Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
BARRETT
I t was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or the right place at the right time, I suppose.
I hated every single thing I overhead tonight, but I’m glad I heard it. Celeste, Allana, and Mabel are shameless gossips, but they’re also pillars of Bad Dog society and good people. Celeste and Allana run the biggest non-profit in town, helping at risk women escape abusive relationships, and Mabel is a human rights attorney—as well as my first cousin.
And if your own family is talking disparagingly about you behind your back, it seems like a person should pay attention.
S o, I do, easing closer to the row of potted ficus separating the champagne fountain from the bar tables on the other side, where the three women are snacking on appetizers as they rip the rose-colored glasses from my eyes.
“I can’t believe he came,” Allana says in a scandalized whisper. “Let alone brought the woman everyone knew he was carrying on with for his and Lane’s entire marriage. Who does that?”
What the hell?
Clearly that was about me. And highly inaccurate.
A scowl clawing at my forehead, I step closer to the plants.
“Well, Lane invited him,” Celeste says. “And she seems fine with it, so…”
“Is she really, though?” Allana presses. “She was always so good at hiding it when he hurt her. Remember the time he stayed late at work, doing God knows what with Wren Baxter, and totally forgot it was their two-year anniversary? You would never have known Lane was upset. She rescheduled the celebration for a few days later without saying a word.”
“Well, maybe she should have,” Mabel pipes up. “I’ll be the first to agree that Barrett didn’t treat Lane the way he should have, but he’s not a cruel person. He’s just odd and…oblivious. He probably had no idea the way he carried on with Wren hurt Lane’s feelings.”
I absolutely didn’t. And I wasn’t “carrying on” with Wren or anyone else. Wren and I were just friends and coworkers back then.
Before I can get too indignant, however, Celeste adds, "Well, he should have. They crossed the line between friends and something more a long time ago. Anyone with eyes could see the way Wren looked at him. She’s been in love with him since we were kids. Barrett had to have known that, on some level, no matter how oblivious he is, and he encouraged it. And in my book, that’s cheating. It doesn’t matter if he never touched her. That’s an emotional affair and a betrayal of his marriage vows.”
My grip tightening on the two rapidly warming glasses of champagne in my hands, I consider her words.
I would never call what Wren and I had “an emotional affair” but were there nights when I lingered at work with Wren because I dreaded going home to Lane’s perpetually disappointed gaze? Yes. There were also days—many of them—when I considered teatime with Wren the best part of my day.
Rarely did coming home to my wife make it into that top spot.
“I agree,” Allana says. “And bringing Wren here tonight is just rubbing salt in the wound. Have you seen them? He can barely keep his hands off her ass, it’s so embarrassing. I cringe every time I look their way.”
“But you’re still going to Barrett’s practice when you and Doug try for number two,” Mabel says. “Don’t lie.”
“Well, of course, I am. He’s the best doctor in town and probably saved Bailey’s life when she got the cord wrapped around her neck on the way out. I have nothing negative to say about this doctoring. Just his personal life.”
The women laugh softly before Celeste says, “But I guess all’s well that ends well. Lane and Grant clearly belong together. And Wren can enjoy Barrett for however long that lasts before he starts doing the same thing to her. Once an emotional cheater, always an emotional cheater. At least that’s been my experience.”
“I honestly feel bad for her,” Mabel says, surprising me. I thought she was on my side, at least a little bit. We’ve never been close—she’s a decade my senior and rarely has time for family functions with her busy work schedule—but I thought there was mutual respect between us. “She’s obviously in love with the idea of him, not the real Barrett. Someday the rose-colored crush glasses are going to fall off and she’ll see him for the emotionally stunted, rigid, workaholic he is and realize she wasted her entire youth pining for a man who doesn’t exist. And by then it will probably be too late for her to start over. You know how the men are around here. As soon as you’re thirty-five, you’re over the hill and no one swipes right.”
“Oh, that isn’t true,” Celeste says. “You’re just swiping on the wrong ones, honey. You should let me help you look. I’m a good judge of character, even through a phone screen.”
