Chapter 8 Brenna
Chapter eight
Brenna
For a heartbeat that stretches into eternity, Eric Truett and I stare at each other across the cluttered counter. My father. The man I’ve wondered about my entire life.
He’s taller than I imagined. Broader through the shoulders, with laugh lines around his eyes. Nothing like the reckless and irresponsible ski instructor my mother painted him to be in her rare, bitter mentions of him.
“You have her smile,” he says finally, his voice thick. “But those eyes…” He shakes his head in wonder. “Christ, Brenna. Twenty-two years.”
The way he says my name, as if he’s uttered it a thousand times, breaks open something inside me.
“But you…” I start then trail off.
Pain flickers across his features. “I’ve thought about you every single day since—” He stops, glancing around the shop. A customer browses hiking boots just a few aisles away. “This isn’t the place for this conversation.”
I take a step back. “If you don’t want to—”
“No.” He’s around the counter in three strides, his green eyes fierce with determination.
“I’ve never wanted anything more.” His hands hover near my shoulders as if he wants to pull me into a hug but isn’t sure he has the right.
“I’ve waited more than two decades for this conversation, honey. I’m not about to run from it now.”
The endearment washes over me like a warm wave. Honey. Said with the kind of paternal affection I’ve craved my entire life.
“I don’t have a tour until two,” he continues, already reaching for his jacket. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
We head back out the door to Main Street, and I catch myself studying his profile as we walk, searching for pieces of myself.
He waves or exchanges pleasantries with every single person we pass, often by name.
Warmth spreads through my limbs as the midday light slants through the trees.
This is what belonging looks like. What it feels like to be woven into the fabric of a community.
I’ve never experienced anything like it in Manhattan, where our doorman knows our names but our neighbors are strangers.
“Do you know everyone around here?”
“In a town as small as this one, everyone knows everyone.”
Oh.
“The brewery’s just ahead.” Eric nods toward the soft glow of Edison bulbs visible through the windows. “Rhys makes the best wood-fired pizza this side of the mountain.”
The moment we step inside, a mountain of a man behind the bar looks up from the glass he’s polishing.
Dark beard, flannel shirt, arms like tree trunks.
He could be Graham’s cousin. My pulse kicks up at the comparison, heat flooding my cheeks as memories of last night crash over me.
The scratch of Graham’s beard against my inner thighs, the way his hands spanned my waist.
“Eric!” The bartender’s face splits into a grin. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been busy with the autumn rush.” Eric’s hand ghosts my elbow in a gesture so naturally protective it makes my throat tight. “Rhys, this is Brenna. She’s…visiting from the city.”
I don’t blame him for the generic introduction as Rhys’s gaze sweeps over me with curiosity but no judgment. “First time in Vermont?”
“It is.”
“Well, you picked a hell of a week for it, what with that storm last night. But look at the sky now.” He gestures toward the window where sunlight breaks through dissipating clouds, painting the mountains in brilliant relief.
“Oh, Eric, I should tell you the Hendersons came in for dinner last night. Little Tommy’s doing great. Still talking about his big adventure.”
Eric’s face lights up. “Glad to hear it. That was a hell of a scare.”
Rhys turns to me. “Last month, their boy got lost on Maple Ridge during a family hike. Eric organized the entire search party. The man didn’t sleep for two days.
He was too busy coordinating with the rangers and searching all night in the rain.
” He sets down the glass and towel. “That’s just who Eric is.
Steady as the mountains, reliable as the sunrise. ”
The narrative I’ve carried since childhood begins to shift, though I’m not ready to let my guard down completely. The man Rhys describes sounds nothing like the irresponsible jerk my mother painted, but twenty-two years of believing one story doesn’t disappear in a single conversation.
“What can I get you two?”
“Just water for me,” I say. “For now.”
“Same here,” my father adds.
Rhys nods with quiet understanding that there’s something going on between Eric and me. “Take any seat you like.”
Eric defers to me, and I lead us to a high-top by the windows.
He settles onto the tall chair across the table from me, and something in his posture shifts.
His shoulders hunch slightly, and he can’t quite meet my eyes.
He looks…uncertain. As if he’s afraid I might disappear if he says the wrong thing.
The vulnerability cracks open something between my ribs.
He’s as nervous about this conversation as I am.
Rhys approaches and sets down two glasses of water.
“Holler if you need anything else,” he offers before retreating to the far end of the bar.
“So…” Eric starts, wrapping his hands around his glass. “How’s your mother? How’s Caroline?”
It strikes me as odd that he asks about my mother, but she was the one he knew. The one he… I shake my head as if to ward off the image of the two of them having sex. Even if it was over twenty years ago. I keep my voice neutral. “Married. To my stepfather since I was five.”
“Good for her. She deserves to be happy.” There’s no resentment in his voice, only genuine warmth. It throws me off balance. In my family, even so much as a mention of a past relationship comes with sharp looks and pursed lips.
“She never talks about you,” I say, not feeling guilty for the accusation in my tone.
“I wouldn’t expect her to.” He takes a sip of water as if to stall. Those familiar green eyes study my face with an intensity that makes me fidget. “What did she tell you? Anything about what happened between us?”
Here it is. The moment I’ve dreaded and craved in equal measure. “She said you got her pregnant and left. That you weren’t a man willing to commit, to accept responsibility.”
The words feel rehearsed because they are. I’ve turned them over in my mind a thousand times, trying to understand how a man could walk away from his child.
Pain flickers across Eric’s features, and his chin drops, as if he expected that. “And you believed her.”
It’s not really a question, but I answer anyway. “I wanted to believe there was more to the story.”
