face, blinks of light hitting his eyes as the sight of a kitchen floor comes to his view.

“God, I was about to suffocate down there.” Maysilee gasps, taking in heaps of air while fanning herself.

Wyatt unties his flannel from his skull, flapping it free of any remaining dust particles while taking in the scene. There were dozens of drawers below the stained yellow counters, but he couldn’t imagine Jude would keep such an expensive piece of jewelry in one of them. It could be anywhere, and there was a possibility it wasn’t in this house at all.

“We should look everywhere, just in case.” Maysilee recommends while already pulling open a cabinet, “where do you think he’d keep it?”

“I don’t know,” Wyatt shrugs, retying his flannel over his face. “He might’ve traded it away already for all we know.”

Her rummaging stops. “Don’t say that.”

“Sorry.” He frowns, “but I don’t think it’d be in here. His bedroom’s our best bet.”

“And where would that be?” She says, more so to herself rather than to him, but he takes it into consideration anyway.

He peers into the crammed living room, down the narrow hall, and lastly, at the three doors that cave into each wall. He notes how it’s all familiar, just as the basement was. “Well, since the layouts’ almost exact to my own house, I’m gonna guess it’s that last door on the left.” He says quietly, looking to her.

Maysilee leans on her heels, checking for herself. “Sounds good to me. Let’s not waste any more time.”

Her agreement is all he needs to urge on. The refrigerated gust that sticks to the room causes the hairs on his arms to raise, even as he crouches through the hall, he still resists the impulse to let his teeth chatter. Maysilee comes up to the door first out of the two of them, she waits for him to give her a signal to push it open.

Wyatt presses his ear to the door, and hears absolutely nothing besides the weak, staticy sound of a television playing. With his heartbeat bumping in his throat, his gaze carries away to Maysilee, searching for a soothing glint in her eyes just for one moment. But it’s so dark. 

Is he really about to do this? If he ends up in jail, arrested by peacekeepers, he was fucked. His family wouldn’t ever have the money to bail him out. He can’t say the same for Maysilee. Maybe her family would extend some grace to him. Who knows.

A sharp pain shoots up his wrist as he twists the knob as tenderly as possible, and cringes when a long, drawn out squeal comes from the hinges. When he steps in and forces himself to stand up straight, his knee pops. Maysilee scurries in behind him. 

They share a look.

As he suspected, Jude Meeney lay on his stomach on his bed, passed out, drool draining from his lips. Two night stands surround his bed, he nods to the one near the window for Maysilee to check. It would be safer for her if he checked the one Jude was facing, just in case the bastard awoke. Once she creeps around, Wyatt lets himself crouch. Ash from dying cigarettes, empty pill bottles, a smattering of trash, and a can of pepper spray all cover the surface of the table. He gulps harshly, no going back now.

Wyatt’s fingers curl around the rusty handle, inching it forward until the drawer finally wiggled free and popped open like a bottle of champagne.

In the mess of stained money, trinkets and other junk, the sight of authentic, pearly gold glistens like the sun at the bottom. The heart. The perfectly crafted links. 

There it was. He swoops it up immediately, the chill of the metal drapes around his bones like water, he can’t stop the grin that works onto his face. With care, he brings himself to stand and holds the necklace to his chest. He thinks of Maysilee, of her tears and of how desperate she was to get it back, of how he had kept his word to her in the end. He finds her from across the room, expecting to see her pretty eyes crinkling in a smile. 

But she’s not looking at him, she’s looking at the bed. At Jude. Was he groaning? Moving? Wyatt redirects his attention to the messy covers, and before he can even react, he’s staring down a spile while an aggressive, burning wave of fire spray and splatter into his vision.

He screams as soon as it hits, losing grip of the necklace as he tries to wipe it away. It makes it worse, tears stream down his cheeks and just as his view blurs with orange and red and black, he can make out the outline of Jude rising on the bed—most likely getting ready to charge for him, but Maysilee jumps onto him from behind and pulls him to the ground. They both hit the hardwood with a huge thump, he winces at the sound and prays Jude had been the one to land on his back.

With the intensifying blindness, he can’t see much, but the glittering heart pendant on the floor is as clear as day. He stretches, stretches until his shoulder blades ache, and right as his hand clamps on top of it, Maysilee’s nails dig into his arms. Yanking him straight up and pulling him like he’s on a leash through the hall.

The cold breathing of the house digs in his skin like knives, when the booming noise of a front door swinging open bursts in his ears, the feeling is swiftly replaced with heat and humidity and thickness, and it hurts. Like rubbing salt in the wound. He feels like he’s going to throw up. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut, but it only seems to make the pain heighten. 

The soft padding of grass is under his feet, he doesn’t have a clue where Maysilee is leading him and he’s in far too much misery to ask. He wants to mumble her name, just to get her to slow down, but he can’t. It’s so awful. It felt like his eyes were getting gouged out, and they may as well have been. At this point, he isn’t sure if the hotness that trails down his jaws is tears or blood.

