6. Wrenley
SIX
WRENLEY
T he school pickup line is shorter this time.
I spot Ivy immediately, her mermaid braid slightly looser now, leaning against the brick wall with her head down while all the other kids talk animatedly with each other.
Miss Erin stands nearby, clipboard in hand. She sees the Range Rover and her professional smile thins almost imperceptibly.
No words are exchanged with me this afternoon, just a curt nod as I step out and open the passenger door in preparation for buckling Ivy into her space-age car seat.
“Miss Wrenley!” Ivy looks up and launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my legs. “Guess what? We painted!”
“Awesome! Did you paint a shark?” I smooth her hair back.
She pulls back suddenly. “You have boo-boo stickers like me! ”
“I had a disagreement with a rosebush,” I say, not entirely a lie.
“Did you win?”
“Not really.”
Ivy pats my arm sympathetically. “Bushes are sneaky fighters.”
I bite back a smile. “So, what did you paint?”
“I painted Papa’s restaurant. Miss Erin said it was very detailed.”
I glance at Miss Erin, who offers a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Ivy is quite the artist,” she says.
“Ready to go, Picasso?” I take Ivy’s hand and her backpack.
“Can we get ice cream?” she asks as I buckle her in, the process marginally faster this time.
“Maybe after we check in at home,” I hedge.
Saint’s car and Saint’s child are both my responsibility. The thought of deviating from getting both safely home makes my palms sweat.
“Papa never lets me get ice cream on a school day,” Ivy says matter-of-factly.
“Well, maybe today is special,” I say, catching her eye in the rearview mirror as I slide into the driver’s seat.
Her grin is instantaneous.
We drive toward the edge of town, Ivy chattering about paint colors and playground drama. As we turn onto the quieter road leading to Saint’s property, she points toward a small roadside farm stand. “They have flowers!”
“They do,” I agree, slowing slightly.
“Can we get some? Papa never gets flowers for our house. ”
“We’ll see,” I murmur, glancing at the stand, then back at the road.
Maybe a small bouquet wouldn’t hurt. It might be nice to add a splash of color to the monochrome kitchen.
In that split second of distraction, checking the rearview mirror to see Ivy’s hopeful face, the car ahead of me brakes abruptly.
A squirrel darts across the road. My foot slams on the brake, but it’s too late.
Our heavy SUV connects with the other car’s bumper with a sickening crunch of metal and plastic.
Not hard. Just ... enough. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Whoa!” Ivy gasps from the back.
“Ivy? Are you okay?” I twist around, frantic.
She looks startled, wide-eyed, but nods. “Yeah. What happened?”
“Just a little bump,” I say, my voice shaking.
Oh God. Saint’s car. His precious, insanely expensive car.
The driver of the car ahead, an older woman with tight gray curls, is already getting out, her face pinched with irritation.
I take a deep breath and unbuckle my seat belt. “Stay right here, okay? Don’t move.”
I get out, legs trembling. The damage isn’t catastrophic, but it’s definitely noticeable. The front bumper has a deep scratch and a small dent. Her rear bumper is similarly scraped, with maybe a cracked taillight.
“Look what you did!” the woman accuses, hands on her hips.
“I am so sorry,” I stammer. “You stopped so suddenly...”
“A squirrel ran out! You should pay attention!”
“I know, I’m sorry. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, but my car isn’t!”
We exchange insurance information in an agonizingly slow process.
The woman eyes the Range Rover, then me, her gaze lingering on my pink streak and bandaged arms. I can feel her judgment like a physical weight.
By the time we’re done, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely sign my name on the information slip she demands.
Back in the car, I grip the steering wheel, trying to calm my racing heart.
“Is the car broken?” Ivy asks quietly from the back.
“No, sweetie. Just a little dent. Everyone is okay. That’s what matters.”
But my stomach churns. What will Saint say? He’ll kill me. He’ll fire me. He’ll throw me out of the guesthouse.
At that exact time, my phone decides to buzz, and of course it’s a text from Saint.
The governor’s running behind, which means I am, too. Won’t be home until late. Maybe 2 a.m. Make sure Ivy eats.
Relief washes over me, quickly followed by renewed dread. It buys me time, but the reckoning is only delayed.
“Okay,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice. “Change of plans. How about we go home, make an awesome dinner, and then we talk about flowers tomorrow?”
Ivy, sensing the shift in my mood, just nods solemnly.
Does she know? Does she sense the tidal wave of panic crashing inside me? Of course she does. Kids always know.
Pulling into Saint’s long driveway feels like entering the lion’s den. I park the Range Rover carefully, positioning it so the damaged front end isn’t immediately visible from the main house entrance. A pathetic attempt at concealment, I know. He’ll see it the second he walks outside.
“Home sweet home.” I force a smile as I unbuckle Ivy.
She slides out without comment. Inside, the house feels too big, too quiet.
Making dinner becomes a necessary distraction. I find chicken breasts and pasta, deciding on a simple lemon-herb chicken pasta dish. Ivy pulls her little step stool up to the counter, appointing herself Chief Herb Chopper.
“Careful with the knife,” I instruct, handing her a small, relatively dull paring knife and a bunch of parsley.
“Papa lets me use the big knives,” she says, concentrating fiercely on her task.
“Does he now?” I raise an eyebrow, dicing onions nearby.
“Only when he’s watching super close. He says knife skills are important.”
She meticulously saws through a parsley stem. My hands tremble slightly as I assist her.
“Are you cold, Miss Wrenley?” Ivy peers up at me.
“A little,” I lie.
As the pasta boils and the chicken sizzles, I arrange the cooked components on our plates.
