Chapter 26
SAWYER
What do you call a group of musical whales?
An orca-stra. :)
When I was eight, I dug a hole behind the barn because I read that if you went deep enough, you’d hit buried treasure.
I packed granola bars, Gushers, and half of a Capri Sun in a Ziploc bag and wore my bike helmet in case of cave-ins.
I got about two feet down before I hit a rock the size of a dinner plate and decided the treasure probably wasn’t worth it.
I don’t know. There’s something about that story that feels ridiculous now. But also kind of nice. The blind certainty of childhood. The way you believed in something enough to bring snacks. That if you wanted something bad enough, it would find its way to you.
I miss believing in things like that. Don’t you?
Anyway. Do you think you were more of a Fruit Roll-Up or Gushers kind of kid?
—W
It’s been hours since I read Wren’s note, and I still can’t stop thinking about it.
I chuckled when I first read it, and then I read it again. And again. There’s something about her notes—how they sneak up on me, make me feel seen in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Now, as we drive through the snow-covered roads to Bozeman for the charity gala, I find myself missing those little notes already. It’s silly, really. We’re in the same car, breathing the same air, but I miss her words on paper.
We’re somewhere in the stretch of highway where cell service gets spotty and cattle outnumber people ten to one.
Snow’s coming down harder now, the flakes dancing before landing on the windshield, blurring the edges of everything.
The road, the trees, the sky—like the whole world’s being half-erased.
I’ve never been more grateful for heated seats.
Or a steering wheel that doesn’t make my fingers ache.
Hank’s in the backseat, whimpering like it’s the greatest injustice of his life that I won’t roll the window down in the middle of a damn snowstorm.
“Not happening, buddy,” I say, voice low. “Pick a fight with the weather.”
Wren’s next to me, digging through her duffel bag on the floor.
Her hat’s pushed back on her head, red hair spilling out in soft waves down her back.
The whole truck smells like her now and it’s driving me fucking insane in the best way.
There’s a smudge of something—maybe foundation—on the collar of her sweatshirt.
I don’t know how I notice things like that, but I do. I’m always noticing her.
I glance at her again, for too long probably, and she doesn’t catch it. She’s too busy muttering to herself now, something about forgetting her deodorant. Something about how this entire trip is already cursed.
And I’m just sitting here. Watching her. Letting her fill up the space of my car with her voice and her presence and the smell of her shampoo and whatever the hell this thing is between us.
She looks over at me, her eyes sharp and amused. “You packed deodorant, right?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah.”
“Good,” she says, sinking back in the seat like that settles it. “I’m probably gonna need to borrow some.”
I glance at her, one hand still on the wheel, the other reaching to turn up the heat a notch. “Wow. I didn’t realize we were at the sharing-deodorant stage of our fake marriage.”
She smirks without looking at me. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hart. I’d steal deodorant from a stranger if it meant not smelling like a cow.”
She digs a book out of her bag, thumbed and folded like it’s been read a hundred times, and leans into the seat again. Hank immediately abandons his post in the backseat and wedges his big head into the crook of her arm.
He used to do that to me. Now I’m chopped liver. Scratch that—less than chopped liver. I’m probably the can the liver came in.
Wren scratches lazily behind his ears and says, without glancing up, “Tell your dad it’s not weird to share deodorant with a girl, Hank.”
I snort. “It’s kind of weird.”
“It’s not. I used to steal Boone and Ridge’s all the time growing up. They never even noticed.”
“My sister never took mine.”
She finally looks at me then, one brow cocked. “That’s probably because you’re fifty years older than her.”
I laugh, loud and immediate. “Jesus.”
“What? I’m just saying. You were probably paying taxes and watching Dateline while she was still playing with Polly Pockets or whatever girls played with.”
“First of all,” I say, still grinning, “Dateline’s a classic.”
“Exactly,” she says, snapping her fingers like that proves her point. “You’re ancient.”
The road stretches ahead of us in a long line of gray slush and patchy snow.
The sky’s still a dull, snow-heavy gray, and flakes drift down in slow spirals.
The heat is turned up just high enough to keep the windows from fogging, and Hank’s snoring quietly, his head still squished between Wren’s elbow and arm.
