Chapter 46 Wren
Wren
I planted sunflowers near the river this morning.
Not for me, but for Ben—technically for Hunter.
I wanted him to have a place to go to “be” with Ben, a memorial of sorts.
I thought maybe this might be a way to quietly heal a part of Hunter.
I think about the way his eyes turned glassy and his voice broke as he told me the story.
It was as if he was still there, the moment fresh in his memory.
Having to stay off the land for decades after Rich Sanders bought it must’ve been difficult for him, but I want him to know he’s welcome here anytime he wants.
I don’t quite have a green thumb yet, but I thought, too, this might resonate with Hunter because the soil, the sun, the seasons—that’s his language.
Sunflowers seemed like the obvious choice, not just because they’re stubborn and resilient but because they’re always turning their faces to the sun no matter how heavy their heads get.
My grandmother once told me sunflowers symbolize loyalty, adoration, and longevity—things, I imagine, that defined the bond between Hunter and his brother.
When these eventually grow and bloom, Hunter will have a place to visit that doesn’t require words, apologies, or explanations.
A place that isn’t sterile or grave-like but living, breathing, and growing.
Something beautiful rising in a place where everything went dark.
A reminder that life always goes on, even in places where death once stood.
My hope is that with enough time, this will be a place where Hunter can come to unburden himself, to forgive himself—because I know he still blames himself for what happened, even if he didn’t say it.
The dirt is still under my fingernails, my knees a little sore from kneeling too long, but I don’t care.
It’ll take months for the flowers to grow—maybe longer if the soil doesn’t cooperate—but I love the symbolism of it.
A stretch of tall, unapologetically bright flowers in a place that’s carried nothing but darkness and grief for too long.
There’s a weeping willow nearby, its branches sweeping low like they’re mourning something too.
But I think the sunflowers will brighten the space.
I’ve already decided I’ll add some colorful wildflowers—blues, pinks, purples.
When it all fills in, it’ll be like sunshine surrounded by the soft chaos of color.
I’m going to order a bench too. Something solid and weatherproof, something to last all year round because grief knows no season.
Hunter’s done so much for me and for Atticus. He’s shown up again and again, never asking for anything in return. I want to give him something back. Something meaningful.
Back inside, I’m folding Atticus’s laundry in his room, the repetitive task soothing in a way I didn’t expect. But even as I match his tiny socks and stack his folded shirts, my mind keeps circling one thing like a vulture: Natalie.
Why didn’t she tell me about Hunter? About their history? Especially if he broke her heart like he said. If it took her years to get over him, why wouldn’t she have mentioned it? We’ve talked about Hunter plenty of times. It would’ve been easy to slip it into conversation, even casually.
Unless she didn’t want me to know.
Unless she’s still not over him.
Either way, it’s bizarre, and I don’t like how it sits in my gut.
I think of Reese—not my oldest friend, but my truest, bluest friend. She’d have never kept something like this from me.
I finish putting the laundry away, still thinking about it, still chewing on the discomfort.
Afterward, I head to my office, ready to knock out another chapter or two while the house is still quiet.
But when I start digging through my desk for my notes, the sunflower notebook—the one I’ve been writing in every night, the one where I’ve scribbled plot ideas and sensory details from every night with Hunter—is gone.
I stop in my tracks, jerking open every drawer twice before flipping through stacks of paper. Next I sprint upstairs to check my nightstand and dresser drawers. I check every inch of the kitchen. Every shelf in the living room. The entry table. The laundry room.
Nothing.
My pulse hammers, stomach dropping. I’ve had that notebook by my side constantly.
If that gets into the wrong hands—Hunter’s hands—I’ll be humiliated.
My most intimate thoughts about him, my hopes, daydreams, fears, insecurities, and hard truths are all laid out bare on those pages.
Unpolished. Unfiltered. Raw. Vulnerable.
I imagine him poring over those writings and walking away with the notion that I’m some lovesick romance writer with a schoolgirl crush.
Now he thinks I’m sexy, independent, intriguing.
If he reads my writings? I’ll come across as someone who’s so desperate for love she started idealizing a complete stranger from the very first meeting.
I’ll lose him.
I’ll lose him for good.
And if Natalie finds it? All those personal details about the things Hunter and I have done .
. . will be public fodder. He’s a private man, and I can think of no bigger invasion of that privacy.
Not to mention, I can only imagine Natalie spinning it like I’m using him for literal inspiration when I’m only drawing inspiration from the way he makes me feel.
Panic claws up my throat. I can’t breathe. I tear the house apart, room by room, checking and rechecking. Under beds, behind cushions, in the laundry basket. I even check the car, despite knowing I haven’t taken it out of the house.
Still nothing.
I rack my brain. The only people who’ve been here in the last few days?
Natalie and Hunter.
But Hunter didn’t go near my office. He was with me the whole time he was here, barely let me out of his sight. Natalie, though . . . she took a couple of bathroom breaks. We even hung out in my office for a few minutes as she paged through my paperbacks in search of one to take home.
I don’t want to believe she’d do something like that. But who else would have? Who else could have?
I sit at my desk, staring at the empty spot where my notebook should be, a hollow ache opening in my chest.
Regardless of who has that notebook—Hunter or Natalie—no good could possibly come of this.