Chapter 8 WREN
WREN
The Grand Army Plaza farmers market is already busy by the time Sasha and I get there.
Eight-thirty on a cloudless morning in late May, and the place is full of strollers and dogs and people juggling overfilled tote bags.
The air smells like coffee and cut herbs and something sweet from the bakery tent on the corner.
Maya’s covering the shop. She’s twenty, reliable, and takes her job seriously. Sasha and I have had a standing Saturday plan for days that neither of us has actually managed to keep.
Today we’re keeping it.
Sasha hands me a cup. “Drink. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“I slept fine.”
“You lay in bed. That’s not the same thing.”
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. I haven’t laughed out loud in—I can’t actually remember the last time.
We wander. Sasha pauses at the soap stand while I drift toward the flower vendor at the end of the row—not to buy, just to look.
Tulips in a bucket, sprigs of lavender, bunches of sweet peas tied with twine.
The arrangements are rough, a little lopsided, completely charming.
I love them instantly, crooked stems and all.
Sasha catches up beside me, candle already in hand.
“Okay,” I say. “Tell me everything about the hot date from last night.”
She sighs. “He talked about fantasy football for forty minutes.”
“Please tell me you at least got laid after suffering through that.”
Sasha groans. “Not even. I sat through forty minutes of football statistics for absolutely nothing.”
“Ugh, that blows. Come on, let me buy you one of those obscene cinnamon rolls from the bakery tent. You’ve earned it.”
We keep walking. Honey, bread, a woman selling hand-dyed scarves in colors that would look terrible on everyone. The sun is out. The coffee’s good. My phone is buried in my bag where I’m deliberately not looking at it.
For the first time in two weeks, I exhale.
“Wren.”
I turn.
Jace is standing three feet away with his hands in his pockets, completely out of place in a farmers market and somehow entirely unbothered by it.
I blink. “What are you—”
“Can I talk to you a second?”
Sasha’s eyes go wide. I watch her mouth open, close, open again.
“Sasha, this is Jace. Jace—Sasha. She works with me.” I sound almost normal.
“Good to meet you,” Jace says. Polite. Minimal.
“You too,” Sasha says, staring at him with the energy of a woman witnessing an eclipse.
He turns back to me. “It’ll just be a minute.”
I nod and follow him a few steps away, toward the edge of the square near the tree line where nobody can hear us.
“Tyler came through fifteen minutes ago.”
The ground tilts, just slightly.
“He’s here?”
“He was here. He’s gone now. That’s why I’m telling you.”
I stare at him. “How did you know that?”
He doesn’t answer right away. I shake my head, trying to catch up.
“Did you come here just to tell me that?”
“I came here because he did.”
“You—what?”
“I’ve been watching him. He left his apartment this morning. I followed him.”
I don’t know what to do with any of this. The fact that Tyler was standing somewhere nearby while I was laughing at candles, or the fact that a man I’ve known since I was a teenager spent his Saturday morning following my ex through Brooklyn to make sure I didn’t have to see him.
“Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I’m going to report him.”
“He hasn’t done anything yet that a cop will act on.”
“He follows me. He texts me.”
“He follows you in public places. He texts you from burner numbers. None of that’s enough for a restraining order.”
I swallow, my gaze drifting around the market for a second before landing back on him.
“The second he does anything that is, I’ll have every piece of documentation a prosecutor needs.” His voice drops a little. “Until then, he doesn’t get closer than I let him.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
He watches me for a moment before speaking again.
“I’m parked around the corner. When you’re done here, I’ll drive you home.”
“I’m with Sasha.”
“Then I’ll drive both of you.”
“We’re getting lunch.”
His jaw tightens slightly, like he doesn’t love that answer.
“Fine,” he says after a second. “You still have my number?”
I nod.
“Text me when you’re leaving.”
My stomach flips a little at the fact that it wasn’t really a request.
He looks over my shoulder at Sasha—who is absolutely watching this from forty feet away and no longer pretending not to be—and then back at me.
“Have a good lunch, Wren.”
Then he walks away.
I stand there long enough that Sasha finally comes to me instead of waiting.
“ Okay ,” she says.
“Don’t.”
“Okay but I have to say one thing.”
“You don’t.”
“ Wren .”
“I know.”
“ WREN .”
I laugh. I can’t help it. It comes out breathier than I want it to, and Sasha narrows her eyes at me.
“Oh,” she says. “Oh, we’re going to talk about this at lunch.”
“We really aren’t.”
“We really are.”
* * *
Lunch is two blocks away—a small bagel place that’s been there since before the neighborhood got expensive.
We sit at the counter by the window, and Sasha barely waits until we’ve ordered before looking at me over her coffee.
“Okay,” she says. “The Jace situation. Spill.”
I sigh. “There is no Jace situation.”
She just stares at me.
“He’s Dawson’s best friend,” I admit. “They were in the military together. Spec ops. Now he runs his own security firm.”
Her eyebrows lift immediately. “Oh, so he’s professionally trained to kill people. That’s not hot at all.”
I drop my head back for a second. “God help me.”
Sasha grins. “Well, that explains the built-like-a-brick-shithouse situation.”
“Please stop talking.”
“I’m just saying. You should be climbing that like a trellis.”
I throw a straw wrapper at her. She just smirks over her coffee. “Why are you blushing right now?”
“He’s not for me, Sasha. The man is eleven years older than I am. Not to mention, he’s my brother’s best friend. He was in the military when I was in high school. There are about eight reasons this is a thing that can never happen.”
“I counted zero reasons in that list.”
I take a bite of my bagel and refuse to answer.
Her expression softens. “I’m kidding. Mostly. Are you okay? What did he pull you aside for?”
I hesitate. Then, because I’m tired and she’s my friend and I don’t want to carry this one alone anymore, “Tyler was at the market.”
Her face changes. “Tyler Tyler?”
“Yeah.”
“He was at the market?”
“Jace saw him. He left before I did.”
“Wren.”
“I know.”
“That’s why Jace showed up.”
She looks out the window for a moment. Then back at me. “Okay. You’re telling me now. That counts for something.”
My phone buzzes in my bag.
I pull it out without looking at the screen. I’m expecting Jace—some variation of still good ?—I go cold instead.
Unknown number.
One line.
I saw you today.
I read it once. Then again.
I set the phone face down on the table.
“Wren?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you actually?”
I look at her. At the window. At my own reflection doubled against the sunlight on the glass.
“I will be,” I say.
Sasha and I part ways after lunch. I swing by the shop to check on Maya—she’s got everything handled, of course, so I straighten a bucket of ranunculus that doesn’t need straightening, tell her to lock up, and head home.
I’m halfway home before it hits me.
Shit. I forgot to text Jace.
The streets are quieter than they were earlier. Every sound lands sharp—a car engine two blocks over, footsteps behind me that turn out to be nothing, my own key in my own door.
I double-lock. Then I check the lock. Then I check it again.
I drop my bag on the counter. The necklace box is still inside—has been since I shoved it in there Friday night and didn’t want to think about it. I leave it there.
I lean against the counter trying to figure out whether I’m hungry or just tired of thinking when my phone buzzes. I almost don’t look—I’ve been declining unknown numbers all week and I’m tired of the little jolt that comes with each one.
But I look.
It’s not an unknown number.
It’s Jace.