(2/6)
He felt like he'd been torn in two.
One half of him, wanted to say to hell with it and stay in the bunker with Lucy. The other half, couldn't stand the idea of Christopher assuming his wife (ex-wife? What do you call a wife who faked her death and ran away from you?) was Rittenhouse. He knew Christopher wouldn't talk to her. The Agent had already made up her mind. So, if he wanted answers, he would have to talk to her himself.
The half of him that wanted to go after Jessica didn't know what to feel. Relief that she was alive? Anger because she'd left him behind? Heartbreak because she let him think it was his fault? All three?
To top it all off, he was having to lean on Lucy for help. Lucy who'd lost everything. Lucy who'd picked him up from the self loathing sludge he dove into and cleaned him up. Who freed him from the unbearable burden of Jessica's death.
She'd stayed with him through so much already. From risking her life so he could get in a shot in at Flynn as the Hindenburg burned to letting Flynn take her to "it would be worth it to have Jessica back." She'd never left his side. Not for long at least and, if for long then, not by choice. She had dealt with so much of his shit and now she had so much more to cope with of her own. How could he do this to her? How could he have gone to her for help?
He knew the answer. He knew. He loved her. He loved her and he couldn't imagine not including her in any problem, especially one as monumental as this one. She was an essential part of his life now and he had no idea how to reconcile that with the newfound knowledge that his wife was still alive.
Leaving her, a half hour ago, had killed him. He'd wanted to kiss her. He was afraid of what he'd find at this address and how it would effect the two of them. But she'd stepped away from him and goddammit he already missed her. She'd been there. She'd talked to him, helped him even, but she was already putting distance between them. Protecting herself.
He couldn't blame her for that.
To leave her like that, in clear pain and trying desperately to protect her heart that was already so bruised, rebelled against every fiber of his being. Everything in him shouted to stay. To hold her.
But even if he'd stayed, it wouldn't have helped. She kept telling him that he needed answers and that was true. But he wasn't the only one that needed those answers. Lucy needed them too.
If he stayed and they continued to know nothing about Jessica, she would retreat so far inward that they would practically be strangers. He refused to let that happen.
But wouldn't he have to let go of her at some point? If the best case scenario he hoped for was true, then wouldn't that mean letting Lucy go? That's what pre-Arkansas-1934 Wyatt would have done. Hell, maybe even pre-Benedict-Arnold Wyatt would have done that.
But the Wyatt he was now, the Wyatt who had already abandoned his friends once to save Jessica, the Wyatt who'd realized the person he was meant to be, the Wyatt who'd would have given anything for Lucy to have her sister back. That Wyatt couldn't—and wouldn't—let his historian go.
His hand stilled over the radio dial in his stolen car as that realization struck him. What did that mean? What about Jessica?
With her now alive he supposed he had to ask himself one question.
Was he still in love with Jessica?
The answer came back to him faster than he thought it would.
A part of him would always love her, but he wasn't in love with her. And if he were honest with himself, they'd been growing apart long before her "death." He'd buried that truth under his guilt once she died. But now that she was alive, the truth was back. Loud and clear.
He still needed his answers and, if Jessica needed help, he'd help her. But she deserved to know the truth. She deserved to hear it from him.
He'd fallen in love with someone else.
An hour later he found the address from the intel they'd stolen. It was a run down motel with a blinking vacancy sign. He parked and waited. Several more hours passed and, just as he felt like giving up, a female figure left one of the rooms. When she stepped into the light he knew immediately who it was and his breath caught in his throat. For the first time since Christopher had told them about the intel he had proof. He had one answer. How did they know it was actually her? He didn't have to wonder anymore. It was her. He'd obsessively stared at pictures of that face for years. He'd memorized every line of that face long before that, though. When things between them were new and exciting, he'd forced himself to memorize every detail.
That was Jessica.
The hair was darker and shorter but he knew her face.
She got in a beat up junker of a car and he followed her. He followed her for about fifteen minutes until she parked outside of a bar. She walked around the back, tying an apron as she went. He could put it all together. She was going to work. He parked a block away and then made his way inside the bar. They had just opened for the day but they had a pretty good crowd. It wasn't really a dive bar or a swanky bar. It was just nice enough to be considered "vintage" by the hipster crowd and they seemed to be okay with day drinking from what he could see.
Honestly, he wouldn't mind a drink himself. His head was a spinning mess of confusion.
