Chapter 18
Wren
The pounding in my head is the first thing I notice.
It feels like the Energizer Bunny decided to bang the cymbals on repeat.
The ache is blinding behind my eyes as I try to blink them open.
A groan passes my lips as I bury my face deeper into the pillow, trying to escape the sunlight pouring in through the cracked blinds.
Leather, vanilla, and mint flood my senses.
My pulse flutters at the delicious concoction.
I wiggle my body deeper into the soft sheets as my fingers grip the mattress beneath the pillow, bringing that distinct smell even closer.
Wait…what’s this smell doing here?
Memories of last night hit me all at once. Stepping foot inside The Spillway, sliding Russ a handful of bills with the promise of no questions, controlling the jukebox and dancing like a queen on the dance floor before passing out in a booth.
“Shit!” I roll over and come face-to-face with a ball of red-and-white fluff. “Storm?”
The old girl nuzzles closer to me, sniffing my face before licking my cheek. My nose wrinkles at her slobbery good morning before jolting into a sitting position. I groan at the movement, gripping my stomach and rubbing the side of my head as I blink away the haze.
Greenish-gray panels line the walls, with dark walnut furniture outlining the room.
I shake my head at the deer mount hanging in the corner before my eyes land on a beautiful drawing of a barn.
I’d recognize the Riggsby Cattle headquarters anywhere.
I’m surprised Jett has this photo tucked away in his bedroom and not hanging in his living room.
“Oh, God,” I groan again as my mind brings up Jett.
This is clearly his house. But how did I get here?
More flashes of last night flicker through my mind.
Staring at a mountain of a man, taking his pool stick and hitting a ball into the corner pocket.
Pirouetting toward the bar and nearly falling on my ass.
A hand rubbing my back, vibrant cornflower-blue eyes, the navy outline darker as he looked at me with concern.
Blue eyes. Why do blue eyes stand out so much? Blue eyes.
“She would’ve had your eyes.”
I gasp as bile rises up my throat. Flinging the covers off my body, I barely notice my bare legs as I race to the bathroom, luckily attached to the bedroom. Flinging the lid open, I drop to my knees and dry heave, begging the alcohol to leave my system.
Retching with nothing leaving my stomach, I give up and wipe the slobber with the back of my hand.
Standing at the sink, I refuse to look at myself in the mirror.
My tongue feels like it’s covered in fuzz as I search for a new toothbrush, hitting the jackpot in one of the drawers.
Once my mouth feels fresh and my face rinsed with cold water, I follow the smell of bacon.
Storm is hot on my heels as I step into the hallway.
The stairs creak beneath my feet as I take in the older home.
The original woodwork is in remarkable condition.
Newer brown plank flooring complements the trim almost like they were meant to be.
Photos hang on the wall mixed with more artwork, each one delicately drawn in charcoal, and I wonder who the incredible artist is, because there’s no way these are mass-produced.
A large TV hangs above a fireplace, with framed photos lining the wood-beam mantle.
I want to snoop. Every cell in my body wants to go over his home inch by inch as I open drawers, peek at the books scattered in piles, and look at the photos he deemed important enough to frame.
I want to learn about the man he is today, no longer the boy from my childhood.
But I refrain. Cars driving by and clattering from the kitchen draw my attention.
It’s hard to imagine Jett living in town. He spent so much time on his farm, either at his grandparents’ house or his childhood home. He loved being outside, sitting in the rocking chairs, being near the animals and playing fetch with Storm. Town felt like a cage to him. At least it used to.
Now, this is where his home is, when I always pictured him building a cabin on his family’s land.
Getting up at dawn, drinking his coffee as he watched the sun rise.
Coming home after a long day of pouring his blood and sweat back into the land that made him a home, a meal cooked by his wife as his kids greet him with open arms. Once dinner was finished, he’d take the kids out to the tree swing where he’d push them as their giggles filled the country air, his wife watching from her rocking chair.
Jett Riggsby wasn't made to be trapped inside the city limits of Silo Bay. He was born for country air and no boundaries.
Stepping through the doorway, I come to a halt as my lips part. Standing at the stove, flipping bacon, is Jett. Only, it’s not the Jett from the past. No, this man looks like he should be in a Marvel superhero movie. Chris Hemsworth who?
