Chapter 4 #2
I suppose nothing but various shades of wood that the eye can see might come off a little too basic to him.
I didn’t exactly care about decorating or making this space bright and personal.
It’s personal enough—cuz it’s all I have.
Everything in here is me. The smell of it is homey, soothing, and grounding, even if the place could use a bit of freshening up.
“I know it isn’t much,” I mutter nervously, since he’s not saying or doing anything.
Wren turns to me sharply and shakes his head before giving me a thumbs-up.
I smirk. He’s clearly a little taken aback.
It is…messy. If I had known someone would be staying here, I would’ve cleaned up.
My weights are all over the floor, dropped right where I used them this morning.
My laundry, including my underwear, is drying on the clothesline that goes across to the fireplace.
Ugh. Should’ve cleared that days ago.
As I nervously follow him to the middle of the room, wondering what entertainment I can provide for a city dweller like Wren besides the radio or some gramophone music, I notice that he’s typing on his phone again.
“You really should take those clothes off. The jacket and the hoodie, I mean. You’ll get sick. Pneumonia’s no joke.”
Wren nods and puts his phone on the mantel of the fireplace, quickly shedding the layers while he briefly studies the photos. He notices the hooks I put on both sides of the thick wood and hangs both articles of his clothing there. The heat from the fire is gonna dry them in no time.
Even in nothing but a long-sleeve shirt and those skinny jeans, he kind of…disappears. Before I can pull my eyes away from him—to stop myself from wondering what his body really looks like underneath, which is a completely inappropriate thought—he shoves the phone in my face, almost excitedly.
[How long have you been running the store?]
“Two…three years.” I look up at the ceiling, thinking.
“But my family’s owned it for some time.
The last owner passed away. Had no family.
My parents bought this place and moved here after they found out my daddy was sick.
Lung cancer. He’d been a smoker for as long as I could remember.
He died, and my momma also got cancer not long after.
Different kind—bowel. Genetic. Once she was gone, I…
couldn’t really take bein’ around here, so I enlisted.
Was away for a couple of years. Two deployments. ”
I pause, realizing that maybe this isn’t exactly the topic to cheer him up.
But I’m too far in to stop now, and Wren fixes his gaze on me like he’s interested in hearing more.
“My auntie Elmira was runnin’ it in the meantime, but she also became sick.
Genetic, like I said, but I got tested and I don’t have the gene, so I’m good.
Hopefully. Well, eventually, I was honorably discharged, so I returned here and…
took over the store. I like it. It’s peaceful here. Peaceful and simple.”
And lonely. But I can deal with lonely.
“My auntie’s fine,” I add. “She’s been cancer-free for over two years.”
[I’m sorry about your parents.]
“It’s okay. You didn’t give them cancer.”
Wren’s eyes go wide. We stand in silence and stare at each other. Just when I start worrying about saying the wrong thing again, he bursts out into a short laugh.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” he mutters, covering his face with his hand, shoulders still jerking with the little chuckles he can’t control.
I grin, resting my hands in my pockets. “It was a…weird thing to say on my part.”
I figured maybe he’ll talk now, but he hangs his head down to type on his phone again. I suppress the disappointment pressing into my ribcage.
[Being a part of the Dead Parents Club means you gotta have fucked up humor, I think.]
Smirking at the text, I give him an amused nod.
Parents. Plural.
I narrow my eyes, trying to remember what I know about his dad. Mrs. Compton was always secretive and not very friendly. I’m usually not one to gossip, but I’m pretty sure people said her husband killed himself, didn’t they? That sort of thing gets talked about around here.
How long ago was that? How old was Wren when it happened?
I’ve been a bit isolated recently. Auntie Elmira hasn’t visited in a while. That must be why I feel this nagging urge to know everything about him.
We stand in front of the fire for a while, just existing. The smell of burning wood mixes with the scent of licorice, and I enjoy it. I enjoy it a lot. Wren’s shoulders tense a little once he looks down at his phone again. He types a lot slower this time.
[Can I ask you something? Need you to be honest.]
“For sure.” Shit, is it something I said or did? I’ve never been good at this people thing.
He types something, but then…just stares at it for a while. Once he turns the phone to me, he averts his face.
