19. Silas #2
I flip the page, gripping the pen tighter than I should. Then I write—
Because when I look at you, I see someone who looks the way I feel. Like you’re holding yourself together with duct tape and superglue. Like the world asks too much and gives too little.
And for once, it doesn’t feel like I’m the only one bleeding underneath it all.
That gives her pause.
Something raw flickers in her eyes, and she runs her fingers over the note like it’s a wound she wasn’t expecting—one that matches something inside her.
Then her cheeks go pink. Just a soft flush that creeps up like heat under the skin.
She tries to hide it behind a sip of water, but I already filed it away to ruminate over later.
Wren Winslow blushes when something hits too close to home. When the truth finds its way past her walls. Just like how she tugs her ear when she’s thinking, or plays with her hands when she’s nervous, or bites her lip when she’s lying.
I’ve never met anyone so easy to read yet so hard to predict.
Slowly, as though unsure, her gaze lifts to meet mine. There’s a war going on behind those eyes. One, I suspect she’s been fighting for a long time but has become ever more present since setting foot in Valehurst.
“Why does it feel like the three of you are bleeding in the same places I am?”
Her voice is low. Measured. But her fingers curl slightly on the bar top.
She’s not accusing; she’s asking. Inviting me to confirm what she already knows in her bones.
I hold her stare, the silence stretching just long enough for the truth to settle.
I don’t know what the others have confided in her, but I know there’s a reason all three of us are drawn to her.
Perhaps initially, it was because we were just relieved she was okay after finding her that night.
Maybe it was about getting our questions answered as to what happened.
But now? Now, I understand there is a string pulling all four of us together.
One entwined in pain and trauma. Not just hers, and not just mine.
All four of us have our demons. We have our issues, our hang-ups. What binds us is recognizing that same pain in one another. We’re drawn to it like moths to a flame, strung along by that desire to have someone else understand exactly how we feel. To not feel alone.
Picking up my pen, I write a single line.
Because we are.
For a long second, she stares at the page. Lifting her hand, she traces the words with her finger, like she’s afraid they’ll slip from the page. In that moment, I know she sees it too: The thread pulling all of us together.
The bar is quiet now. Empty, save for the lingering scent of hops and lemon cleaner, and the low hum of a vacuum in the back. Chairs are flipped on tables. Lights dimmed. Wren turns the lock on the front door as I step out into the cool autumn night.
The air smells like woodsmoke and the damp sweetness of fallen leaves. A breeze ghosts past, stirring her braid and carrying the faintest hint of rain not yet fallen.
“Silas.”
I pause on the threshold, glancing back. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her fleece-lined jacket, but she’s watching me, unmoving. There’s a crease between her brows. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth. Nervous, then, but it’s not fear I see in her eyes. It’s steel.
“I’m ready.”
I tilt my head.
“To know the truth.” Her voice is steady now. “About that night. About…everything.”
For a beat, I don’t move. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. Hoping for. The moment we’ve been pushing toward in quiet, fractured ways. Nevertheless, hearing her say it—choosing to say it—hits harder than I thought it would.
I thought I’d feel triumphant, but I don’t.
I feel...afraid.
Not for me. Not even for what she’ll find out.
For her.
Because this is where it changes. Where the truth starts to burn through the edges of everything we’ve carefully danced around. And once it starts, there’s no putting the fire out. Yet she’s standing in front of me, gaze steady, shoulders squared, ready to face whatever may come.
And fuck, I respect her for it.
My hand slips into my pocket, pulling out my phone. My notebook feels too slow for this moment. I type: Now?
She nods. “May as well rip the band-aid off before I change my mind.”
Glancing behind her, into the bar, I type out, You ready to leave?
“I am.”
I tuck the phone away and jerk my chin toward the lot, heading for my car. The gravel crunches beneath my boots. Behind me, her lighter footsteps jog to catch up.
“Wait—my car’s still here.”
I pull out my phone again, typing quickly: We’ll come back for it later. Or one of the others will pick it up.
My car is old. A beat-up black Toyota Corolla with a cracked dash and duct tape around the driver’s side mirror. The passenger door sticks, causing me to yank forcefully on it as I pull it open, before gesturing for her to get in. She eyes me warily, but after a beat, she slides inside.
When I get into the driver’s seat, I glance over at her and give a tight, almost sheepish shrug when I see her taking in the worn interior. The inside smells faintly of oil and old coffee, and there are rips in the seats, the stuffing either showing or just full-on falling out.
Inserting the key, my fingers tap the wheel impatiently before the engine kicks over with a reluctant shudder.
The stereo hums to life, filling the silence with an old Kings of Leon track.
All low vocals and mellow guitar. The heater groans when I crank it, and for the first time, I regret not taking Ronan up on his offer to buy me a new car.
Wren hugs her arms a little tighter around herself while I flick the vent dials, begging the heating to work faster.
Just like everything else in this car, it’s temperamental and slow to get going. Not ideal for New Hampshire winters.
Still, there’s no way I could part with this car. It’s the first thing that was ever truly mine. This car and I have history. Too much history. Some nights, this was the safest place I had. The only home I knew. Even now, with a roof over my head, I’m not ready to let that part of me go.
Wren doesn’t speak as I pull out of the parking lot and direct the car toward town, and I don’t break the quiet.
We drive. Past the edge of town. Past the quad, the library, the old iron Valehurst gates.
Her hands start fidgeting in her lap when we turn onto the street leading to the house I share with Ronan and Lucian.
The house appears between a stand of sugar maples, their golden leaves rattling in the breeze like dry paper.
It’s three stories tall, all clean lines and colonial bones, with crisp white trim that frames deep gray clapboard siding.
The roof is steep and dark, dotted with dormer windows, and a wide front porch wraps partway around the sides, lit by the warm glow of a sconce beside the door.
There’s a swing on one end, made of solid cedar and well-worn.
It looks like the kind of place built on old money and older secrets.
I still remember being in awe of the fancy houses and ostentatious buildings when I first arrived at Valehurst. It was a world away from where I’d grown up. To the shitholes I was used to living in. Squatting in.
Even now, the fact that this is my life, that I get to live here, with a roof over my head and a comfy bed to fall asleep in each night, feels surreal.