Chapter 3
Wren
My eyelids flutter open. Darkness presses down, heavy and suffocating. My left eye throbs. A searing ache blooms beneath the lid. Fingers reach up, and I flinch—tender, swollen, raw.
Wetness coats my skin. I drag my hand back. Even in the dim lighting, I know what it is. Blood.
Head spinning. Breath hitching. What time is it? How did I get here? The cool bite of tile against my spine tells me I’m on the bathroom floor. But why?
The silence is too thick. My chest seizes. Did someone break in?
I hold still, ears straining. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Just me. And this ache that feels like it’s splitting me open.
My hand scrapes against the floor until it brushes soft cotton. The bathmat. I press it hard to the wound. Please don’t need stitches. Don’t let it be that deep.
I’m alone. Alone. But then—
“Wren!”
The voice rips through me. My body seizes as terror floods my veins like poison. I choke on sobs, shaking uncontrollably. Tears stream down my cheeks. My lungs can’t catch air.
“Wren!” Louder. Closer. A shadow looms. Hands grab at me—real, solid, anchoring.
What the—
Gasping, my eyes fly open. My chest heaves like I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. My hand clutches my sternum that’s damp with sweat. The dream lingers like smoke, curling in the corners of my mind even as the room sharpens into focus.
Light slants through the blinds in golden stripes. The familiar scent of detergent and lemon furniture polish grounds me. I’m not in LA. I’m not bleeding on cold tile. I’m home. In my childhood bedroom. Safe.
My lashes are still wet, vision blurring, when a soft hand brushes my hair back from my face. “Wren, honey.”
I blink, and there she is—Grandma Warren, perched on the edge of my bed, worry carved into every delicate line of her face. Her thumb sweeps my temple like my mother used to when I was a kid with a fever.
“Sorry, Grams,” I rasp, sitting up straighter, tugging the blanket tight against my chest. “Bad dream. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her brow pinches, eyes—same as my mother’s—searching my face. “Are you sure you’re okay, Pumpkin?”
I cover her hand with mine, forcing a smile that I pray looks steadier than I feel. “I’m okay. Just…a rough couple of days.”
She hums like she doesn’t quite believe me. “If you say so. You know Gramps and I are always in your corner.”
Warmth swells in my chest, fragile but real. God, I’ve missed this. Them. Instead of answering, I squeeze her hand. She leans down, presses a kiss to my sweaty forehead, and rises with a soft groan.
“When you get around, would you mind running a casserole over to the Riggsbys? Lydia hasn’t been feeling well, and heaven knows we can’t let Harold starve.”
“Of course,” I murmur. “Let me shower first.”
She gives me one last lingering look before shuffling toward the hall. “Be careful, kiddo,” she says softly. Then she’s gone, leaving me with the echo of her words and the hollow thud of my racing heart.
I flop back against the pillows, dragging a breath deep into my lungs. Home. Safe. Except safety feels paper-thin when my phone lights up on the nightstand. Against my better judgment, I reach for it.
A wall of notifications. Missed calls. Texts stacked like bricks meant to crush me.
Elias
Thought you could run? You won't last a month without me. Come home, little mouse…or I’ll find you.
Elias
Come home, baby. We can talk this through.
Elias
You always were a selfish bitch.
Elias
Call me. I can do better.
Elias
What the hell are these papers? You think anyone’s going to believe this?
Papers? I don’t even know what papers he’s referring to.
Did Collin, my lawyer, find something and send him over documentation?
Did the network? Was it my bodyguard, Leo?
He was one of my only true friends in California, and when he caught on to what was happening, he was the one to help make arrangements to get me out.
Elias
You’ll pay for this, slut.
The words crawl across my skin, but I swipe them away before the spiral can take me under.
And then, something different catches my eyes. A Facebook notification. Rachel has invited you to join The Bay Buzz.
