Chapter 7 #2
“Those two always loved staying here.” Gramps continues. “They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.”
A laugh breaks free, and it’s Dad’s turn to let out a curse. The two manage to wrangle the mattress in my room and nearly toss it on the bedframe. No one says anything more about my aunt and uncle’s freaky ways.
Dad presses a kiss to my temple. “It’s good to have you home, kiddo.”
I smile at him. “It’s good to be back.”
He claps Nate on the shoulder. “Let’s grab the sofa.”
While the guys head back outside, I make my way into the kitchen, where a few shopping bags are propped on the kitchen table. Rummaging through, I dig out the new bedding I ordered. My credit card must feel like it’s running a marathon with how much I’ve used it in the past two weeks.
When grunting and grumbling come from the living room, I abandon the bags to check on the commotion.
Dad wipes his brow with the back of his hand, straightening. “That looks like it belongs there. What do you think, pumpkin?”
I sink onto the slip-covered cushions, bouncing lightly as I run my hand over the fabric. “Feels like a fresh start.”
Dad’s gaze lingers on me, soft but searching.
I know he knows there’s more to my reappearance, and I love him even more for not pushing the conversation.
Everyone’s aware that my engagement ended.
When asked why, I explained I missed home, but Elias would never move to a small town.
Our differences started to show and there were some things I couldn’t accept anymore.
I ended the engagement before it ended me.
One day, I’ll tell him, and everyone, everything, but today isn’t that day.
He walks into the kitchen, and I give Nate a confused look, but it’s quickly replaced when Dad comes back into the living room, carrying two dining chairs.
“Didn’t want to risk your white couch.” He lowers himself onto a wooden chair, answering my silent question. Nate takes the other, while Gramps takes the spot opposite me on the couch.
I nod in understanding.
“Feels good having you home, Wren. Feels right. I know there’s more to what brought you back, but I’m glad you’re here.
” He shakes his head, emotion clouding his face.
“I’m proud of you. For stepping up and helping with your mom’s work.
I know it’s a lot, and it can’t be easy, and if you don’t want to do it, just say the word. ”
“No, Dad.” I shake my head, clearing my throat. “I’m happy to help. I want to.”
He claps his hand on my thigh and gives it a slight squeeze. “Okay then, kiddo. Job’s yours.”
Nate tugs at the collar of his shirt, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation.
Gramps doesn’t say too much, always the listener.
All the males in this family are good, hardworking men.
They get sentimental when the time is right, but don’t often show their emotions.
Instead, it’s in their actions. Like checking the wiring in the cottage or helping move someone in. It's how they show their love.
Digging deeper into the sofa, I watch my dad and brother rib each other about a hunting trip they took. When they got home, Dad begged Mom to turn this old cottage into a hunting space—a trophy room and glorified man cave. She denied him, obviously.
Everything feels as if I hadn’t moved away without a trace for ten years. The only person missing is Mom. She’d no doubt be telling her version of the story while sipping on an iced tea with lemon, a beaming smile stretched across her face at the excitement of having her family together.
The moment doesn’t last long. Gramps claps his hands on his thighs and rises from the couch. “We better head back, Mark. The crew doesn’t wait.”
Dad stands from his chair and presses a kiss to my hair. “Don’t work too hard tonight. Let Nate help you.”
“I can handle it, Dad.”
“I know you can, Pumpkin. But you’re home now, you don’t have to do things alone.”
I offer him a watery smile.
“Nate, be nice to your sister.”
He scoffs. “I’m always nice.”
Dad gives him a pointed look before heading for the door. The screen claps shut behind him, his boots crunching down the gravel.
As Dad’s truck and trailer disappear from the driveway, Nate and I are left in the tiny cottage.
With the silence comes a change in energy.
I look across the room to where my brother sits, body leaning over, elbows resting on his knees.
He’s changed over the years, no longer the twenty-one-year-old I left behind.
His shoulders fill out his shirt, the tiniest hint of silver streaks through his brown hair, and his face is more matured.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
His jaw tics. “Depends.”
“On what?”
He lifts his head then, and his eyes bore into mine. I feel like one of his suspects on the other side of an interrogation table.
“You know,” he starts, pausing to scan around the cottage. “I can’t believe you actually moved out here.”
“Why?” I snap defensively. “I’m not too good for the farm.”
Nate raises his hand. “Drop the attitude, Wren. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounded exactly like what you meant.”
“I meant…” He sighs, running a hand over his cropped hair. “Silo Bay isn’t like it used to be. There are more places to live—new apartments on Main and the condos at Sunset Shores are really nice.”
“Still sounds like you’re saying I’m too good for the farm. Did you forget I grew up here?”
“Did you?” Nate bites back. His words feel like a sting across my cheek.
My eyes narrow on him. “Low fucking blow.”
