LARK #2
“You’re hot, Wren,” I say, simple as that.
“I don’t know why you don’t see it, but it’s obvious.
Guys notice. You walk into a room and heads turn—don’t act like they don’t.
But it’s not just that. You’re smart. You’re solid.
You’ve got your shit together. You aren’t someone that people just settle for, okay? ”
She drops her gaze, thumb brushing the worn leather of the saddle horn, like she’s trying to keep her hands busy. Her mouth twitches—could be a smile, could be something else. With Wren, it’s hard to tell.
She gives the smallest shrug. Doesn’t say anything.
I let the silence hang for a beat, not pushing her. Wren isn’t someone you press for answers—she gives them when she’s ready.
Then, quietly, she says, “It’s not that I think I’m not enough. Not exactly.”
I look over, surprised she’s talking about this at all.
“I just…” She sighs, shakes her head like the words are tangled. “I’ve never really been chosen . Not first, anyway.”
She’s not looking at me, but I can hear it in her voice—how much that truth costs her.
“I’ve been the friend. The convenient option. The one they text late when they’re lonely, or after it falls apart with someone else. But no one’s ever looked at me and thought, yeah, it’s her. She’s the one I want, no question.”
My chest aches for her.
“People assume I’ve had this whole string of guys lined up,” she says, voice flat. “Like I’m turning people away left and right. But it’s not like that. It’s never been like that.”
I want to say something, anything, but I can’t find the words that’ll land right.
Wren laughs softly, like she can feel my silence stretching. “I’m not saying it for pity, Lark. I’m just…tired of pretending I don’t notice. Or that I don’t care, I guess.”
She finally looks over at me. Her eyes aren’t sad—they’re just honest.
And I get it now. The way she carries herself, the walls, the calm. It’s not because she doesn’t care. It’s because she’s learned how to hide it.
“One day,” I say, nudging Moose forward a step, “someone’s gonna show up and choose you—without hesitation, without backup plans.
They’ll see the weight you carry, all the things you never say out loud, and they’ll stay anyway.
Because it’s you, Wren. And that’ll be enough.
And when that day comes, you’ll owe me fifty bucks. ”
She lets out a dry laugh, finally meeting my eyes. “Might be holding onto that cash for a while.”
I shrug, a smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. “We’ll see.”
Moose tosses his head like he’s ready to move, already itching to run again. I loosen the reins just enough and glance over. “So, Ringo got anything left in the tank, or did he leave it all back at the creek?”
Wren shifts in her saddle, nudging Ringo forward with a small kick. Her smile breaks easy this time, bright and unguarded. “Hell yeah, he’s got more. He was just pacing himself, waiting for Moose to tire out.”
I raise my brows, about to signal Moose to take off, but Wren’s voice pulls me back.
“Lark?”
I glance over. “Yeah?”
Her voice is steady but quiet, the way people sound when they’re trying not to lose their grip on something they didn’t expect to feel. “Thanks. For…you know. All of it.”
“Of course.” I let Moose inch forward, settling back in the saddle. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to beat your ass back.”
She doesn’t answer—just takes off like the devil’s chasing her.
“Real mature!” I shout, already laughing as Moose bolts after her.
The wind stings. There’s dirt in my teeth. My braid whips across my shoulder like it’s trying to strangle me—and still, this is the best I’ve felt in weeks. Moose is fast, steady under me as we barely pass them, and for a few minutes, everything is movement and breath and nothing else.
I glance back once, just for a second, and Wren’s not far behind.
Her ponytail’s flying behind her like fire, her smile wide—not that closed-off thing she’s been doing when I’m around lately.
This is real. Full force. Unfiltered. Like she’s finally letting go of what’s been clawing at her since I came back.
I turn forward again, still smiling, but something shifts in my chest—like the knot I’ve been carrying around all this time just loosened a little.
We didn’t exactly have the smoothest re-entry, me and her. No one could blame her. Learning you’ve got a twelve-year-old nephew living practically in your backyard? That’s a lot to swallow. Not something you just breeze through.
But today felt different. Lighter. Like a door cracked open just enough to let in some air. She’s still figuring it out, but I can feel it—she’s coming back to me. Piece by piece, I’m starting to recognize her again.
Growing up, I didn’t have siblings. Not even a cousin close by, no one to fight with over bathroom time or steal clothes from.
Just me and Dad, orbiting around each other in our tiny house on the edge of town.