At six-four, Jett isn't a small man. Corded muscles trail across his broad, sun-kissed skin as if he was chiseled from stone.
I bite my bottom lip as I trail my eyes over the intricate ink designs to his tapered waist. A black band hugs his hips, peeking out from the low-hung gray sweatpants showcasing his round ass. The man is delicious.
Pulling my gaze from where I’m gawking, I take in his kitchen.
It’s quaint, but it suits him. Charcoal-gray cabinets and butcher-block counters contrast against the cream wall color.
A four-person farmhouse table sits in the middle of the room.
My eyes land on the to-go cups from Shoreline Sips and my stomach growls.
Jett’s head turns over his shoulder. I startle at how his vibrant eyes are shadowed in darkness. I’m the reason for his pain, and it kills me.
“Hi—hi,” I stammer, wringing my hands together in front of me.
His jaw clenches, and I worry about his dental bill. His head tips toward one of the cardboard cups.
“You didn’t have to get drinks…” Although, I’m grateful for the caffeine. My head feels like a jackhammer is destroying a concrete pad the size of Texas.
“It’s fine.” He flips the bacon. “There’s a matcha latte—”
“How’d you know?” I interrupt, shocked he knew my latte order.
His back stiffens. “I didn’t. I asked Julia for your usual and she handed me some green drink. When I told her it was a vanilla latte, she corrected me and said you order this every day. I figured, what the hell do I know, and got you both. Drink whichever.”
My heart cracks at the roughness in his voice.
“Thank you,” I whisper, moving around the table and grabbing both. “Did you get yourself one?”
He nods, sliding over until I can see the Shoreline Sips logo on the cup. An awkward silence falls over the room. I turn my attention to Storm, who’s eating her kibble in the corner by a door. Pulling out a chair, I sit. The cool wood against my bare thigh reminds me I’m not wearing any pants.
“Where’s my dress?” My question comes out harshly.
Sinewy muscles cord up his forearms as he grips the counter. “It reeked of whiskey. Figured you didn’t want to sleep in it. I washed it, and it’s hanging in the laundry room.” He points toward a doorway.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “You didn’t have to wash it.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I bring the latte to my lips and take my first sip of vanilla in years.
I haven’t had it since I moved to college.
The velvety espresso and creamy milk hit my tongue before the sweet vanilla evokes a feeling of coziness and comfort.
Lord knows, I need the comfort to make it through this conversation.
Storm finishes her breakfast and trots her way over to me before plopping down at my feet. Her warm fur covers my bare feet as I reach down and scratch behind her ear.
Jett shuts off the burner, scoops the bacon onto a paper towel-lined plate, and sets the skillet aside.
His eyes find mine as he walks to the table, placing the platter between us and sitting opposite me.
My eyes flick over his bare chest to the black swirling designs.
A cross with a date is placed over his heart, with dog tags wrapping around the top before dangling as if they’re blowing in the breeze.
A soldier carrying a waving flag with a soaring eagle is on his right side.
More black designs fill the gaps, making the piece look like one tattoo over his chiseled chest. I squint as I make out the time on the pocket watch. 9:04.
He clears his throat, snapping my attention to him before I have a chance to ask what the time is symbolic of. Not that I even have the right to ask.
“How are you feeling?”
I wince as he reaches for a piece of bacon before taking a bite of half of it. My stomach grumbles at the sight—and smell.
“Eat.”
I reach for a piece and take a small bite as he rolls his eyes.
I’ve never been one to shy away from food, especially in front of him.
Well, I never used to be that way. Elias would glare at me whenever I ordered anything heavy at a restaurant.
He could order a juicy steak, but God forbid I ordered one too.
It got to the point he’d order for me. She’ll have a salad.
Or she’ll have the chicken with a small portion of pasta.
Like, I think the fuck not. Give me a quarter-pound burger stacked with all the fixings or a juicy steak cooked medium.
Shoveling the rest of the bacon into my mouth, we sit in silence while I chew. Do I over-exaggerate how long I chew to avoid this conversation? I guess we’ll never know.
“I’m onto you, Wren.”
I guess Jett knows.
“Do you remember what you said last night?”
