Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
WREN
My phone is already busier than it ever is with the standard birthday notifications, but I quickly scroll and find a message from Ellis telling me he’s left a coffee outside my door.
Memories of last night hurtle through me at the same time I see all the names of the people I love on my phone. It feels like a gentle nudge from the universe to be careful, to remember that we have a regular life and home to go back to, the same place and people who had to pick up the debris of us before. But when I remember the easy intimacy Ellis and I rediscovered yesterday and the bare pleasure in his eyes even after he took me apart, I want to rebel against all of that caution and grab the rest of this trip with both hands.
Thank you for the coffee, I text Ellis. I slept in
Good. Happy birthday, Byrd. If you need time to get ready I’ll go grab breakfast and drop it off?
You don’t have to drop it and run :)
Three dots hover and disappear. Come back again and disappear again.
If we want to get checked out of here on time, yeah I do
I continue to be a disordered mix of edgy and exhilarated as I get ready for the day, but the moment I see him in the lobby, all my circular thoughts wind down.
I watch him catalog every inch of me as I make my way toward him. He starts at my favorite worn-in cowgirl boots, then drifts over my white flowy skirt, lingers on the slope of my hips like he’s remembering how they filled his palms while he drove me over the edge. I see him sigh, and I’m not sure if it’s in relief or resignation when he traces over my top. It’s a simple black knitted thing that ties across my chest, a triangle of torso on display. I can already feel him taking it off. I see it when he clocks the little strip of a whisker burn he gave me at the edge of my neckline. His jaw clenches tight before it relaxes into a heady grin.
“Hey, birthday girl,” he says. It sounds like the first time he’s used his voice today. He lifts two of my bags from my shoulders and loops them onto his own. “Ready to keep going?”
“I am.”
It’s a forty-five-minute drive into the Santa Cruz mountains to get to where we’re headed, and I’m scheming up more questions and torturous, sad-girl playlists, but the outside world interrupts as soon as we leave the parking lot.
Sage calls first to wish me a happy birthday, followed by Sam and my mom. Then comes Silas, who lingers on the phone.
“ Sooo , what are you guys up to?” he asks, singsongy. I frown over at Ellis, who scowls at the phone.
“You’re on speakerphone, Silas,” he informs him, which makes me lift a brow.
“We’re just driving to our next stop,” I say. When he’s silent, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Driving to Beaverton with Micah to use the Sluggers tickets I got him for Christmas.”
“You’re making him go to a baseball game? Christ, Silas.” Seems a bit insensitive given that Micah is in a rough place with the sport right now.
“ What? He was still playing when I gave him the tickets. It’s circus ball, anyway. Not regular baseball.”
“It’s a joke ,” I hear Micah spit. “And happy birthday, Wren.”
“Thanks, bud,” I say. But I’m stuck remembering how I had to fake being sick to get out of last Christmas. After Thanksgiving… it felt too fresh, and I couldn’t handle the idea of more togetherness so soon.
The first two years after the divorce were like that. For me and Ellis both, I think. Holidays and family gatherings were too damned uncomfortable for everyone. Getting to a place where I could handle being in proximity to him again without the hurt affecting everyone else took a lot of work.
Work we might’ve undone in the span of a few days.
Silas starts arguing with Micah about how circus ball is more entertaining than traditional baseball, and I quickly hang up before their bickering has a chance to bring my mood down any more.
“You okay?” Ellis asks.
I heave a sigh and study him. He seems more well rested and peaceful than he’s been in years. “Just being neurotic about taking it slow or moving too fast.” I look down at my phone and the background picture of Sam with an arm around Sage and me. The deeper we get, the bigger the climb to get back out if we can’t make it again.
He grabs my hand on the center console and intertwines his fingers with mine. “I told you before, I like slow,” he says. But then he plants a kiss to my knuckles, and I feel it somersault down my arm until it tingles across my chest and in all the places he kissed the night before.
“It’s just too easy to fall right back into what we know is… good,” I say. Incendiary, life-altering, explosive, and good.
