Chapter 58 Wren
Wren
Atticus has his head on my shoulder, half-lidded and yawning, but his mouth keeps going.
A thousand questions spill out, barely a beat between them.
“Why did Nick have to leave so soon? Why was Hunter mad? Where did Nick go? Is Hunter mad at me? Will Hunter come back? Can we ride Sugarplum to his house tomorrow?”
He gets extra chatty when he’s tired, but tonight it’s worse than ever. Seeing two of his favorite people show up one after the other—it’s lit his little brain on fire. Every question breaks my heart more than the one before it because I don’t have any good answers.
I press my cheek to his hair, rocking him gently as I sit on the edge of his bed.
“Hunter’s not mad at you, baby,” I whisper. “I promise.”
“But he looked mad,” Atticus mutters around another yawn.
I debate telling him Hunter is mad at me, not him, but it’s late and his curious mind is too young to comprehend this complicated of a dynamic anyway.
“I promise he’s not mad,” I assure him, leaving it at that.
That seems to satisfy him for the moment, and his eyes droop heavier with every turn of the page in the book I’m reading, my voice as low and slow as I can make it. It still takes twenty minutes, but eventually he’s out cold, soft snores puffing from his lips.
I sit there for a minute, too drained to move, staring at the ceiling. Everything feels heavy, as if my life is collapsing on top of me, slowly, inch by inch.
Seeing Nick earlier—it churned up so much resentment and regret, like the ghosts of every bad choice I’ve ever made lined up on my front lawn.
And then Hunter’s truck barreling up the drive like some goddamn avenger, his face thunderstorm dark, his eyes on me like I was the villain when he was the one who ignored me all week and then listened to an ex-girlfriend who “meant nothing to him.”
It’s all too much, too fast, and I can’t catch my breath from any of it.
Heading to my room, I change into something comfortable and breathable, my day clothes suddenly feeling suffocating. Then I grab my phone and call Reese.
“Baaaaaabe,” she answers. “Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to hear from you. What’s going on?”
I picture her in her favorite fuzzy robe, pausing some Netflix show and putting a bowl of popcorn aside to give me her undivided attention. It’s a heartwarming visual that also sends a painful stab to my chest because it reminds me of how much I miss her.
I begin to say something, but my voice breaks.
“What? What is it?” she asks. “Are you crying?”
“No,” I say, sniffling.
“Don’t lie to me, Wren Jensen.” Her voice is stern. “Spill it. Now. Or I’m coming to your house immediately.”
“I wish you would actually,” I say with a pained laugh. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I’ve been waiting for a formal invitation. You told me how beautiful this property was and how you had a spare room and then . . .”
“I’ve been a little . . . preoccupied.” I dab my nose on the back of my hand. “And you know you don’t need a written invite. You’re welcomed here anytime. You know that.”
“Yeah. I just like teasing you. But seriously, what’s going on? Why are you calling me this time of night, pretending like you’re not crying?”
I perch on the end of my bed and spill everything.
When I’m finished, she tells me she’s coming to visit as soon as possible—that she just has to clear some things off her work schedule. This puts a smile on my face for the first time all night. I head to the bathroom, splash some water on my face while she updates me on her latest work drama.
By the time I finally make it back downstairs, I expect the house to be quiet. I expect the driveway to be empty. But through the front window, I see the silhouette of a man still sitting on my porch swing, the wood creaking faintly under his weight.
He’s still here.
He never left.
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts, my exhaustion giving way to irritation.
He isn’t moving, he’s just staring out at the dark.
Waiting.
For me.
“Reese,” I say. “I have to let you go.”
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, though I don’t quite believe myself.
We hang up and I head outside.
“You have some nerve,” I snap, crossing my arms, my voice sharp. “Showing up here like this. After ignoring me. After lying to me and my son. After breaking promises you swore you’d never break.”
His head turns, his eyes finally finding mine, calm in that infuriating way like nothing I’m saying is news to him.
“I believed you, Hunter,” I push on, my throat tightening. “I actually thought . . . I let myself think you were different. And now I just feel like a fool. Again. Because you’re just like the rest of them.”
“I never lied to you,” he says, grounded in his signature stoic confidence. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls something out. “But you lied to me.”