The question hits like a knife to the chest. I guess we’re going there. I swallow the bacon and reach for my latte to clear my throat.
“Yes.” I curl my fingers tight around the cup as if it’ll save me.
“I need to hear you tell me sober.”
Silence stretches as my stomach knots. But he doesn't rush me. We both know I’m going to tell him the truth.
“We were pregnant,” I whisper, tears burning my eyes. “And I lost our baby.”
His face doesn’t move—it’s as stoic as ever. But I see the cracks forming. Those beautiful blue eyes I get lost in start going glassy as his mouth tightens. He drags a hand down his face as his shoulders collapse in his chair.
“Help me understand.”
“Help with what?” I snap, emotions getting the best of me. “When two people have sex—unprotected sex—as much as we did, they’re bound to make a baby.”
“Lose the attitude.” His voice is gravelly, and I feel bad for letting my sarcasm out. “How could you not tell me? I feel fucking blindsided.”
“I didn’t mean for it to come out while I was drunk—”
“You think that makes it better?” he cuts me off. “That's the only time you planned on telling me about my child was when you were shit-faced?”
I flinch and my eyes sting. “I didn’t know how to get in contact with you.”
“Don’t,” he bites out. “Did you even try?”
My silence says everything, and he curses. I didn’t try, because it was pointless. I’d already lost the baby, and he was living his own life, wherever that was. In the three months since he left, I never heard from him. How dare he blame me for our lack of contact.
“You’ve had ten years to tell me the truth, but you never did.”
I scoff. “So this is all on me? How was I supposed to know you still cared about me?”
“You were supposed to know me better than that,” he shouts, pushing to his feet. The movement is sharp, startling me. “You know me better than anyone else. You knew I loved you.”
“I knew I loved you. I thought I knew you loved me, but you disappeared. Poof, gone.”
“Stop throwing that in my face. I didn’t have a choice—”
“So you keep saying,” I interrupt.
“It’s the truth. You could’ve written to me.”
“And address it to where?” I toss my arms in the air. “I didn’t know where the hell you were.”
“You could’ve called my parents.”
“The same parents who we now know kept your letter from me? The same ones who never shared any information about what happened.” I huff a humorless laugh.
“And even if I did, Jett, what would I tell them? Hi, Nora and Samuel, your son got me pregnant before he disappeared, but I LOST THE BABY!” I scream the last part, finally at my breaking point.
He flinches, running his fingers through his messy blond hair.
I swallow hard. “I wasn’t calling them. I was drowning in grief, and I decided—”
“Decided I wasn’t worthy of the truth?”
“I was angry!”
“You robbed me of the chance to grieve our daughter. To grieve the life I wanted with you.” His voice breaks, fury lacing his glare as he points to me.
No longer able to keep my sobs at bay, tears pour down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I…”
My voice trails off, because what do I have to say?
Jett clenches and unclenches his fists. Even though anger is coursing through him, I know he’d never hurt me.
I know I’m safe with him. He needs time to process.
I don’t know if I would’ve told him, but this isn’t how I wanted him to learn the truth.
He’s blindsided, and I can’t blame him. We’ve hurt each other in more ways than one.
We may or may not be able to move on, but I want to try, even if it’s just a chance for us to sort out our shit and wash our hands of each other.
We both deserve to learn the truth, the gaps in our history, the secrets we’ve kept buried.
His pain-etched stare bores into me. It feels like he’s going to break any second. Shatter into a million pieces at my feet, and I’ll be left trying to put the puzzle back together.
But I don’t get the chance. He shuts down, face morphing into blankness as his shoulders go rigid.
“I’ve got to go.”
I gasp. “Jett, please. Don’t walk away like this.”
He grabs his keys, then a t-shirt from the laundry basket, and slides into tennis shoes.
“Lock the door on your way out.”
He doesn’t spare me a glance as he slams the door behind him.
I sit brokenly at the kitchen table, cold latte in my hand, tears still filling my vision. Storm nudges my leg, and I slide onto the floor next to her. I wrap my arms around her neck and bury my face in her soft fur as my tears soak into her.
We dreamed thousands of dreams, but they always started and ended with us together. No matter what future we dreamed up, he was always by my side.
I lost him once, and I’m losing him again.