“Is it?” Nate shrugs, sitting up straighter in his chair. “It feels like you moved away and forgot about this town, this farm. Hell, your own family.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“No? When was the last time you were home? Surely, it wasn't when Dad had his health scare.” What health scare? “It definitely wasn’t when Mom died. No, you were nowhere to be found while I was stuck holding everything together. Making funeral arrangements and taking on more roles on the farm because our father was too busy grieving his wife. Or helping run my girlfriend’s son to places because she was here, putting in hours she didn’t have to spare, by helping Grandma feed our farmhands while she was drowning in her own grief of losing her oldest daughter.
It was hell around here, and where were you?
All you could do was send a fucking check and wave your money around.
Money doesn’t fix everything, Wren.” His chest heaves as his words crack at the end.
Tears burn behind my eyes as I fight the urge to blurt, I was there!
But I can’t. He can’t know, because if I tell him that, then I’ll have to tell him everything.
And I’m not ready to open that can of worms. But he wasn’t supposed to know about the check.
The receptionist assured me it’d be anonymous.
Either I shouldn’t have trusted her, or my brother figured it out.
“So forgive me for thinking you’re too good for our farm.”
I’m stuck, frozen, unable to move. For once, I'm speechless. I don’t look at him, but I hear him moving. A strong hand grips my shoulder, and he squeezes gently.
“I’m glad you’re home, Wren. Really, I am.”
I nod at his gentle tone, unable to say anything.
“But I’m allowed to be upset about the last few years.”
Again, I can only nod. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach, learning Dad had a health scare, and I’m stunned at my brother’s candid honesty.
“Call if you need me.”
And with that, he leaves. The ache swells in my chest until I can’t breathe around it.
I stand and watch my brother drive down the gravel path, dirt kicking up in his wake.
The urge to curl into myself is strong, but I’m stronger.
Walking into the kitchen, I grip the counter, swallow down the emotions, and start unpacking.
This house has survived storms, time, and neglect. Maybe I can too.
Hours later, with a few boxes of kitchen items unpacked, my clothes steamed and hung in my closet, there's a silence settling over the cottage. One that's thick enough to feel. Something I'm not ready for.
So I light a candle, the bergamot, juniper, and marine one I found on Main Street, pour a glass of wine, settle myself cross-legged on the floor, and rip open one of the new furniture boxes. Determination sets in as I sip my wine. Too good for this farm, my ass.
I belong here, and I can do this. Although the wood panels scattered across the rug and bags of screws spilling out next to one of those tiny Allen wrenches feel like they're mocking me.
“This is fine,” I mutter, tugging out the instructions. “I’m going to make this furniture my bitch.”
Piece by piece, I build. My phone hums low with music—The Chicks, “Wide Open Spaces.” As I hum along, I realize the lyrics hit harder in this old cottage with my mom’s ghost in the walls.
She always had music playing. Often, I came down here with her to help keep the cottage clean.
I’d sit at the counter while she wiped down walls, singing along to The Chicks and George Strait.
For a moment, it’s like I can hear her voice, soft and low.
The thought clogs my throat. I take another sip of wine and keep going.
Tightening the last screw, I feel a surge of pride at the new nightstand. Now to manhandle this awkward table into my bedroom. I should’ve built the damn thing upstairs, but oh well.
Tucking my phone into my pocket, I grip the nightstand and awkwardly navigate it through the tight cottage. My shoulder bumps into a wall, and I’m grateful I didn’t scrape the paint. I might have a bruise there tomorrow, but it’s worth it.
I manage to get the oversized piece through the stairwell and into my bedroom. With it in place, I reach for the small box I packed from my childhood bedroom. Rummaging through, my fingers graze leather. Mom’s journal.
My hands tremble as I flip it open to a random page. The entry stares back at me, dated a year ago. Before I can talk myself out of it, I bury myself deeper under my thick blanket, gripping the journal like a life preserver as I start reading.
Wait…Samuel’s reasons? What could the reason possibly be as to why his son left me with bags packed as I waited for him to pick me up so we could start our future together?
We signed a lease; we were moving in together.
But that never happened. Instead, I was told by the landlord the first six months of our rent had been paid in full.
I didn’t want Jett’s guilt money, but I wasn’t stupid either.
Shaking my head from the brink of spiraling, my fingers fidget with my necklace chain as I turn back to reading.
Tears trail down my face, hot and unrelenting. A drop slips onto the page, blurring the ink. I clutch the journal to my chest, not willing to risk any more tears smearing her words. My whole body shakes like it might come apart as years of guilt claw through my chest.
I’ve tried to bury my grief beneath productivity, hoping the to-do lists for Hannah’s Haven would keep the pain away. But her words unravel me. Despite the pain of missing me, she was proud of me.
Everything’s so confusing. I'm proud of myself for moving away, for finding a new purpose with a broken heart. But I’m terrified of the silence, of being alone with my thoughts.
And terrified that last night with Jett unlocked a world I thought was barricaded shut.
With my emotions scattered all over the place, there’s one thing I know for sure.
I’m done letting my mom down. It’s time to stop hiding and start living.