Chapter 7
Wren
My head throbs faintly. It’s not the kind of headache that takes you down, but the dull, lingering reminder of what happens when you let the music pull you in as alcohol softens your edges.
And when you let yourself dance with your ex-boyfriend.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heel of my hand to my temple.
Last night plays back in broken pieces—his hand firm at my waist, the heat of his body against mine, the way I forgot to breathe when he spun me around.
One song turned into two, maybe three, the world drifting away, leaving only the two of us.
Almost as if the time apart had never happened, we were thrust back into a memory. Back when pain and broken-heartedness didn’t fuel our every move, dancing under the twinkling stars on the property line where Riggsby Cattle and Drummond Farms met, without a worry in the world.
But when our eyes connected, everything unspoken seeped from his blazing blues.
I couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone reached inside me, squeezing my lungs until my brain and heart caught up.
This was the man who destroyed me. Left me broken and alone at a time when I needed him most. But he just walked away.
Left without a trace.
The pain is what I need to keep at the forefront. I need to remember the nights I cried myself to sleep. I told myself I would forgive him, as long as when he fought for me when he came back. For us. But he never did.
I swallow hard, rolling my shoulders like I can shake the memories loose, but they cling stubbornly, weaving themselves into the corners of my mind as the morning sunshine cascades around me.
Then I force myself to move. There’s no time to be stuck in the past because today’s the day I move into the cottage, and I couldn’t be more excited for the future.
It feels like a breath of fresh air to be settling into a space that’s mine—well, technically, the cottage is owned by the farm, but semantics.
It’s been two weeks since I shoved my life into two oversize suitcases, kissed a future I thought I wanted goodbye, left the demons behind, and pointed myself home.
For two weeks, I've shrugged off the curious whispers, plastered on smiles when asked what went wrong, and felt the lake’s tug with every breath.
And in those two weeks, I've spent almost every waking hour drafting plans for my mom's hobby farm.
I've made list upon list, double and then triple-checked that my planner was up to date with what to plant, and all the events and group trips that are scheduled to visit.
I have no idea how my mom did it. She handled as many day-to-day farm chores she could squeeze in, gave her time to the town whenever she could, and ran this hobby farm, all while making it look easy.
But that was my mom. She was bigger than life and never afraid of hard work.
“Wren!”
Nate’s shout yanks me out of my spiral. I throw my hair into a messy bun and head to the back of the truck, picking up where my mind left off.
He’s standing at the bottom of the porch steps, a large brown box balanced in his hands.
His grin is smug, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt from the hours of labor he already put in before helping me move.
The guest cottage stands ahead, beckoning me forward with the promise of tomorrow and better days.
Its weathered yellow siding glows softly in the April sun, the green metal roof catching the light in patches.
It feels tucked away, but not forgotten, cradled by towering maples that whisper with every gust of wind.
This was the original Drummond farmhouse—before the big one got built. My great-great-grandparents’ first stake in the land that became my family’s everything. There’s something poetic about starting over here, in the same home that started the generations of Drummonds who’ve worked this land.
“Are you planning on helping today?” Nate jokes as I brush past the wildflowers leaning lazily into the path, my fingers brushing over their blooms. The wood creaks beneath my sneakers as I climb up the porch steps.
I shrug, playing off my momentary lapse in time. “I was—uh…supervising.”
He chuckles softly. “Right. Well, mind telling me where this box goes, supervisor?”
I scan the label. “Oh, it’s a new nightstand. We can put the furniture boxes in the living room, and I’ll put everything together later.”
“I can help.”
I shake him off. “It’s fine. I’ll settle in with a bottle of wine and a few Allen wrenches.”
Nate shakes his head as I open the screen door, hinges squealing in protest as he shoulders the box through the doorway.
Inside, the living room opens wide—white shiplap stretches across the ceiling, broken up by exposed beams dark with age, while the wide-plank floors creak with every step.
The air smells faintly of fresh paint and lemon cleaner, layered over the musty sweetness of old wood.
While the cottage isn’t abandoned by any means, it isn’t used often. During the holidays, my mom’s sister would come into town and stay here with her family. And occasionally when a friend needed a place to stay.