“Or you could let me set you up with Doug’s cousin, Albert,” Allana says. “Yes, he’s bald and weirdly obsessed with football, but he’s funny and a real sweet guy. And I have it on good authority, he can still get it up like clockwork. Carina dated him when she was rebounding from her divorce and said the sex was great. She just wasn’t ready to commit to a man whose entire living room is decorated with collectible Viking helmets and beer steins.”
“Being a Vikings fan is hard enough without being confronted with memorabilia morning, noon, and night,” Celeste agrees.
T hey continued to discuss Mabel’s cursed love life—and Albert’s dick—and after a few moments, I eased away from the ficus and back toward the champagne fountain. I don’t remember what I did with the two glasses of champagne, but the decision to leave without saying goodbye to Wren in person was a conscious one.
I knew she’d hate me for it, and that was for the best.
It’s better if she hates me. Better if she dumps me on my ass than I continue to make her the laughingstock of town for dating an asshole like me.
Because, apparently, I’m an asshole.
I thought I was just the square peg that didn’t fit into one of the circular holes. But instead, I’m the rotten potato at the bottom of the bag, stinking up the entire kitchen. I’m actively making other people’s lives worse simply by existing in their general vicinity.
And the worst part?
I had no idea.
Just like I had no idea that Wren likes to tear it up on the dance floor, had a crush on me for years, or would be so devastated by me leaving without saying goodbye in February that she’d run all the way to Thailand to avoid looking at my face for three months.
I wonder where she’ll go this time.
Or maybe, I should offer to go. It wouldn’t be easy to leave my practice or my patients, but I know several hospitals in the area that are short of OB-GYNs. I could get a job at one of them and only drive into Bad Dog for special occasions with my family.
After enough time has elapsed, maybe I’ll forget how right it felt to be with Wren.
I could text her that option now. Or maybe an email would be better, something she can read tomorrow morning and respond to at her leisure.
I roll over in the big bed in Drew’s guest room, reaching for my phone to draft the message, but it buzzes before I can swipe open the screen.
When I do, I see a message from Wren that simply reads— Open the window.
A beat later, there’s a sharp ping from my right. I jerk my head that way in time to see a rock hit the pane, sending a louder clink echoing through the quiet space.
My phone buzzes again— Now. I know you’re in there. I saw your truck parked beside Drew’s minivan in the garage.
Swinging my legs out from under the covers, I cross to the window and peer out into the night. After a beat, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I make out Wren’s slim figure in a pool of moonlight at the base of the large elm tree growing too close to the house. Drew should have it trimmed or torn down before its limbs damage the roof or the roots burrow into the foundation. I’ve mentioned it to him half a dozen times, but all he ever says is, “But Sarah Beth loves that tree so much.”
My niece “loves” a tree.
I can’t imagine having an emotional attachment to a tree or indulging my child in a way that puts our home at risk. Which is why I’d probably be a terrible parent. I’d lean into logic and away from compassion. I’d be a hard ass with no patience for nonsense and alienate my child before they’re old enough to say, “Daddy messed me up.”
It’s just another reason to end this thing with Wren before it goes any further. She wants kids, a family. She’ll be an amazing mother, but she deserves a partner who won’t drag her down or damage the children. She deserves so much, including the opportunity to tell me to go to hell, if that’s what she came here for.
But I don’t trust myself to stay strong in her presence.
If I go down there to talk to her in the cool, dark night, I’ll want to hold her, comfort her. I’ll want to confess why I left the wedding early and, knowing Wren, she’ll find a way to ease my fears.
But I don’t want my fears to be eased. I have to hold onto the fear and stick to my guns. This is how I prove I love her, by breaking her heart a little now to keep from blowing it to smithereens down the line. It’s the difference between a hairline fracture and a bone shattered in multiple places. One will mend with just a little time and care; the other might leave her crippled for life.
So, I text back— I’m sorry, I can’t. —and pull the curtains.
I expect that to be the end of it. Maybe she’ll text once or twice more, but that’s it. Wren is determined, but she knows how stubborn I am. Once I’ve come to a logical conclusion backed by facts, I’m an immoveable object.
But it turns out Wren might just be an unstoppable force, a fact I realize a few minutes later when the windowpane slides up and she whispers, “Come help me in before I fall to my death, and you really have something to be sorry for.”