Chapter 50
Wren
I wait until after I’ve dropped Atticus off at day camp before I finally muster up the nerve to walk into Natalie’s shop.
The place is quiet for a Monday morning, her new inventory displayed neatly in the front window, and the smell of some fancy candle burning in the corner. She looks up from behind the counter, visibly surprised—but happy.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, smiling.
I didn’t come here to waste time.
“Why didn’t you tell me you dated Hunter?” I ask, my voice level, even though my pulse is kicking up. “Why didn’t you mention he broke your heart? That it took you years to get over him?”
Her smile falters, but she recovers fast. She shrugs, brushing it off with a casual wave of her hand. “Because that was over a decade ago, Wren. I’m over it. I didn’t see the point in beating a very dead, very old horse.”
“We’ve talked about him a lot,” I press. “Multiple times. Why wouldn’t you at least mention it?”
She crosses her arms, her face unreadable now.
“Because, like I said, it’s in the past. It’s irrelevant.
What would telling you have done? Would it have changed anything?
No. It only would’ve made things weird, and I didn’t want you to think about any of that when you’re . . . enjoying your time with him.”
I say nothing, because she has a point—but that’s not the issue.
“I told you everything else I knew about him,” she adds, her tone sharpening just slightly. “That he’s a heartbreaker. That he leaves women worse off than he found them. I was trying to protect you without injecting myself into it. I was trying to be a good friend.”
I want to believe her. I really do. And maybe she’s right. Maybe dragging up ancient history would’ve just made things messy. But still . . . it gnaws at me. It feels like a lie of omission.
And then I think about the notebook.
I hesitate because I know how it’s going to sound, but if I don’t ask, it’ll drive me crazy.
“Hey,” I say carefully, “this is probably nothing, but . . . the other night, when you were over, did you see a notebook sitting in my office? Small, sunflowers on the cover. The pages are all crinkly.”
Her brows pinch. “No. Why?”
I swallow. “Because it’s missing. I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”
Her eyes narrow, defensive. “What are you implying? That I stole some random notebook off your desk when you weren’t looking?”
I wince, heat flooding my cheeks. “No—I mean, I was just wondering if you saw it, that’s all. I haven’t been able to find it since.”
She scoffs. “Maybe Atticus took it?”
“He knows better. He doesn’t touch my stuff in there.”
She stares at me, frowning. “Okay . . . well . . . who else has been over?”
I hesitate.
And that’s when she asks, “Hunter?”
I pause. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from Hunter since the tractor ride with Atticus. It’s been days. I figured he’s been busy—it’s planting season—but it’s not like him to stay silent this long.
I shake my head. “No . . . I don’t think he’s even been in my office.”
Natalie watches me carefully, like she’s trying to read my mind.
I sigh. “Sorry. That was awkward. And I don’t mean to accuse. It’s just a very important notebook. I need it for the book I’m writing. It’s a big deal that it’s just . . . disappeared.”
She softens, stepping around the counter to hug me. “It’s fine. You’ve been through a lot this last year and you’re going through a lot now. I get it. No hard feelings.”
We hug, we smooth it over, but when I leave, I don’t feel any better.
If anything, I feel worse.
On the drive home, I text Hunter.
Me: Hey, you free tonight?
Normally he replies within minutes. Sometimes seconds.
But hours pass. Evening falls. The text is still sitting there—delivered, not read.
By the time I go to bed, it’s still that way.
He swore he wouldn’t play games.
Guess he lied.
Maybe one of these days I’ll stop falling for all those pretty words that come out of men’s mouths.