“ Good , huh?” he says, a smirk bending his lips. He knew exactly where my head went. “I get it and agree. But it’s your birthday, and I’m at your disposal, however you need me. If you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you want to write, we’ll write.” He beams, laugh lines spreading. “If you want to use my body, I won’t hold it against you.”
“Think you’d have to hold something against me to get me off,” I say, and his grip around my hand squeezes tighter. “But.” I’ve got a brilliant idea. New rules. “What if we say we can’t do anything we’ve done before?”
“Meaning?” He licks his lower lip.
I can’t resist teasing him a little. “Meaning, we couldn’t pull over and fuck in the back seat—”
“Jesus, Byrd.”
“—but last night was the first time I came on your thigh.” I give him a slinky grin. “We could get creative.” Somehow this is another justification in my brain.
His jaw works in fits. “I have always appreciated your creative-thinking skills,” he grits. I’m not sure if it’s his palm or mine starting to sweat where they’re pressed together.
“Thank you. They’ve served me quite well in the past. I was a big fan of yours last night, too.”
“Then it’s a deal.”
“Good,” I declare. “Now pipe down so we can listen to my birthday anthem.” I hit Play on my phone and turn the volume up. He grins at the road and kisses the back of my hand again.
The switchback road that leads us up to Montetesta Ranch is lined in soft, wheat-colored grasses that sway in the breeze, the occasional California poppy bursting through, plus a medley of cypress and other evergreens. The climb feels never-ending, until it finally crests and deposits us at a two-way stop. To the left and in the distance is the manor I saw from the website, and according to the sign in front of us, to the right lies the guest cottages and tasting room, where we also check in.
The tasting room is a condensed version of the manor; white stucco with black trim and terra-cotta tiles on the roof. A deck littered with tables and chairs wraps around it on all four sides.
“Reservation for the Byrds?” asks a woman from behind the counter when we stroll in. She looks like she’s barely older than Sam. Emilia, according to her name tag.
“Should be two reservations, but yes,” says Ellis at my side. When she pauses wiping down the glass in her hand and gives us an owlish look, I can predict what’s coming next.
“You called and updated your reservation to one cottage…?” she trails off, eyes darting back and forth between us.
Ellis and I turn to each other. “ Silas ,” we say in unison.
“I’ll text him,” I say, but Ellis shakes his head silently, already pushing Call on his phone and walking out.
“Sorry,” I say to the girl. “We’ll need to change it back to two cottages, if that’s all right.”
She grimaces. “We had a waiting list for this weekend. I called the first name on the list already.”
I shut my eyes. This is fine . No big deal. I already had designs on hooking up with him, anyway. This isn’t an insurmountable problem, exactly. I’m not going to lie to myself and act like this is the Thing that will make me prematurely jump my ex without appropriately addressing the issues we’re unearthing on this trip.
I would have last night.
“Silas and Micah swear it wasn’t them,” Ellis says, stepping back into the room.
“Sage wouldn’t do this,” I say suspiciously. “You don’t think…?”
He gives me a quizzical smile. “You think he’d try to Parent Trap us?” He laughs. “Now?”
I try to call Sam to find out, and it goes to voicemail after two rings. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” I say with a sigh. “They’re all booked up now.”
“Should I take you to the cottage, then?” asks Emilia. “You’ll have a few hours to settle in and explore the grounds before your cooking class.”
“ Cooking class?” I struggle to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I bake six days a week, and as much as I love what I do, I’m not exactly gunning to spend my birthday in a kitchen. Still, I realize Sam probably thought he was planning a nice surprise and I try to recover. “That’ll be fun,” I say, faking a smile.
We climb back into the truck and follow Emilia in her golf cart over to the rows of cottages. They’re tiny. We’re about to be squeezed from all sides. It’s dramatic, I know, but it feels like the last forty-eight hours might’ve been as successful as they were because we had space to separate, too, and I’m suddenly worried the extra pressure could crack us.
When we step onto the small porch with our bags in hand, Ellis looks over at me and says, “We’re okay,” with a nod.
I realize I’m holding my breath, and I blow it out on a nervous laugh. “We’re okay.”
It’s his turn to laugh anxiously when he unlocks the door and steps in. At least 75 percent of the room is occupied by a bed.