Wren Sneak Peek
Chapter 1—Wren Carlisle
W hat the hell is that noise?
Peeling my eyes open, they burn as they adjust to the darkness in the room. Glancing toward my nightstand, I quickly realize the obnoxious noise is coming from my phone, which is lit up and vibrating. My gaze flits to the clock sitting behind it.
One twenty-seven. No wonder my eyes are burning. I just went to sleep like two hours ago. Who the hell is calling me this late?
I grab the phone, concern washing over me when I see the name.
Nelly.
Answering, I bring it to my ear. “Nell, is everything okay?”
“Wren?” My name comes out broken, a sob hiccupping into the speaker .
“I’m here,” I promise. “What’s the matter, Nell?”
All I can hear are her quiet cries and heavy breathing for a moment. My heart is racing as I climb out of bed, turning on the lamp and taking my duffle bag out of the closet. I don’t even know what’s going on, but my gut is telling me it’s bad.
“Nelly, what is going on?”
“Can you come get me?” she finally asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Are you at home?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
Sniffling echoes in my ear as I stuff clothes into the bag, heading to the bathroom to pack my toiletries. “I’m at a motel off the highway, right outside of Chicago.”
“Okay, listen to me, babe,” I tell her, stopping my packing for a moment to get this out. “I will be there as soon as I can. I will book a flight as soon as I’m off the phone with you, but it’ll probably be hours before I get there. Send me the address of the motel, and I’ll send you my flight info. Okay?”
“Okay,” she mirrors back to me.
“Are you safe?” I ask on bated breath.
“I think so,” she whispers. “I don’t think there’s a way for him to track me.”
“Are you hurt?” When she doesn’t answer, I push. “Nell, answer me.”
“I am, but not enough to go to the hospital. I’ll be okay here. Just please, hurry.”
It feels like the air’s been knocked out of me. A part of me always knew this day was coming, but I’d hoped I was wrong. My hand comes up, rubbing the growing ache in my chest as I sit on the edge of the bed to keep my legs from giving out on me. I’ve never hated the distance between us more than I do in this moment. Being so far away from her when she needs me, it’s crushing.
“Okay, uh…” The words come out broken. I clear my throat and try again, hoping they’re stronger this time. She needs me strong right now. “Don’t worry, Nelly. I’m coming.”
“Thank you, Wren.” Her voice is laced with thick emotion, and it’s a knife to the chest. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I really a-appreciate it.”
“Nell, I’d do anything for you,” I admit truthfully. “I’m glad you called. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
She sniffles. “Yeah, okay.”
We hang up, and I finish packing. Once that’s done, I sit at my desk, pulling up the airline’s website. Lucking out, I’m able to snag a flight that leaves in two hours.
The airport isn’t far from my house, and at this time of night, there shouldn’t be much traffic, so I decide to call an Uber instead of driving and parking there. Who knows how long I’ll be gone, and I’d rather not worry about it being stuck in the lot.
I don’t know what happened, but it has to be bad if she called me after four in the morning her time.
Penelope Boswell—formally Monroe—or Nelly , as only I call her, is my best friend of close to twenty years. We met in middle school in San Diego when her family moved here. She was a Navy brat who was newly stationed there. She was quiet and awkward and shy, while I was loud and friendly and bubbly. It was a match made in friend heaven; we hit it off immediately. Being a fellow Navy kid, I knew what it was like to move mid-year and not know anyone .
She also ended up living three houses down from me, across the street. It was all military housing, that neighborhood. We would walk to and from school together, eat dinner at one another’s houses, and when I say we were inseparable, I mean we were inseparable.
After we graduated high school, we went to San Diego State University together until she met and married her husband, Anthony Boswell. He’s in the Navy too and got stationed in Illinois about five years ago. Our friendship has been long distance and a little strained ever since. To be honest, I’ve never liked the guy. He’s an arrogant asshole who’s always spoken down to her, and I’ve thought she deserves better since they got married when we were twenty-two.
I’ve suspected he’s been at the very least emotionally abusive to her for a few years, but I’ve never had any proof. Any time I’ve broached the topic, she’d shut it down and berate me for even bringing it up. So, now here I am, flying across the country in the middle of the night to save her from the very man I warned her about.
Just under six hours later, behind the wheel of my new rental car, I pull up outside the run-down motel she’s staying at. Sending her a text letting her know I’m here, I flip through my Spotify, finding a song I want to listen to while I wait for her to come out. If You’re Gonna Lie by the queen herself, Fletcher, comes on, but as soon as it starts playing, I spot Nelly. Her long blonde hair is tied up into a bun on the top of her head, and she’s got on large sunglasses and an oversized hoodie. The closer she gets to the car, the more I notice… Like the busted-up lip and the faint, barely-there marks around her neck. My throat feels thick as she opens the back passenger door, tossing her bag inside before climbing in the front. Peach aroma fills the car; a scent I’ve associated with Nell for as long as I can remember.
Nelly keeps her glasses on and doesn’t look at me, instead staring down at her hands in her lap. She looks exhausted and dejected, and I want nothing more than to pull her into me for a hug, but I don’t want to overwhelm her, so I don’t do that.
“What happened?” I ask gently, skipping the hello altogether.
Despite spending most of her life in southern California, Nelly has always been pale. If she ever did manage to get a tan, it was only after she burned first. Because of her creamy complexion, it’s easy to spot when she’s crying, even with the huge bug-eye sunglasses covering half her cheeks. Her face reddens as she fiddles with her fingers, teeth chomping down on her bottom lip.
She doesn’t say anything for several long moments. So long, I wonder if she’ll ever answer the question at all. But then, after a heavy sigh, she shoves her glasses up until they’re sitting on her head, peering over at me with wet, puffy eyes. My breath hitches and I have to fight to not outwardly react.
Her left eye is swollen and bruised. It’s not so bad that she can’t open it, but it still looks painful. She also has a half inch cut under her right eye, that I wonder how she got. And then, of course, the split lip and the faint fingerprints around her throat.
“He did this to you?” The words come out hushed, thick emotion lacing every single one. Pressure builds behind my eyes as they well up.
Carefully, she wipes her face. “Can we grab some coffee first, and then I can tell you everything? Please.”