Chapter 11 Edie
Edie
The week between Christmas and New Year’s passes in a blur of tangled sheets, lazy mornings, and neither of us thinking about work.
Wren’s barely let me out of bed except for food or showers—both of which usually end with her hands on me, pressing me against the steamed glass or the kitchen counter until I forget what day it is.
“Insatiable,” I gasp as she pulls me onto her lap one afternoon.
“Can you blame me?” Her hands slide under my sweater—her sweater, really. I've barely worn my own clothes all week. “Been waiting years for this. Got a lot of time to make up for.”
“At this rate, I’ll forget what fresh air feels like.”
“Good.” She nips at my throat. “Gonna keep you here forever. Naked and ready for me.”
“Wren...” But my protest dies as her fingers find me.
“See? Already ready for me.”
I’ve lost count of how many times she’s had me this week.
My body is hypersensitive, constantly aroused, and trained to her touch.
Every surface in the apartment has been christened—some multiple times.
The couch where she ate me for breakfast. The bathroom counter where she took me while we brushed our teeth.
The window where she pressed me against the cold glass and made me come so hard I screamed.
“Going to miss this when I go back to work,” I moan as she starts moving.
“Who says you’re going back?”
I laugh. “I’ve got people who need me!”
“I need you more.”
“So possessive.”
“When it comes to you? Always.”
She smiles, that wicked, dimpled grin that always kills me. “You like it here. Admit it.”
I do. The soft creak of her apartment floorboards.
The way her tools rattle in the garage below.
The clash of her latent sophistication in this apartment and the grease monkey life that takes place just outside.
More than once, I’ve woken up to the sounds of Wren tinkering in her garage.
Some clients have left projects for her to work on while they’re away for the holidays, and it’s like her own personal Christmas every day when she remembers.
By the time we finally start getting dressed for the night, I’ve lost track of how many times she’s made love to me. My body tenderly aches from it, all right.
“Where are we going?” I ask as she hands me a black dress I’ve never seen before.
“Bought you something.” She slips on her jacket. “Can’t take you to Jensen’s in a hoodie.”
“Jensen’s?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s the rooftop bar that claims it’s got the best view of fireworks—except Coos Bay doesn’t do fireworks.”
“Not officially.” She laughs. “But you know this town. Someone’s already smuggled in Roman candles and a few too many beers.”
“Illegal fireworks and overpriced cocktails. How romantic.”
She leans in close. “You won’t be looking at the sky anyway.”
Jensen’s is packed when we arrive. Locals dressed in their holiday best crowd the bar, faces glowing under strings of golden lights. Out beyond the glass, the bay is a sheet of black with neon reflections from the bar signs.
I can feel the whispers start before we’ve even reached the bar. Heads turn. People stare. Some talk behind their drinks, others just smile.
A week ago, I would’ve wanted to sink through the floor. But Wren’s hand settles on the small of my back, and suddenly, I don’t care.
“Let them look,” she murmurs. “Just two women in love in this town.”
“Yeah, and I used to date your brother.”
“Like I said, just two women in love…”
We find a table near the edge of the rooftop where the wind carries all the whispers of the world. It’s cold enough that I can see my breath, but Wren pulls me close under her arm.
“Hey, you two!” Jake—Wren’s old friend—approaches with his wife, Winnie, both flushed from champagne.
“Winnie!” I greet, standing to hug her.
“You look amazing,” she says. “Looks like someone’s been having a merry Christmas.”
Jake clasps Wren’s shoulder. “You clean up well. Or is that the glow of being in love?”
Wren only smirks. “Maybe both.”
They drift off, and we spend the next hour sipping champagne and talking with neighbors. There are whispers, sure—but there are smiles, too. A few congratulations. Someone even buys us a drink “for the hell of it.”
Wren’s fingers link with mine under the table. She leans in and tells a dirty joke that makes me double over with laughter. Sure, that garners more attention, but… I don’t care. Soon enough, the superintendent will know who I’m with, and if they have a problem with it…
No. I’m going to stay positive. It will be fine.
When the countdown nears, Wren leads me toward the edge of the rooftop. The wind whips at my hair, carrying the faint echo of distant surf.
“Beautiful,” I breathe, staring out at the water.
“You are,” she says simply, turning me toward her. “You know what my New Year’s resolution is?”
I shake my head.
“To make this official.” Her hand slips into her jacket pocket, and my heart stutters.
“Wren—”
“Not what you’re thinking,” she says quickly, though there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes. She pulls out a folded sheet of paper—a sketch, smudged with pencil lines.
It’s a small coastal lot, just north of the bay. A building drawn in her confident hand. It’s half garage and half… home?
“What’s this?”
“My next project,” she says. “A second shop. Maybe a place to live upstairs. Enough room for two.”
My throat tightens. “Two?”
She nods. “I’ve been thinking about the future. About what comes next. Expanding the business. Staying here. Building something. With you.”
“Wren…”
“By next New Year,” she says, “I want to call you my wife.”
The world tilts, and for a heartbeat, all I can hear is the faint crack of illegal fireworks down by the docks. Someone’s cheering. Champagne corks pop. But it all blurs into background noise.
“Too much?” she asks.
I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “No. Just… enough.”
She exhales, relief breaking into a grin. “Good. I was worried I’d have to bribe you with cake or something.”
“Cake helps,” I admit, laughing through the lump in my throat. “But this is better.”
We turn back toward the water just as the first explosion of color lights up the sky. Red and gold streaks reflect off the dark surface of the bay, shimmering like molten glass.
Wren wraps her arms around me from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder. “Look,” she whispers. “It’s our own illegal fireworks show.”
Another burst lights up the clouds, this time bright blue. “I love you.” My words are so certain that they don’t even feel like a confession. “I can’t wait to still be in love with you a year from now.”
Her grip tightens around me. “Good,” she says, lips brushing my temple. “Because I’ve loved you since you brought hot cocoa to my house with your parents and asked about the cool mountain bike I got.”
I remember. “You wouldn’t shut up about it.”
“Around you? Never.”
We stand there as the sky keeps lighting up over the water, the cold biting at our fingers. But I can’t imagine being anywhere else right now, thinking about the past, indulging in the present, and hoping for a beautiful future.
When the last spark fades and the crowd cheers, Wren turns me to face her. “So,” she says, brushing my hair from my face. “You’ll support my idea?”
“The second garage?”
“Buying a plot. Together.”
“You really think you could get rid of me now?”
“Not a chance,” she says, and kisses me, sealing this promise in the cold night.
Around us, the bar crackles with celebration. Somewhere down the street, someone’s yelling “Happy New Year!” and the sound carries across the bay, echoing through the fog.
I think of where I was a month ago—alone, unsure, still trying to convince myself I wasn’t “too much.” Now, standing here in Wren’s arms, I finally feel like exactly enough.
We turn to leave, her arm wrapped around me. Our future isn’t perfect. Neither am I.
Thank God for that.