Chapter 13
Wren
Last night’s storm had littered the ground with branches and filled the gutters with trickling water and leaves.
I ran along the hiking trail closest to the house, kicking up mud with my heels.
It wound through dense forest, marked by a weathered sign at the entrance.
The path narrowed as it ascended higher, the spiced scent of pine and the faint sweetness of aspen leaves filling the air.
I veered farther, passing an old heritage-listed house, to make the shortcut over the bridge near a stream.
The kids in Everston told stories of the house being haunted, but the only haunting thing about it was that it used to be somebody’s home and now it wasn’t.
The ground was still damp and soft beneath my feet as the sunlight played tag with me through the trees, darting in and out between the branches.
There were two things that made me feel free: writing and running.
When I was writing, I felt so lost in the words, I almost forgot to breathe.
When I was running, I bounded steps ahead of my own thoughts, praying that they wouldn’t catch me.
When I came up for air, it was like starting my life over anew; like being reborn again, every single time.
Back in New York, running was something I did nearly every day.
Lucy used to tease me about how I’d lace up my shoes no matter the weather—the bitter cold of January or the sweltering heat of July, neither deterred me.
Are you going to run down the aisle? she would joke, her eyes glistening.
But she knew running was where I found myself, where I felt alive.
When Lucy died, I stopped running. I stopped writing.
I stopped being the person I used to be and doing the things I loved to do.
It was as if every part of me that wasn’t directly tied to surviving just…
disappeared. I told myself it didn’t matter, that nothing mattered without her.
But now, as my feet hit the ground beneath me, and the wind brushed against my skin, I felt something stirring, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Lucy’s death still hurt, but not in the way it did a year ago, or five months ago, or even three weeks ago; I was making room for it, and in the newfound space I had created, the only person I could think about was Olivia.
I liked her. That much was undeniable. Her laugh, the way she looked at me like I was someone worth seeing, someone worth knowing—it had been forever since I felt seen like that.
And that kiss. It had left me breathless, weightless, like for the first time in so long my world wasn’t just consumed with grief.
That there could be a spark of something.
But that’s exactly what scared me. My breath hitched as I pushed harder, running faster than I probably should.
The memory of the kiss flashed through my mind, as though the thrill of it was running alongside me; but so, too, was an intense guilt.
I wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Right?
The trail curved ahead, the tree line beginning to thin, as the sunlight broke through the gaps.
I slowed down, my lungs burning, but it wasn’t just the run taking the breath from my lungs—it was Lucy.
I stopped, hands on my knees, as I tried to catch my breath.
My heart was pounding. How could I kiss someone else and feel good?
How could I let myself be in that moment with Olivia, knowing how much I still missed Lucy?
It felt like I had betrayed both of them.
The ache in my chest tightened, and I straightened, staring out at the trees.
The colors of fall surrounded me, bright and alive.
The fiery reds of maple leaves, the golden yellows of birch, and the deep, burnt oranges of oak—each tree a promise of renewal, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my chest. Why did moving forward, with all its vibrancy and promise, feel so impossibly complicated?
I started walking, my steps slower, more deliberate.
The truth was, kissing Olivia had made me feel alive again, the way trees breathe again after winter.
I didn’t want to forget Lucy, or the love we shared.
But I also didn’t want to not know what it would be like to kiss Olivia again.
I leaned against a tree, my breath steadying, the rough bark pressing into my palms as I absorbed its quiet, grounding pulse.
Maybe it didn’t have to be one or the other.
When I arrived home, my clothes were splattered in mud. They seemed to be covered in all sorts of materials these days: sawdust, paint, mud, opossum poop (not ideal). I had a feeling there would be more sawdust coming my way today, as repairing the wooden porch railings was top of my to-do list.
Railings were designed to keep people safe.
To support almost-falls and trips and when climbing or descending stairs.
But I wondered if they were also supposed to act as arms to this house, wrapping all around to keep the soul of it intact.
I had dismantled the porch railing and installed a new one.