But the Wilding kids—they filled that space like they’d been born to it.
They weren’t just friends; they were mine .
My people. My family, even if we didn’t share blood.
But Wren—Wren was the one of the closest things I had to a sister besides Sage and Miller. Always there, always steady in her own way.
She might look just like Molly, but deep down, she’s Lane through and through.
And Lord have mercy on the soul who ends up with her.
Not in a bad way—more like in a good luck keeping up sort of way.
I just hope whoever it is doesn’t try to dull the fire in her, doesn’t mistake her sharp edges for something that needs smoothing out.
I hope they see it for what it is—strength, a rare kind of honesty—and realize how damn lucky they are to have her.
Hoofbeats drum steady behind me, closing in, and I glance back just as Wren urges Ringo up alongside Moose, her grin wild, hair whipping across her face.
“You better pray that horse of yours has got another gear, grandma!” she yells, laughing like she’s already won.
I glance over, unimpressed. “You cut the damn fence line.”
She grins. “And?”
“And that’s cheating.”
She scoffs. “It’s called efficiency, Lark. Try it sometime.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter, kicking Moose just to keep up. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” she says, already pulling ahead, “still faster than you.”
I flip her off.
She laughs like a maniac. “See you at the finish line, loser!”
Moose surges forward beneath me, and I lean low over the saddle, laughter spilling out of me before I can stop it. The sun’s dipping low now, casting shadows over the trail, dust kicking up in our wake. She’s close, but not close enough.
For the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn’t feel like we’re on opposite sides of some invisible line. We’re just us, the way we used to be—loud, reckless, free. And God, I’ve missed this. Missed her. We’re not all the way there, but the distance doesn’t feel so impossible anymore.
It feels like maybe we’ll find our way back.
*******
By the time we’ve got the horses tacked up, I’m breathing like I just ran a damn marathon. My shirt sticks to my back, sweat dripping down my spine, and my thighs already have that familiar ache I forgot came with riding hard.
Wren, meanwhile, looks like she could’ve just stepped off of a magazine cover—barely flushed, not even winded, brushing a stray piece of hay off her shoulder with a grin like the ride was nothing more than a light jog.
“Remind me to never race you again,” I mutter, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead as we walk up the gravel drive toward the Main House, boots crunching with each step.
“I’ll remind you tomorrow when you’re walking like you’ve been hit by a truck,” Wren says, stretching her arms overhead, joints cracking. “You went soft.”
I scoff. “I had other things going on.”
“Uh-huh.”
Inside, the air conditioning hits my face like a small miracle. I peel off my sweat-soaked flannel and hook it over my arm, already eyeing the fridge for something cold to drink when Hudson barrels into the room, socked feet sliding on the hardwood.
“Mom!” Hudson bursts through the front door just as I’m toeing off my boots, his voice loud enough to echo down the hallway. He’s grinning, out of breath, cheeks flushed with excitement. “You have to come see what me and Grandma built!”
Wren steps in behind me, raising an eyebrow. “Built? That’s either promising or terrifying.”
Hudson barely hears her—he’s already grabbing my hand, tugging me toward the living room like whatever it is can’t wait another second. “Come on, before it falls over.”
I glance at Wren. “Should I be worried?”
“Always.”
Hudson’s practically vibrating with energy as we turn the corner, and then I see it—a massive fort taking up half the living room.
Blankets, couch cushions, chairs dragged from the kitchen, and Molly’s fingerprints all over the organized insanity that this is.
There’s even a handmade sign taped to the front: No Adults Allowed (Besides Grandma).
“Ta-da!” Hudson throws his arms out, clearly proud. “It’s a base. We’ve got snacks inside and a whole escape tunnel behind the couch.”
I blink, taking it all in. “How long did this take? ”
“Hours,” he says, already crawling back inside. “But it was worth it. Grandma says we’re not allowed to take it down until tomorrow.”
Wren whistles low under her breath. “Impressive. Bet it’s more structurally sound than some of the barns out back.”
Molly steps out of the kitchen in her apron, holding a tray piled high with brownies, the ones that are thick and gooey in the middle, edges just crisp enough to hold their shape.
The smell hits instantly—chocolate, sugar, butter—and Hudson lets out a dramatic gasp like she’s just walked in holding gold.
“Yes!” he yells, throwing his fists in the air. “These are my favorite.”