Since I’ll be living here for who knows how long, I wanted to put a few of my own touches on the place. Earlier this week, after a few hours of dusting and wiping down walls, I added a fresh coat of creamy white paint.
Mindlessly, I wander deeper into the cottage, passing through the doorway, admiring the details.
The kitchen steals my breath every time.
Off-white cabinets, their paint smoothed over decades of fingerprints, stand beside butcher-block counters worn by years of meals.
Above the stove, copper pans catch the sunlight, glowing like pennies.
“Whoa,” Nate says, stepping into the kitchen. “It’s like an antique store. Mom would’ve loved having you here.”
Suddenly unable to speak, I glance around the room. She would’ve loved seeing the updates to the space.
I trail my fingers over the scarred wood of the circular dining table—the same one that has been here forever, its spindle legs wobbling slightly. The chairs are a stylistic mismatch from years of swapping, though they now share a coat of paint with the cabinets.
Beyond the table, a large picture window overlooks a field of colorful, swaying wildflowers.
I can picture mornings spent drinking coffee here, watching the sunrise over land that’s been shaped by years of hard work, the silence calming and peaceful after so much time listening to LA traffic and noise.
A horn blares twice outside, causing me to grin.
“Dad,” Nate mutters, already moving for the door. “Bet that’s your couch.”
“And hopefully a mattress,” I add, following him out the door. “I already threw out the last one.”
“What? Afraid of sleeping on the same mattress as Aunt Martha and Uncle Jay?” he asks over his shoulder with a sly grin.
I shiver at the image. Martha and Jay are affectionate, very affectionate, no matter the place. I don’t want to think about them getting freaky in the same bedroom I’m staying in.
“You might want to make sure to bleach the dining table… You never know.”
I smack Nate as I jog past him. “You’re disgusting.”
Dad stands at the back of the trailer where a cream slip-covered sofa and mattress wait to be unloaded. His arms are folded across his chest as he watches us with a beaming smile. “It’s like old times.”
Nate nudges my shoulder as he passes by. “She’s still as bossy as ever.”
I scoff. “Me? You’re the one making gross comments.”
“Yep, just like old times,” Dad grumbles, working the ratchet straps.
Gramps climbs out of the passenger seat, a stainless-steel travel mug in his hand.
“Gramps!” I shout as I round the truck to wrap him in a hug. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Figured I’d come help supervise.”
“We both know they could use it.” I chuckle, guiding Gramps toward the path leading to the front porch. We lean against the white railing, watching Nate and Dad work together to free the furniture. With one on each end of the mattress, I jog up the path and hold open the door for them.
They wrestle the mattress through the door. I should’ve ordered one that came in a box rather than one from the local furniture store. These small doorways make moving difficult. Although then, I would’ve missed out on their antics.
“Watch the corner,” Dad grits out as he shoulders the mattress. “You’re going to scratch the fresh paint.”
“How am I going to scratch the walls? It’s a mattress. And you’re the one who cut the corner too short.”
“Just pivot.”
Nate huffs. “Okay, Ross.”
“I’m no Ross Geller. I’m more of a Joey.” Dad turns his attention toward me, running them into the wall again.
“Jesus, old man.”
That does it. I laugh, doubling over at the memory of watching Mom and Dad quote Friends as Nate and I sat with them to watch reruns. My family’s had an obsession with the sitcom forever. Everything in life circles back to Friends.
“Glad you’re entertained,” Nate mutters as his boots stomp up the stairs.
“Which room?” Dad asks as he starts up the steps, with me close behind.
“The one on the left.”
“Good choice, Pumpkin. It has the best view of the farm.”
I couldn’t agree more. From the bedroom window, I can see for miles. Flat farmland, growing crops, machinery working the fields, and way in the distance is the shelter house where the river meets the border of Drummond Farms and Riggsby Cattle.
Once upon a time, that was my favorite place in the entire world. A spot where I imagined my own home built as I watched the sun set over our land.
“You know,” Gramps says as we follow Dad and Nate. “I haven’t been here since the last time Jay and Martha stayed.”
I choke on a laugh as Nate stumbles over a step. Dad curses as he fights to hang on to the mattress. Nate glances over his shoulder and shares a knowing look as we both try to keep it together.