She flips open the book in her lap, and smooths down a dog-eared page.
I glance over. “Pride and Prejudice?”
She hums without looking up.
“I love that movie.”
Her head snaps toward me, one brow lifted. “No, you don’t.”
I grin. She’s not wrong. Love might be generous. “Okay, maybe not love,” I admit. “But I liked it.”
She still looks skeptical, so I add, “You’ve bewitched me, body and soul, and I love—”
She jumps in on cue: “—I love, I love you.”
We say it at the same time and then she laughs, the kind of laugh that hits the air like a spark—bright and surprised. Her blue eyes catch the light as she turns toward me. “No way.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Saw it in high school.”
“For a class?”
“For a girl,” I admit. “Heard her talking about it in the hall and figured I’d get ahead of the curve.”
She laughs again, head thrown back slightly. “You watched Pride and Prejudice so you could get laid.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I protest, hand to my chest. “I was eighteen. My brain was still under construction.”
She snorts. “That’s your excuse?”
“That’s science , Wren.”
She shakes her head, still smiling. “I’m not surprised. My brothers would’ve done something stupid like that for girls, too.”
I glance over at her. “Joke’s on her, though. I actually liked it.”
“Of course you did,” she says, flipping a page. “Because it’s cinematic perfection.”
I glance over at her again, the corner of my mouth tugging up. “I’ve never read the book, though.”
She hums, thumbing the edge of her page. “Most people haven’t.”
“Is it any good?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I mean, yeah. I’ve always liked the classics. But they’re not for everyone.”
I nod, eyes flicking to the snowy road and then back to her again. “What’s your favorite?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps looking at the page like she’s thinking it over. Then—
“Frankenstein,” she says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
I let out a surprised laugh. “Seriously?”
She finally looks at me, and there’s something quieter behind her smile now. “Yeah. Seriously.”
“Why?”
She rests her head against the window. “Because it’s not really about the monster. It’s about the loneliness. About being stitched together out of all these broken, borrowed pieces and still wanting someone to see you and not turn away.”
Something in my chest shifts at that.
She taps the cover of her book. “Plus, I like a little existential dread with my romance. Keeps things spicy.”
I bark out a laugh and rest my hand on the steering wheel, flexing my fingers around the leather.
Frankenstein. Of course.
Two peas in a pod, her and I. Both walking around with ghosts stitched into our skin.
I know loneliness. Probably better than anyone I’ve ever met. The loneliness that hangs in the air like smoke. That follows you home and curls up next to you in bed. That watches you brush your teeth and makes everything feel a little too quiet.
After Julia and Violet…everything just went still.
I filled my silence with movement. My runs with Hank.
The gym. My practice. Emergency surgeries.
The ranch. Babysitting Nora. Anything that gave me a reason to stay out of the house or keep my hands busy.
I stopped listening to music. Stopped opening the windows.
I couldn’t stand the sound of laughter on TV shows, or watching couples walk around the park holding hands.
The life I thought I was building got bulldozed overnight, and I didn’t know how to rebuild. So I didn’t. I’ve just…maintained, and barely even that.
And Wren—
Wren moves through the world like she’s always preparing to leave. You can see it in the way she holds herself—ready, tense, already halfway gone. She doesn’t wait for people to disappoint her. She walks away before they get the chance.
But there’s something else behind it, something softer. I see it in the way she smiles without letting it reach her eyes, in the way she keeps people close enough to feel familiar but never close enough to stay.
There’s loneliness there. She wouldn’t admit it to just anyone, but it’s there. Maybe I only see it because I know what it looks like—because I feel it too. And she doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to—I know she sees it in me.
But God help me, I want to know her. All of her.
Not just the things she shows people. I want the messy middle. The childhood stories she doesn’t talk about much. The things she mutters when she’s half-asleep. The stuff that makes her cry in the shower.
I want to know what her laugh sounded like when she was ten. What kind of heartbreak made her put up all those fences. What her favorite snack was in middle school. Whether she still likes it now.
I want to know her.
And that scares the shit out of me. Because wanting someone like that means you have something to lose again. And I swore I wouldn’t do that twice.
But then I glance over at her.