My heart stutters when I see it—the sunflower notebook.
I snatch it out of his hand without thinking, my fingers clutching it tight like it might disappear again. “You’re the one who stole this?”
“No,” he says evenly. “Atticus gave it to me that day in the tractor. Had it in his backpack.”
I blink, stunned. “Atticus?”
But . . . he knows better. He knows he’s not allowed to take things from my office, let alone this.
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
“He said my name was all over the pages and he thought I should have them.”
My cheeks burn, my skin hot. “They were written to you, but never intended for you to read.”
How do I explain it was a journal and a writing exercise in one? If I hadn’t also used it to outline the plot of my book, I think he’d understand. But the rest of the content is pretty damning.
I look down at the cover, at the worn spine and smudged pages. My hands tremble, just a little. Because it feels like he’s read my soul, like I’ve been stripped bare. My deepest, darkest, most soul-revealing thoughts are in the pages of this book, and he’s read them all.
“I was just trying to get my spark back,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze hardens. “The notes about what we did. About us. You using that for a book? Is that all I was to you? Just some research project?”
I shake my head. “Those notes . . . they’re for me and only me.
I wanted to remember how it felt to be with you so I could convey those feelings onto the page.
I don’t expect you to understand. The mind of a writer is .
. . anyway, those notes represented the feelings I wanted to write about—the raw, honest ones.
But the things we did together? I’d never publish something that personal. I’d never betray you like that.”
He exhales, jaw ticking. “Natalie said you told her I was inspiring you. That you’re writing a farmer romance. Awfully coincidental.”
I cross my arms. I knew it.
Maybe she didn’t steal the notebook, but she attempted to sabotage this anyway.
I’m done with her, but right now, she’s the least of my concerns.
“I am writing a farmer romance, and you have inspired me,” I say, keeping my head high and owning it because I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing but channel my real emotions into a fictional story. “That’s true.”
“And she said you’ve been talking to your ex. After I handled it, why didn’t you tell me he was still bothering you?”
I square my shoulders. “Because you’ve helped me enough and it wasn’t your problem to deal with. I don’t need you to rescue me all the time.”
He huffs, almost a laugh but not quite. “Your letters beg to differ, honey.”
I flinch because it’s true. And because I hate that it’s true.
“You said you don’t play games,” I throw back. “So why’d you ignore me all week? After everything we shared? I thought we were becoming close.”
His eyes stay on mine, unwavering. “Because I needed time. Time to figure out what the hell to say to you. Time to cool off so I could talk to you with a level head.”
“You couldn’t have just told me that?”
He gives me a firm look. “I was too worked up, didn’t want to risk saying something I’d regret later on. I’ve done that in the past. I didn’t want to do that to you.”
I’m both frustrated by his lack of communication and impressed by his restraint. In a world full of reactive men who lash out and shoot off text messages fueled by pure ego, here’s one who waited until he could speak with clarity—because he didn’t want to risk hurting me.
“It was a slap in the face,” I say, “being ignored by you.”
“I was pretty upset,” he says.
We bicker some more, circling the same arguments, the same misunderstandings.
“I just wish you’d—” Before I can finish my sentence, he shuts me up with a kiss—hard, impatient, searing.
I’m breathless when he pulls back.
His hand cups my jaw.
Our stares hold hard, steady, with the kind of intensity akin to baring your soul.
“What are we doing, Wren? I don’t want to keep going rounds with you when at the end of the day we’re arguing over the same thing.
I don’t care who’s wrong or right. I just want to be with you, and I know you feel the same, or you wouldn’t be standing here talking to me.
You wouldn’t be kissing me back like it’s the last time you’ll ever see me again. ”
I start to answer, my voice thick with frustration, but then his mouth is on mine again, swallowing the words before I can spit them out.
“Get in the truck,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak. “We’re done arguing, honey.”
“No,” I say, panting. “I can’t. My son’s inside. I’m not leaving.”
“Who said anything about leaving?” His eyes darken, and his voice dips lower, rougher. I glare at him, chest heaving, about to unleash a fresh round of indignation—but then he walks off, strides to his dusty Silverado, and swings open the rear passenger door. “Get. In. The. Truck.”