13. Wrenley
THIRTEEN
WRENLEY
T he red stain won’t fucking come out.
My knuckles are raw against the nubby fabric of my favorite cream cardigan, the one that feels like a hug. I scrub harder, the water and stain remover useless against the stubborn crimson bloom.
It’s not even a big stain. Just a small, accusing circle near the collar, a souvenir from me worrying my shoulder raw during another sleepless night. But it’s there, a mar on the perfect softness, a visible imperfection I can’t erase no matter how much force I apply.
Three days. Seventy-two hours of tiptoeing around Saint.
When we do run into each other, polite, excruciatingly brief exchanges about Ivy’s schedule and meals are about all we can conjure up.
He hasn’t mentioned the night of the storm, or what happened by the fire, or the gouges he saw on my shoulder.
He just studies me sometimes when he thinks I don’t notice, even though my thoughts seem to be on him all the damn time .
If it weren’t for Ivy, I’d have taken my suitcase and bolted. But Ivy is a pocketful of sunshine in this perpetual twilight. Her laughter, endless questions, and quests for the strangest art textiles are a welcome distraction. Her small, paint-stained hand in mine is a link to the real world.
Ivy’s enthusiasm for everything is infectious, and despite the tension between me and Saint, I find myself smiling more than I have in months.
She’s been home from school every afternoon this week, our time together filled with paint, glitter, and the occasional foray into the kitchen to scrounge up snacks.
It’s Friday now, and I’m not sure what the weekend will entail. If I’m watching Ivy or if Saint will take over. If I’ll have to see him. If I’ll have to avoid him.
I hold my sweater up to the light. The stain is still there. It always will be. I throw it in the sink and grab a clean chambray shirt to put on instead.
Ivy’s school day is shorter on Fridays, and when I pick her up, she announces that she wants to paint tree trunks in the back garden of their house. I tell her it’s a great idea. The afternoon is already looking up, because Miss Erin isn’t in charge of the pickup line. It’s another teacher today.
Besides, painting trees isn’t the worst way to spend a Friday.
“Look, Miss Wrenley!”
Ivy steps aside to showcase the dripping rainbow on one of the larger oak trees. Her fingers are stained with the same colors, and her nose is streaked with green.
“Beautiful,” I say. “You’re going to have the most artistic garden in all of Falcon Haven.”
She wanders away from the tree and closer to the garden’s border, inspecting a small bush. “Is two weeks a long time? ”
I blink at the subject change, considering I was just wondering what she planned to do to a blackberry bush.
Since I’m not sure where this is going, I hedge, “Kind of. Why?”
“Because that’s how long you’re staying. Right?”
My ribs seem to close in around my heart. “We still have a whole week to go, sweetie.”
Ivy’s brow furrows with a seriousness that makes her look older than five. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Oh, Ivy.”
I crouch down, wiping the green streak from her nose.
“Just stay forever.”
She says it as if it’s the simplest solution in the world, with a small, determined voice.
“I wish I could.”
“Papa can make you stay. He makes everyone do stuff.”
I laugh, though it comes out more like a strangled breath. “He’s very good at that, isn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.” Ivy nods. She leans in, whispering loudly, “He likes you.”
My wheeze turns into a cough.
“Does not,” I manage, my voice a squeak.
“Does too,” she insists. “He looks at you like … like this.”
She scrunches her face into a very serious expression, crossing her arms. I can’t help but laugh.
“That’s his cranky face, Ivy. He looks at everyone like that.”
“Not you,” she says, then skips off to inspect her next tree.
Ivy’s wrong. She has to be. Yet the small, hopeful part of me that still wants to believe in the impossible—that he could care, that I could be enough—is louder than I’m comfortable with.
Ivy finishes another tree, the bright stripes more chaotic than the last. When the sky begins to turn a dusky pink, I tell her it’s time for us to go into the house. She heads toward it without complaint, her bare feet leaving a trail of colorful footprints in the grass.
I follow, and once inside, I wipe her hands and face (and feet) with a damp cloth, the water turning a murky brown in the farmer’s sink.
Ivy chatters about her plans for the weekend, some of which involve convincing her father to let her paint the main house.
“Maybe he’ll let us paint the guesthouse first,” I say in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Maybe!” Ivy chirps. “After dinner, can we paint the doghouse? It’s left over from the people who lived here before. We don’t have a dog, but we could get one. Or a cat. Or a rabbit.”
“Let’s ask your papa about a ferret. He’d love it,” I say. “But first, we need to eat.”