He spotted Jessica as a door opened that was labeled "office" and she stepped behind the bar. He stood there just watching her for several minutes as she chatted and made drinks. She laughed and smiled like she hadn't a care in the world. Like she hadn't faked her death and left a husband in the dust.
He tried not to be noticed but his sullen stare must have been more obvious than he liked because she looked up and looked over. Her eyes found his and he didn't even try to look away. Panic flashed briefly across her eyes before she excused herself from her current customer and then rushed toward the office.
His brow furrowed. What the hell? He ran out the front door of the bar just in time to hear tires squealing. Her car may have looked like a junker but it was certainly fast. Why would she run away? He cursed and ran back to his stolen car and drove back to the hotel where he'd found her. By the time he got there her junker was nowhere to be found and the door to the room he'd see her come out of was wide open. He kept a hand on his side arm as he entered the open door, unsure of what he would find.
And what he found? Wasn't much.
She'd cleaned out the room. He smelled smoke and raced into the bathroom to find a metal trash can with a small fire burning inside of it. He doused it with water and carried it out of the bathroom. As he left the bathroom he spotted a wall with small bit of paper and string pinned to it. When he stepped closer he could spot thumbtacks on the floor. He remembered his own wall of evidence in his old apartment and it would have left his wall looking just like that if he'd ever taken it down. He looked down at the smoking trash bin in his hands and wondered just what she'd been piecing together.
Whatever it was, she didn't want him to know about it.
He scanned the room and found it empty, except for two items on the bed. A phone and a ring. His brow furrowed as he stepped closer. Not just any ring either, his wedding ring. The one he thought he'd lost on their last attempt at a vacation before he'd lost her. Back then, he'd thought if they could get away from real life for a week they could get back to the way they used to be. He'd been wrong and they came back angrier than when they left. She had been pissed at him for losing that ring.
Turns out, he never lost it. She took it.
Why?
They'd been back from that trip two days when they'd had their biggest blow up yet and she'd insisted on getting out of the car and walking home. She'd run into an ex and flirted with the guy all night long. When he'd asked her what she was doing, she'd replied with a scoff and, "You lost your ring, so I lost mine." She'd held up her left hand just to prove that her ring finger was, in fact, empty and then rolled her eyes at him.
And that was just the beginning of the fight.
He picked up the wedding band and studied it. Jessica had their initials inscribed on the inside of it. He checked and the inscription was there. He put it on his finger and it fit the same. It was definitely his ring. So, he hadn't lost it at all. She'd taken it and hidden it from him, and then used it to start a fight?
Why?
He sighed irritably and picked up the phone from the bed. There was nothing on it. No pictures, no numbers. It was a burner.
But there was a voicemail alert. He sat down on the bed and pressed play. He wasn't sure if he was ready for this.
There was silence on the line for a moment and then, "Don't follow me. Don't look for me. I'm fine. Please. It's better this way."
That was it. That was all she was going to say? She hadn't mentioned any names which said to him, she was afraid someone else might find the voicemail or was listening to her call. So maybe she wanted to say more and couldn't or maybe she was saying as little as possible to string him along. None of this made sense when he thought about the Jessica he knew.
But this wasn't the Jessica he knew. That much was clear. He didn't know how to think or feel about that.
He searched the phone for any other clues. There was nothing. He pocketed it just in case. Maybe Rufus could find some use for it. There was nothing else for him here. She had bolted.
He went back to the bar to ask the manager a few questions. He pretended to be a creep trying to get the pretty bar tender's number. The manager, a creep himself, hadn't complied but he had given him a name. Amanda. Just like the intel said. He confirmed that Amanda had been working at the bar for six months, and always worked the same shift.
"If you find her," the manager said with a sneer. "Tell her she's fired."
He didn't think "Amanda" was too worried about that right now but Wyatt nodded and said he would. He sighed and left the bar with a shake of his head. He'd gotten very few answers and ended up with many more questions. When he got back to the car he checked the burner he had for himself. No calls. The Mothership must have been mercifully quiet today.
He needed help sorting out what he found and he knew his friends could help him. Maybe there was something still left in that trash bin he'd taken. Or something on the burner phone in his pocket. He needed to get back to the bunker and find out. Something about this entire situation wasn't sitting well with him and the glass half full approach he'd tried to take was quickly becoming glass half empty.