“I can’t believe he pepper sprayed you, Wyatt!”

Maysilee dunks his head into the rushing stream again. “Oh, fuck.” He mumbles, snot and even more tears dribble into his mouth.

“Just keep blinking, it’ll get it out quicker, okay? You’re gonna be alright.” She says, words spilling down his temple. The plushness of her palm cups his sight, pressing cold cradles of water into his eyelashes. He follows her instructions, fluttering his lashes like he’s trying to fly into the damn sky. Breaths come jagged and disoriented from his lungs, the pain is still there, blaring and burning, but after a handle of minutes, he can at least see.

Wyatt doesn’t recognize where they are. He’s never even seen this stream before. He cranes his neck, dizzy gape meeting Maysilee’s. Her turtlenecks back around her throat, and her bushy brows are high with distress. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Oh, god, Wyatt. Do not worry about me right now.” Maysilee hisses, she’s just inches away from his cheek. His wet hairs slowly start to get brushed to the side. “I’m fine. Keep blinking.”

Even with her face slightly fuzzy, he can pick apart the look of regret on her features. He splashes more water in his eyes, blinking as she says, but digs into his pocket, too. 

He jerks out the locket by its chain, extending it out to her.

“You got it?!” Maysilee squeals, she’s smiling big and brightly and he can even see the corners of her night blue eyes welling up with tears. He watches her click open the heart, fingers tracing all along the edges.

He bites at his dry lip, croaking. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes.” She nods quickly, showing him the inside. There were two images resting within, one of an older woman with deep wrinkles, silver gray hair. The other is of the same woman, carrying a little blond girl, a sweet laugh on her face. It was no doubt young Maysilee. As he’s drinking in the pictures, a damp hand takes his face. “Thank you, I’ll never be able to repay you.”

“You protected me in there. Jude was about to blast me.” Wyatt says, “count that as repayment.”

Maysilee laughs. “I wasn’t even thinking when I did that,” she uses her sleeve to smudge away the mess under his nose. “But seriously. I couldn’t have found it without you.” He lets his eyes flicker shut for a moment, he’s so exhausted. So tired. But he powers through every drop of pain to look up at her, she’s much clearer now. And so is her perfectly drawn face. “And I’m sorry. You went through so much shit. Not all of it even from tonight.”

He flashes back to the Blackjack game, full of cheats. Getting concussed. “I made you a promise. I don’t break those.” Wyatt coughs, “it was worth it. Some things you can’t replace.”

“That’s right,” she says, touch falling to his trembling hand. She clutches the necklace in her opposing fist like a vise. “You’re getting free sweets at the shop until the end of time by the way.”

“Gladly accepted.” A tight beam grows on his lips, his Ma loves the cream cheese cinnamon balls. She’ll be happy to munch on those whenever she likes. While fresh tears dabble along his skin, he allows himself to look around him. “How’d you know where this was?”

“My sister and I ride our bikes and walk through here all the time,” Maysilee answers, “there’s a trail that’ll lead us home right up there.” She weakly jabs a finger into the dark sky, “can you stand? We should head back. I can’t even imagine how late it is.”

“Yeah,” he strains, leisurely cranking his legs and pushing himself up with his palms. Maysilee’s hand cradles his backside, and when he’s eventually moving, her fingers slip up to his arm.

They walk side-by-side in silence. Wyatt lets the cooling breeze hit his face, occasionally burying the crook of his finger in his eye when they start to itch while Maysilee kicks stones and sticks with each passing step.

“What’s the plan if Jude files a report and we end up with peacekeepers at our houses?”

“No way he recognized you through the flannel, right?” Maysilee looks up at him, “well… if he did, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it—if we come to it,” she says, then calmly pokes him in the side with her elbow. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back forever now. Just call me and I’ll come running.”

He snorts at that. It was strange, a month ago, he’d never known Maysilee Donner outside of what the town had to say about her. For her disdain from the Sweet Shop’s window and her collections of precious jewels. The venom that apparently nestled through her veins like blood. Now, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get her off his mind.

“So, we’re friends now?” Wyatt queries with wariness, his dry strands of hair that were once sopping wet flick against his brows in the wind.

“Of course,” Maysilee whistles back without a second breath, “more than that. You’re like my… partner in crime.”

Wyatt smiles, heat climbing up the back of his neck. “Listen, this was my first and only rodeo.”

“Mine too, hopefully. Unless someone else dares to steal my shit again.” She jests, then lightly smacks his arm while saying: “You’d totally help me again, right?”

“What’d you just say? Just call me and I’ll come running?” Wyatt revisits Maysilee’s voice, and when he brings his eyes back down to her, her expression is the softest he’s ever seen it. She’s reminiscent of a flower, almost. With her light blonde baby hairs that wreath her face, her bright red cheeks. It’s like he’s staring directly into a burning meadow of sunflowers. “But I’m coming with a blindfold.”

“See,” Maysilee says, her warmth gravitating to his hand, intertwining hers with his completely. “Clearly, I got the cake with the cream.”