I make her favorite: peanut butter and banana sandwiches with a side of strawberries and tomatoes. We eat them on the floor, Ivy’s idea, with a thick blanket spread in front of the fireplace and a stack of picture books beside us.
She stretches out on her stomach, her chin propped on her hands, and listens to me read, interrupting every few pages to ask why a cookie would need to go to school.
I’m halfway through our fourth book when I notice she’s gone quiet. I glance over, and she’s fast asleep, her dark hair curling over her eyes, her mouth slightly open.
Carefully, I gather her into my arms and carry her up to her room and tuck her in.
The house is quiet, the only sound the creak of the floorboards as I make my way back downstairs. I pause in the kitchen, staring out the window at the guesthouse. The thought of returning to its emptiness tonight makes my stomach twist. I grab my phone from the counter, hesitating.
Ivy’s words— He likes you —are on repeat in my mind.
But they’re quickly drowned out by the memory of Saint’s voice, flat and final: This was a mistake.
I can’t keep doing this to myself. Wishing for something that can never be.
The front door swings open, and Saint’s sudden presence fills the room. I hadn’t heard his car. He stands there, his hair tousled by the wind, but his expression is a void I don’t dare step into.
“Wrenley.”
“Saint.”
The air between us stretches, taut and uncomfortable.
“Ivy’s down,” I say, just to fill the space. “She had a great day.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “I saw the trees.”
“Sorry if I overstepped. I promise the paint is washable, environmentally friendly, biodegradable, all that stuff.”
More silence. Not tense, exactly, but charged. Like the air before a summer storm.
“She wants to paint the doghouse next,” I say, trying to sound light. “I told her we’d have to ask you first.”
“Let her,” Saint says, his voice softer than I expect. “It’ll keep her from painting the walls inside.”
“Smart man,” I reply, tucking my hair behind my ear. My fingers itch to tug. “Well, since you’re home, I’ll get out of your way.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “Are you hungry?”
Saint doesn’t wait for an answer, just crosses to the fridge.
“Saint, you don’t have to?—”
“Sit.” He nods toward the kitchen island.
I hesitate, caught between the urge to flee and the pull of getting another amazing meal from him. But the thought of sitting across from Saint, sharing food, sharing space, is terrifying in equal measure.
I take a deep breath and sink into one of the stools.
“I’ve been experimenting with something new. I’d like your opinion.”
Saint’s back is to me, so it’s impossible to read any body language behind his words.
“Sure.” Then, because I’m a glutton for awkward moments, I say, “I’d hate for you to make a mistake.”
His shoulders stiffen. It’s subtle, a small shift, but I see it.
“Wrenley.” My name is a rough exhale. “I didn’t mean…”
“I know.”
I say it quickly before he can finish even though I’m the one who started it.
Saint moves fast, his attention on the ingredients he pulls from the fridge. The kitchen fills with the smell of fresh herbs and something citrusy. He focuses on a container full of something pink, an avocado, and something orange and shiny.
He’s silent again, but this time it’s not the silence of the past three days. It’s a language I’m beginning to understand. Saint cooks when he can’t say what he wants to say.
I watch, captivated as he cuts the pink flesh—salmon—into thin strips. The sight of his inked hands handling something so delicate makes me want to bite my lip and lean closer. He moves with the same attention to detail he had when he’d bandaged my arm. When he’d kissed me by the fire.
When Saint plates the dish, it’s a work of art. Strips of salmon, cured and almost translucent, curl around themselves, nestled beside thin slices of avocado. They’re arranged like a mosaic, and dotted with tiny orange pearls, like caviar .
It’s bright and beautiful, like a sunrise on a plate.
He slides it in front of me, a small, careful offering.
“I’m trying a new cure,” he says. “Passion fruit. Yuzu. Mango. Thought you might like it.”
I pick up a fork, my heart thudding in my chest. The food is vibrant, unexpected, and I know, deep down, that this is more than just a meal.
The flavors burst in my mouth. Sweet, tangy, a hint of salt. It’s exquisite, and even though I should expect it by now, I can’t help the small sound that escapes me.
Saint’s eyes darken, a flicker of molten fire crossing his face. Muscles in his cheeks pop before he blinks once and says, “Wine?”
“Please,” I say, my pulse a quick, uneven beat.
He pours two glasses, the white wine catching the light and flickering against the gleaming countertop. Saint hands one to me, his fingers grazing mine, sending a familiar, frustrating jolt through my system.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice a little shaky, my heart a lot shaky.