Chapter 4 Wren #2
More than anything, he hates that I walk it all the way from Cove to Dip if I miss the last bus home after my nights volunteering.
And I get it. A cute girl walking along a dark, quiet road at midnight all alone? I’ve watched the news. I might as well wear a flashing sign saying Kidnap Me! But not only do I know every twist, jut, rise, and dip of this route, I know the towns it runs through.
The Devil’s Coast is safe. Leave-your-car-unlocked, offer-a-ride-to-a-stranger kind of safe.
Unlike Seattle or other big towns, there’s no crime, no gangs, no mysterious murderer with a sinister nickname on the loose.
The proof’s in the pudding: I’ve been walking this route nearly every weekend, and nothing bad has ever happened.
The closest I’ve ever come to danger is that night.
As we pass, my eyes lift to the flickering streetlamp, then to the looming silhouette of the church across the road from it. Spires softened by shadows, the broken stained glass casting watery colors on the gravestones below.
And suddenly, I see him again, cloaked in black and bloodied, crawling away from the light of the streetlamp, fists scraping gravel, with ragged breaths barely audible over the sound of crashing waves and blistering winds.
My name touches the back of my neck. Then comes a grip on my elbow.
“Wren?”
I blink and meet my uncle’s concerned gaze. When I look back down at the road, it’s empty. Christ, I must be tired.
I take a deep breath and exhale a nervous laugh. “Thought I saw a bear,” I mutter.
Pathetic, I know, but Finn tuts, mutters something about bears being yet another reason I need to get a car, and follows me as I turn off onto the trail that leads to our land.
Unlike the main road, the one up to Strawberry Farm is well-lit and well-maintained.
Fairy lights wrap around the fir trees flanking either side, and you can’t walk more than three feet without stepping into the glow of one of the many Victorian-style lamps.
At the end sits a white gate, with a painted wooden sign on it.
Underneath, there’s an even larger sign warning trespassers that they’ll be shot, though I doubt Uncle Finn has ever held a gun, let alone pulled a trigger.
I don’t live with Finn anymore. My house sits at the edge of the land, a cozy two-story cottage with white board and batten and a pink front door.
It was his eighteenth birthday gift to me, and allegedly, his most ambitious project to date.
I never questioned how he built it so quickly, or why I’ve seen the exact same house being transported in two parts on the freeway, I was just so happy to have my own place to decorate how I want and to call my own.
Finn walks me down the gravel path, climbs three steps to the porch, and flips on the Bat Signal—a single pink bulb dangling above the front door, visible from any rear-facing window in his farmhouse opposite, that he installed after one too many nights of me forgetting to text him when I got home.
He slides his hands into his pockets, nudging the swinging love seat with his knee so it creaks back and forth. “I hope you have a great time tomorrow. I’ll be sad to miss it.”
“Uh-huh. I’m not sure your carpentry course is worth missing the wedding of the century, but I’m sure it’ll be very educational.
” I search his eyes for a flicker of dishonesty, but he just nods solemnly.
Lawyers really do make the biggest liars.
“I’ll be sure to take lots of photos,” I add, tucking my clutch under my arm and slipping my SOS bag off his shoulder and onto mine.
“Unless I meet The One, of course, then I’ll be far too busy for that.
Did you know, studies show that twenty-two percent of women meet the love of their life at—”
The short vibration in my clutch cuts me off. My vision warps, and there’s a familiar punch to my gut, hard and violent.
No.
My shaky exhale floats off the porch and into the dark. I wish it’d just take me with it. Somewhere, anywhere, as long as unfinished sentences and rejection emails can’t hurt me.
I choke out the question, though I already know the answer. “What time is it?”
Finn tugs back the sleeve of his coat and checks that stupidly expensive timepiece supposedly reserved for birthdays and weddings. When he glances up at me, his jaw is tight.
His voice is even tighter. “You promised to stop doing this, Wren.”
The back of my eyes start to burn. How can I stop when it’s all I think about? When that one sentence—five words, thirty-five characters, including spaces—dictates every single second of my life?
A hot fat tear rolls down my cold cheek, my rapid blinking doing nothing to stop it from falling. Finn tracks it with a look of disapproval, then turns his attention out to the night, seeking relief from the discomfort my emotions always bring him.
“If you went to law school when you said you would, this would have all gone away by now,” he mutters.
Guess lawyers make the biggest jerks too.
I wipe my wet cheek with the back of my hand and turn on my heel before the rest of my tears can come.
“Good night, Uncle Finn.”
Though, I don’t wish him a good night at all.