Instead of just piling it on, I swirl the pasta, nestle the sliced chicken beside it, drizzle the sauce artfully, and shower it with Ivy’s painstakingly chopped parsley and lemon zest. Old habits.
“Wow,” Ivy breathes, looking at her plate. “It looks like the pictures in Papa’s cookbooks.”
“Does it?” I try to sound casual, but a warmth spreads through my chest. “Just trying to make it look as good as it tastes.”
We eat at the huge dining table, the two of us feeling small in the grand room.
“Will Papa be mad about the car?” Ivy asks softly, not meeting my eyes.
“I hope not, sweetie. It was an accident. And nobody got hurt.”
My voice sounds thin, unconvincing even to my own ears .
“He doesn’t like accidents,” she whispers. “He yelled real loud at Miss Nora when she scraped the wheel on the curb.”
Great. Just great. My stomach clenches tighter. Scraped wheel versus crunched bumper. I’m doomed.
“Well, hopefully, he’ll understand,” I say, trying to project confidence I don’t feel.
We finish dinner, and the conversation shifts to lighter topics, such as school subjects, favorite colors, and the merits of different dinosaur shapes for sprinkles.
The easy normalcy is a balm, but the dread beneath remains, a low hum under the surface.
Bath time is uneventful, filled with bubbles and splashing. We skip the shark song tonight. As I tuck Ivy into her bed, surrounded by rainbows and stuffed animals, she grabs my hand.
“Don’t leave?” she asks, her blue eyes shining.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her, settling into the rocking chair beside her bed. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
I stay for a long time, watching her peaceful face, the knot in my stomach tightening with every tick of the clock downstairs.
This little girl deserves consistency, deserves someone who doesn’t bring chaos and car accidents into her life. Maybe Miss Erin was right.
Finally, I slip out, leaving her door cracked just enough for the hallway light to spill in.
Downstairs, the house is silent again. I wander into the living room, sinking onto the plush sofa.
My phone screen shows 9:17 p.m. Hours to go. Hours of waiting for the sound of tires on gravel, for the heavy tread of his boots on the porch, for the explosion I know is coming.
I find the familiar spot on my left shoulder, tracing the raised skin through my T-shirt. The urge to scratch, to pull, is almost overwhelming. I curl my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms instead.
Breathe. Just breathe.
To give myself something to do, I clean the kitchen, wiping away stray bits of herbs and cheese, the mundane task a welcome distraction. But once the counters are clean and the dishwasher is humming, there’s nothing left to do but wait.
I get up, pace the room, straightening pillows that don’t need straightening, adjusting picture frames on the mantelpiece. Photos of Ivy, laughing. Photos of Saint and Ivy, with him looking softer and younger.
I pace, check the time, try to read, fail. Anxiety coils tighter and tighter in my stomach. Every creak of the house sounds like Saint returning.
Finally, headlights sweep across the guesthouse window. It’s 2:17 a.m. My breath catches.
I watch from the window as he parks the sleek gray Jaguar he drove this morning next to the Range Rover. He gets out slowly, his weariness evident even from a distance. He runs a hand through his hair, then stops dead, his gaze fixed on the front of the SUV.
Even in the low porch light, I see his posture change. He goes utterly still for a second, then stalks toward the Range Rover, his movements jerky and unnatural.
He drops to a crouch, examining the dent.
I should go out there. I should explain. But fear roots me to the spot.
He straightens abruptly and strides toward the main house, slamming the door open so hard it bangs against the wall.
“Wrenley!” His voice cracks through the house, sharp and jagged .
It’s not anger. It’s something deeper and more intrinsic.
My feet finally move, carrying me out of the living room and into the foyer.
I find him at the bottom of the staircase, his face pale, eyes wild. He hasn’t even taken off his jacket.
“The car,” he grits out, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “What happened to the car?”
“Saint, I?—”
“Where’s Ivy?” He cuts me off, his voice dangerously unsteady. “Is she alright? Did something happen?”
He pushes past me, heading up.
“She’s fine! Saint, she’s asleep. Nothing happened to her.”
I hurry after him.
“It was just a tiny fender bender. Barely a scratch. Everyone is okay.”
He ignores me, taking the stairs two at a time.
Saint bursts into Ivy’s room. I follow, hovering in the doorway, heart pounding.
He goes straight to her bed, his hand hovering over her small sleeping form, checking her breathing.
Saint smooths her hair back from her face, his touch gentle, his own breath coming in ragged gasps.
He sinks onto the edge of her bed, burying his face in his hands for a moment.
The tension radiating off him is suffocating.
When he looks up, his eyes find mine in the dim light filtering from the hallway. The sheer terror in them steals my breath.
It’s then I realize it’s not about the car. It was never about the car.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me, the accusation, the fear, the unprocessed grief of three years ago laid bare in his gaze .
Then he turns back to Ivy, pulling her blanket higher around her shoulders.
The dismissal is absolute.
I back away slowly, retreating down the stairs with the image of his tortured expression seared into my mind. The front door feels miles away.
Back in the suffocating quiet of the guesthouse, the carefully constructed walls I maintain around my own pain crumble.
The shaking starts in my hands, spreading up my arms.
Saint’s reaction, the utter agony ... it triggered that darkness deep inside me.
That familiar, ugly urge claws its way up my throat.
My fingers find my scalp, twisting strands of hair around them, pulling until the sharp sting offers a sweet release.
It’s not enough.
My nails dig into the skin of my shoulder, scraping over the old scars, seeking the sharp, grounding pain that momentarily drowns out the noise in my head.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But the air won’t come, trapped behind the frantic rhythm of my heart.
A silent scream builds inside me, a pressure cooker with no escape valve, except for the one I inflict upon myself.