A laugh sputters from my throat, half relief, half disbelief. Only in Silo Bay would there be an online gossip rag. I hit accept and immediately exit before I can fall into the rabbit hole of small-town gossip. Not without caffeine.
An hour later, I pad downstairs. Hair curled loosely, lips glossed, overalls and boots pulled from the back of my closet. I tell myself it’s practical farm wear, not a deliberate attempt to look like I…fit in. Definitely not in case I bump into a certain someone.
In the kitchen, I tug open the fridge. There it is—a casserole wrapped in foil, with a note taped to the top.
The words blur as my throat tightens. Smiling through the sting, I fold the note carefully and slip it into my purse.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I want to believe I’m exactly where I need to be.
The crunch of gravel under my tires fills the cab, loud against the stillness of a Silo Bay morning.
Dust curls in the side mirrors like smoke trails, disappearing in the bright spring air.
My dad’s old Chevy rattles around me, each creak and groan a reminder that this truck has outlived more memories than it should have.
The radio hums low, static giving way to the steady strum of “By and By” by Caamp.
The familiar rasp of the singer’s voice tugs at something soft I’d locked away years ago.
This song sounds like home—like bonfires on the edge of our field, like stolen nights on the riverbank with Jett’s arm heavy around my shoulders.
I grip the wheel tighter because nostalgia is a liar. It glosses over the pain, skipping straight to the sweetness. Nostalgia doesn’t tell you how much it hurts to lose the only boy you ever loved.
The Chevy jostles over a pothole as the old silo looms in the distance, rust running down its sides like tears.
That’s where we kissed for the first time—me breathless and reckless, him tasting like summer beer and wintergreen.
God, I was young. Too young to understand how permanent first loves become.
I push the memory away, focusing on the road.
The Riggsby farm stretches wide as I turn down the long lane.
Fences cut the property into pastures, with cattle grazing slowly and unbothered.
A hawk circles overhead, its shadow gliding across the ground.
Barns and outbuildings scatter like anchors—some old, leaning with the years, others gleaming with fresh metal.
The air shifts with the scent of cattle, hay, and diesel, pungent enough to sting my nose.
Their farmhouse comes into view at the end of the drive: a sprawling log ranch, its dark stain mellowed by time, two dormers watching from above like eyes that never blink.
The wide porch sprawls across the front, rocking chairs lined in a neat row, waiting.
I used to sit there with Lydia and Jett’s mom, Nora, in the evenings, lemonade sweating down the glass while she told me stories about raising boys in a town too small to hold them.
I can still hear Jett laughing from the yard, his shirt off, shoulders bronzed, hollering for me to join him as he scooped manure.
I swallow hard.
Pulling the Chevy off to the side, the brakes squeak in protest as I slip it into park. My pulse stutters in my throat. Why am I nervous? It’s a casserole delivery from Grams. I’ve been here a million times.
And Jett won’t even be here.
Right?
I grab the dish from the passenger seat and shove open the heavy door with the heel of my boot. The slam echoes across the quiet yard.
“Mark Drummond, what brings you by?”
The voice startles me. I glance up to see Lydia Riggsby already circling the truck, quick and spry despite the years etched into her frame.
Then she gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth. “Oh my goodness. Wren? Is that you?”
Heat rushes to my face. “Hi, Mrs. Riggsby.”
The last time I saw her, my life fit neatly into this town, into Jett, into this farm and the plan we had. Now? I’m sheepish, uncertain of the welcome I deserve.
But she doesn’t scold, doesn't ask where I’ve been, or why I left without goodbyes.
Instead, she folds me into her arms, the casserole dish pressed awkwardly between us.
My body stiffens on instinct—too many months of bracing for the wrong kind of touch—but slowly, I let myself sink into her warmth.
Her palm rubs circles over my back like I’m still seventeen.
When she pulls away, she cradles my cheek in her small, work-worn hand.
“Don’t they have food in LA? Kale isn’t a meal, sweetheart.