[What was she like?]
It feels like he doesn’t even want to hear the answer. His hand holding the phone is unsteady. Staring at the flickering text cursor at the end of the sentence, I clear my throat.
He wants honesty. Well, he deserves that much.
“Reclusive. She didn’t come here very often and didn’t say much when she did. You know how people are around here. Community’s important. She wasn’t really part of it. She didn’t care about others, so no one…cared about her, I suppose.”
Was that more honesty than appropriate?
I study his expression. Something shifts, his lashes flutter, and then he looks at me properly. He almost smiles, in a strange way, where it reaches his eyes but not the rest of his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that on anyone before.
He types [Thank you] and silently stares at the fire.
That’s when it hits me. “I promised to fill that breadbasket of yours! You can, umm, sit on the couch there. I’ve got some books and magazines, but not much else.
Unplug that lamp and charge your phone while there’s still electricity.
More likely than not, that won’t be the case as the storm gets worse. Old and falling apart, like I said.”
With an amused, lopsided smile that does something to me, he presents the screen.
[The charger’s in the car. With all my stuff.]
“Oh, right.”
He keeps smiling. It makes a cute dimple on his cheek. The moment he flares his nostrils and sucks the air in, I tense up. My pheromones. I’m not used to having to rein them in anymore, since I’m hardly this close to people like this. I need to pay attention to that.
“Try to save the battery, then. I’ll…get to cookin’. Just relax and warm up.”
I go to the kitchen and start gathering ingredients.
I can hear his footsteps crossing over to the couch, where he sits down with a grunt, and then there’s silence.
I convince myself not to turn around and instead focus on coming up with something nice and easy to cook.
Tater soup should be good. I still have a relatively fresh loaf of bread Jeremy brought the other day.
Wren is quiet while I cook. When I glance at him every so often, he’s there reading one of my magazines. They’re mostly about military and bodybuilding stuff. A few are about hunting and nature. I hope he can find some interest in any of it.
It’s strange, pulling out two sets of everything once I’m done cooking. Two bowls. Two spoons. Two glasses. I check the spare settings for dust, just to make sure they don’t need a quick rinse before I dish up Wren’s food.
Wren’s eyes are the brightest I’ve ever seen them once he sits at the table with me, a bowl of soup and a few slices of bread with butter in front of him. I struggle to remember the last time I ate a meal with someone here. It must have been when Elmira was around, but that wasn’t like this.
Like this? What is that, hm?
I’m painfully aware that it’s been a while since I’ve had any…contact…with another person. A person my age. A person who…sparks interest. An alpha at that.
This ain’t the time nor place, though. I don’t know Wren. He don’t know me. He didn’t even want to be here. So I purge the stupid thoughts clouding my head and stuff my face instead.
We eat as one should: in silence. Makes the food taste better.
It also makes it harder for my mind to settle down.
“That was really good,” Wren says as soon as he’s done.
I smile, ignoring the way my chest expands with irrational joy at hearing his voice.
I make quick work of the dishwashing, and all the while I can sense Wren across the room.
Inspecting my books, touchin’ my things.
I feel all awkward and ill-fitting. How am I too big for my own damn home all of a sudden?
After a while, we make it to the couch. Now that there’s no agenda for the rest of the day, the atmosphere becomes a tad awkward. Usually, I would take a nap after eating, but it feels weird to do that with Wren here.
Any other time, if I had a guest—especially someone used to a different life than this—I probably would’ve taken them out. Showed them the forest. Taken a walk. Tried to appear smarter than I really am by showing off my knowledge of the local animals and plants. That’s not going to happen, either.
Too restless, I get up and open the wooden window shutters I closed earlier to keep the heat in and prevent a draft, only to see nothing but pure white outside.
Snowflakes swirl in the air, and that’s about all I can make out.
The wind blows powerfully against the walls, and the weight of the snowdrift makes the roof above our heads creak.
Every now and then, Wren looks up with concern, but I don’t worry about the structural integrity of the house.
I had it checked and repaired when I took over with some of the money I made in the army, so I know we’ll be fine.
I close the shutters again. I just hope everybody else is doing okay.