“There is.” His hands tighten around his glass until his knuckles go white. “A lot more.” He pauses, glances around the brewery where a couple at the bar laughs over their craft beers, then back to me.
My heart hammers against my ribs. “What do you mean?”
He leans forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “What she told you isn’t wrong, exactly. But it’s not the whole truth, either.”
My brows pinch together. “I don’t understand.”
“Your mother didn’t know everything that happened back then. Couldn’t have known, given…” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed. “The timing was complicated. There were things I couldn’t tell her, agreements that were made.”
The careful way he chooses his words makes my skin prickle. There’s a story here, something bigger than a young man getting scared and running.
“Brenna.” He reaches across the table as if he wants to take my hand then stops himself. “I never wanted to leave you. Walking away from you was the single hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. I didn’t come here to cry. I came for answers. “Then why did you?”
He heaves a sigh. “Because I was young, working as a ski instructor, and living paycheck to paycheck.” His voice cracks slightly. “Your mother was… God, she was something, and I loved her, I did. But…”
“But what?”
“She came from money and…” His eyes lift to meet mine. “Her parents didn’t think I was appropriate husband material.”
“You were going to propose?”
“The day I found out she was pregnant. Even though I knew I couldn’t give her—or you—the life you both deserved.”
The explanation hits me like a physical blow. All these years, I’ve carried the weight of a father who didn’t want me, and it turns out he didn’t want to leave at all.
“Why didn’t you? Propose, that is.”
“Her father made it clear a marriage offer for his little girl wasn’t welcome. I’m not sure what story they spun, but I was escorted out of the building, and I never heard from her again. I…” he starts, then leans back, glancing off, out the window. “I thought you’d be better off without me.”
“I wasn’t,” I whisper, the admission torn from somewhere deep in my chest. “I never felt like I belonged in that world. In those sterile rooms with designer furniture and suffocating expectations.”
His eyes snap to mine, and he sits up straighter. “What about here in the mountains?”
I trace the condensation on my glass with a fingertip. “The air is so fresh; the earth so close. Everything here feels more…real.”
“It’s in your blood.” His lips curl upward. “Wildwood has always been home. The city was loud with so many people; it all felt so…” He searches for the word.
“Fake?” I supply.
“Exactly.” A smile transforms his entire face. “But I would have suffered in silence for her. Your mother knew that, although I think my love of the outdoors is what attracted her to me in the first place. I was different from the boys in her world.”
“She told me about that winter once.” The confession slips out, another crack in my carefully maintained walls. “After a fight with my stepfather and three vodka martinis. She said those weeks skiing in Vermont, the winter you met, were like living in a dream.”
“For me, too.” His expression grows distant, soft with memory. “But dreams end, don’t they? Reality has a way of intruding.”
My throat tightens. Is that what will happen between Graham and me? That reality will crush any hope of…more?
“Want to go for a hike tomorrow?” Eric asks, interrupting my thoughts. “I know a trail that’ll take your breath away.”
When I don’t answer right away, he leans forward. “I’d love to get to know you.”
“I’d like that, too.”
He grins as if he’s seeing something in my face that gives him hope. “I have a feeling you’d love it here, Brenna. Really love it.”
Before I can respond, a woman with silver hair and a warm smile appears beside our table. “Eric Truett, you handsome devil,” she says, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Mrs. Wilkins.” Eric’s face lights up as he stands to give her a brief hug. “I’ve been meaning to stop by the library to say hello.”
“You better.” Her gaze shifts to me with frank curiosity. “And who might this lovely young woman be?”
“This is—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, suddenly needing a moment alone. “Could you excuse me? I need to…” I gesture vaguely toward the back of the restaurant.
“Of course,” Mrs. Wilkins says with understanding. “The restroom’s just past the kitchen.”
I escape to the bathroom, my hands shaking as I grip the edge of the sink. In the mirror, my reflection stares back, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. The woman looking back at me finally has answers. Finally knows the truth about why Eric Truett left.
My grandfather. I’m not surprised. He drove my father away before I was even born. After all those years of feeling like an unwanted mistake, the truth was Eric had wanted me so much he was willing to propose to my mother, even though he had nothing to offer but love.
And the way he spoke just now, as if he can see a future where I belong, makes the back of my eyes sting.
Because, God, I want that. I want to wake up every morning to mountain air instead of car exhaust, want to know my neighbors’ names and stories, want to feel like I’m part of something real instead of just performing in a show.
And I want it with Graham. The certainty floods through me with startling recognition. He felt like coming home to a place I’ve never been. And now, meeting my father is like finding the missing piece of myself I’ve been searching for.
Here in Wildwood, where they both live, I’d have time. Time to learn who Eric really is, to build the relationship I’ve craved my entire life. And time to see if Graham might want more…with me.
I splash cool water on my cheeks, take a steadying breath, and head back toward the table, ready to tell Eric that yes, I think I’m going to give Wildwood a try.
But when I round the corner, Mrs. Wilkins is gone. In her place stands a man with his back to me, in work-worn jeans, his dark hair slightly mussed from the wind, and broad shoulders filling out a dark flannel shirt.
My steps falter. Even from behind, I’d know that figure anywhere. The way he holds himself, solid and sure. The breadth of his shoulders that made me feel so perfectly small in his arms last night.
Graham.
Eric is standing now, too, and the expression on my father’s face stops my heart. Pure joy. It’s the kind of smile reserved for people you trust with your life. Graham claps him on the shoulder with the easy familiarity of decades of friendship.
“Graham,” Eric says, his voice carrying across the brewery with unmistakable affection. “Perfect timing, my friend. Have I got news for you.”