You’re far too skinny. But as beautiful as ever.
” Her eyes are kind, lined at the corners from years of smiling, and for a fleeting second, I forget how badly my chest aches.
Then she turns toward the field not far from where we're standing, her voice lifting strong. “Harold! Jett! Look who’s finally home!”
The sound of his name drops like a stone in my stomach.
Movement under the shade of the tractor parked in the driveway catches my attention.
A pair of long legs slides out, standing to his full six-foot-four frame.
Grease-streaked jeans and work boots. Jett Riggsby wipes his palms on a red rag, his grandfather perched above him in the cab.
I look away too fast—too obvious—and nearly lose my grip on the dish when a blur of red and white collides with my legs.
“Storm?”
Her name cracks out of me, barely a whisper.
The dog leaps, paws slamming into my thighs, tail wagging so hard her entire back half wobbles. A watery laugh bursts from my chest as I drop to my knees, and Lydia takes the dish from my hands. My fingers bury into Storm’s thick fur, pressing against the familiar warmth.
For a moment, I’m not here. I’m seventeen again, with headlights cutting through a storm so heavy I couldn't see the river running beside the road.
Jett yells at me to slow down. My hands lock tight on the wheel.
And then—her. A trembling puppy stumbling through the ditch, rain plastering fur to her small frame.
Fate, Jett said when we scooped her into my Civic.
“She missed you.” Lydia’s voice is soft, full of something I can’t name. “We all did.”
I blink too fast, brushing fur from my jeans as I stand, desperate to swallow the lump climbing up my throat. “I missed you, too.”
I nod at the dish still balanced in Lydia’s hands. “Grams sent this. Said you shouldn’t have to cook while you’re not feeling well.”
Her smile deepens. “Tell your grandma thank you, sweetheart. Jett, stop fussing with that tractor and come say hello.” She squeezes my arm before retreating toward the porch, leaving me stranded in the middle of the yard with nowhere to run.
The last person I want to see after last night is Jett.
And still, my eyes seek him out.
He’s wiping his hands, slower now, the rag twisting between his fingers.
His broad chest rises and falls beneath a sweat-damp shirt that clings in all the ways it shouldn’t.
Tattoos run down one arm, the black lines stark against his sun-bronzed skin.
His hat shadows his eyes, but I know them too well.
I can feel the weight of his stare like pressure against my ribs.
Every step he takes is deliberate. Heavy boots. Coiled tension. “Stone” by Whiskey Myers drifts low from the barn, the rough chords flowing out on the breeze. It’s him, this song—hard edges, raw hurt, heavy as the dirt beneath our feet.
“What happened to staying in your lane while I stayed in mine?” His voice is grating, pitched low enough to rattle me.
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
The audacity sparks hot. Fury unfurls sharply beneath my ribs.
“You know what? Fuck this.” I spin on my heel, storming toward the truck. I don’t need his attitude. It wasn’t my choice to come here. And how was I supposed to know he’d be here?
Storm whines at my side, the sound tugging at something inside me I don’t want to acknowledge. My hands fumble with the handle, but before I can wrench it open, his hand clamps down on my arm.
The world tilts.
Terror detonates. My body snaps inward, chest collapsing, breath catching in my throat.
The grip drops instantly. “Shit.” His voice cracks. “Wren, I didn’t mean—
I drag air into my lungs, forcing myself to look at him. He’s frozen, the rag dangling from his fist, hat tipped back, hair mussed. And those eyes. God, those blue eyes. Once my safe place, now burning steel. His expression fractures, fury breaking through.
“I can’t do this.” It’s barely a whisper that falls from my lips.
I climb into the truck, slam the door shut, and rev the engine. Gravel spits like gunfire as I tear out of the drive, the Chevy shuddering beneath me.
The music cuts. The smell of cattle fades slightly. Dust curls up in the mirrors.
And only one word pulses through me, steady as a heartbeat.
Home.