Fresh pine from town. Half the morning was gone, and I was in the middle of painting when I realized I’d missed one of the panels for the railing, and there was a gap between the end paling and the banister.
I grumbled to myself, kicking the door slightly as I stomped into the kitchen to find the measuring tape.
I would have to cut a new piece of wood and attach it before finishing the painting.
Lucy was suddenly standing in the doorway and it startled me, the measuring tape almost dropping from my fingers.
“The new railing looks great,” she said.
“It’s not finished,” I replied, and my voice was harsh, almost accusatory.
“Angry about it?”
“Yes,” I responded curtly. “It’s very frustrating.”
“You were always the calm one,” she said. “Nothing seemed to faze you. If there was a problem, it could be handled.”
“I don’t understand your point.”
“Why are you angry at the railing?”
“I’m not angry at the railing,” I said. “I’m angry that I’m still imagining talking to my dead fiancée.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” I snapped. “I have work to do.”
“Why can’t you just admit who you’re really angry at?” Lucy asked.
I stared at her, my eyes brimming with hot, angry tears.
“You!” I exclaimed. “I am so angry with you!” I slammed the measuring tape down on the counter, the cabinets rattling. “You left me,” I said, the ache in my chest pounding so hard I felt it might burst through my skin. “You left me, Lucy.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“And I know you didn’t mean to. Of course you didn’t want to die. But in some fucked-up way, you got off easy. You weren’t left behind. I was. I was left behind, to try and live in this world without you.”
“But you are,” she murmured. “You are living.”
“But I feel so guilty about it!”
Lucy looked at the kitchen. “Yet you’ve managed to start making something of this place, Bee,” she said.
“There’s still so much to do: painting, repairing cracks, replacing the carpet upstairs, updating the countertops, and swapping out windows. It’s ongoing.”
“Grieving too.”
I looked away from her, at the light filtering in through the kitchen. It glossed over all the new cabinets I had installed.
“I like her,” Lucy said. “Olivia, I really like her.”
I huffed in response. “Well, she asks lots of questions.”
A very clumsy attempt at deflection.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Lucy replied. “You love asking questions, you love answering questions, you love pondering and writing and storytelling, and Olivia likes all those things too. Ever think that perhaps she could help you write again?”
I sucked in all the air around me.
“I am not writing about anyone ever again. Look at where that got me.”
“I didn’t stop you from writing, you stopped yourself.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but I suddenly heard the front gate creek, and saw Henry walking up the driveway. I’d laid new pebbles, and the crunch of his shoes echoed throughout the garden and into the house.
I rushed to the door, in an attempt to appear as though I had been busily working on the railings.
“I thought you’d show up eventually,” I called to him, feigning nonchalance.
“Well, Gill is rather impressed with the work you’re doing.” Henry smiled, reaching the front porch. “I thought I’d come see for myself.”
I looked up at the house. “I no sooner fix one thing than something else pops up.”
He laughed.
“Do you want some lemonade?” I asked.
“I’d love some,” he replied. “Who were you talking to?”
My breath hitched—I felt caught out. “When?”
“Just before, I thought I heard you talking to someone?”
I knew that I could admit to Henry that I had been talking to Lucy.
He had admitted that it had taken some time for him to stop imagining his brother walking in through the door.
But today was one of those days when I didn’t feel like admitting to myself that, after a year, I was still having visions of my dead fiancée.
“Oh, just the birds,” I replied. “It helps me to concentrate on the housework.”
He looked at me as though he didn’t quite believe me, but he didn’t press any further.
I walked into the kitchen, fetched two glasses of lemonade, and brought them back outside, handing one to Henry.
“So.” He grinned broadly. “What did you think?”
“I would replace the entire porch,” I replied, “but it might be too costly.”
Henry squinted at me through the sun rays. “I don’t mean the porch, Wren, I mean the meeting last Tuesday; everyone seems really excited by the poetry evening.”
“Oh,” I replied. “Yes, well, they do. Julian has already started, which is encouraging.”
“And I bet Emerson will write a great piece.” He nodded.