“Hey Marcy, can I get two?” he asked as he leaned into the booth.
“Do you know everyone this side of the state?” I asked as she greeted him.
“Wyatt? Everyone here knows Wyatt. He’s a hit over at the Twisted Pony,” she said. I watched her wink.
“Twisted Pony?” I asked.
“You don’t need to-“ he started but she grinned and interrupted him.
“He’s a hit on open mic night. Sings and plays some of the best guitar I’ve ever heard.”
“Guitar? You play guitar?” I asked, grinning. I couldn’t imagine a man like him crooning over an acoustic.
And then I remembered how much tail those guys usually got. I could totally picture it. I grinned and looked up at him. “Well, wonders never cease.”
“I was in a band in high school, but you probably don’t remember that,” he said as he reached up for the two paper plates filled with confectionary bigger than I had imagined.
“Oh my god, that’s huge!” I exclaimed as I grabbed the cake from him and take a deep breath as the smell wafts up into my face. Sugar and fried dough overwhelm me. I tried not to giggle.
“That’s what she said!” Some random teenage voice behind me shouted, and I turned to look, but it was too late. He was just another voice in the crowd.
But Wyatt’s chuckle was unmistakeable. I turned and shot him a look, but he just shrugged.
“I didn’t say it,” he grinned. He might not have, but I still smacked him on the shoulder.
“So, what else do you have planned?” I asked we wandered through the booths, looking at the art work, the self-produced CDs, and other things the townspeople of Parkville had for sale. It was all so quaint. Nothing fancy or high brow, nothing like the old Wyatt. But somehow this scene fit. He just belonged here among all these people. Most of whom waved at him or said hello.
This was a part of who he was now.
“I was thinking maybe we could check out the-“ he started, but he stopped his sentence right in the middle. I didn’t see why, at first, but as soon as I realized what he was looking at I understood.
A big man was towering over a small child next to the ring toss, his hand raised up high as he screamed at her. “I told you not to drop that ice cream! I just paid for it. I told you to keep it in both hands.”
He was going to hit her. Right there. In the middle of all those people. I didn’t even notice it until after Wyatt did. I didn’t even realize it was happening. He was going to hit her, and hard too, I could tell by the way he had his hand cocked back.
How had I not seen it?
“Come on now, man. Why don’t you give the kid a break, she’s little,” Wyatt interjected as he walked right between them. He put his body between the large man and the child’s. “Here, I’ll even buy her an ice cream, put it in a cup instead of a cone so she won’t drop it.”
“Please, Hank?” The little girl’s voice was so small, so fragile, it sounded like it was about to break.
“Here, sweetie, let me go take you to get a new ice cream,” I said as I swooped in and grabbed her hand, we were right next to the line for ice cream. She’d probably had her own cone for a few seconds, if that.
“Ungrateful little brat. I took her and her momma in and all she does is waste my money. And you, who the hell do you think you are?” The large man turned his attention on Wyatt, but I had the girl and I wasn’t about to let her go. From the slur of his voice made me wince.
“Calm down, sir. I’m only trying to help. She’s small, and it’s clear she didn’t mean it. It was just an accident.” Wyatt was calm, his face completely unchanged, like he was talking to just anyone.
Not a total monster who was about to hit a girl for something anyone could have done. Heck, I probably could’ve done it.
“Don’t you tell me to calm down. Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t tell me how to parent.” I could tell by his stagger and the way his words smashed together that he was drunk.
“I’m not trying to tell you anything,” Wyatt said. He was starting to get defensive and I was afraid a fight would break out.
Not because I was afraid that Wyatt couldn’t handle himself, but because I was worried about this little girl being exposed to more violence than she already was.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” I asked as we got up to the counter. “Would you like a piece of my funnel cake?”
“Ella.” She said then she added, “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“My name is Rose. Ella, is your momma here?”