“Sounds great, buddy,” I say, surveying the progress they made today. “Looks fantastic.”
I was supposed to get more information on how the Donaldsons’ house has been coming along. Brad Donaldson has been asking me for an update on the timeline, namely when they might be able to move in, but I still don’t have a clear idea. All I have is the brief update from Nav, and that will have to do for now. We’re too far off from move-in anyways. Brad might not be happy, mostly because he’s going to get shit from his wife about it, but there’s not much else I can do. Building quality houses takes time.
“So, when do we get to break ground on your house?” Nav asks. “The lot you bought has been sitting empty for a long time.” A teasing smile spreads across his tanned face, dark stubble peppering his chin after a long day of work. I shrug in response.
“Soon, hopefully. Once the arts centre is well under way, I’ll have time to build myself a proper place to live.” I love my apartment, but with Ruby and I, and Jett during the summers, it’s getting cramped. Then, last year, an empty lotcame up for sale right on the river, and I snapped it up. I’d been saving a lot of money working both jobs, and I finally had enough that when the opportunity arose, I didn’t want to pass it up.
At this point, though, the house I want to build feels more and more like a pipe dream. I keep putting it off, and everyone around me hears the excuses. But I want it to feel right. I want to feel ready. And right now, I don’t. Nav shakes his head with a knowing smile, gets in his truck, and drives off.
The rest of the crew is also dispersing, going home, so I wave off a few of them before heading out myself. I check my phone once more, and my heart skips in my chest when I see the name I’ve been waiting for all day. I added Wren’s new number in my contacts after she handed me her card, and there she is, displayed on the screen.
This time, the message has come through as a text, not an e-mail. I can’t help but feel like this might be progress. Even though I was firm in walking away from whatever remnants of feelings I still had for her, the small step towards not hating each other feels good.
SHE-DEVIL
Are you still good to come by this evening? I have cold beer in the fridge (not a bribe).
I write out a quick response, my heartbeat picking up the pace, thundering behind my ribs with every word I type back.
Be there in five, leaving work now.
Something about sending a text feels so casual, so familiar, and I hate that it causes this ripple of excitement through me at the prospect that Wren and I could be nearing friendship territory. I don’t want to hate her—I never have, so the disdain I felt for her the first day I saw her on the build site was foreign.
I can be realistic, I can know deep down in my bones that I ruined things irreparably the day I ended things with her, that the door on our relationship has been shut for good. But I can also want things to at least be comfortable between us.
I back away from the Donaldsons’ half-built house and turn down the street towards Wren’s. It’s a route I know like the back of my hand. One, because having grown up here, I know every street in Heartwood. And two, because no matter where I was on this earth, I could find my way to Wren blindfolded.
We spent so much of our childhood there. So many days spent racing around these streets on our bikes. Walking the block leading up to her house because I was trying to sneak in late at night and my car was too loud.
I don’t worry about that today as I pull my truck up in her driveway beside her white Audi. I’m pretty sure the sound of my truck is being drowned out by the thumping of my heart in my chest, anyhow. For some reason, coming to Wren’s house tonight feels different.
I’ve been here a few times since she’s been gone—her dad and I have become close, if you count borrowing his power washer once a year close—and the other night, which happens to be the precursor to this visit. I should be desensitized to coming over.
The moment I raise my hand to knock on the door, I know these feelings aren’t old ones, and if I’m being honest with myself, ending things with Emma wasn’t a relief because I didn’t have feelings for her.
It was a relief because I gave myself permission to keep feeling the ones I have for Wren.
The front door swings open, and suddenly, whatever quippy, snarky greeting I had planned fails to come. I stutter for a second, mouth open, unable to speak. Because Wren is in front of me now, and the feelings I’ve been stuffing down for the last ten years feel like they’re right on the surface—exposed, raw, tender.
Her dark hair is twisted into a bun at the top of her head, and her face looks like it’s been freshly washed. She’s in another matching lounge set, this time a soft cotton grey T-shirt and a loose pair of pants. Today she’s obviously wearing a bra, unlike the other morning when it took every ounce of self-control not to look at the way her nipples peaked through her tank top. Still, my eyes catch on the strip of tanned skin peeking out from between the T-shirt and pants, that soft spot of her abdomen.
“Thank God you’re here,” she says, and the words send a gooey warmth down my spine. She’sgladI’m here. My mouth lifts into a soft smile, and my shoulders drop. Being welcomed by Wren like this feels like coming home.
CHAPTER 15
HUDSON
Wren opensthe door to let me pass her.
“The burnt kitchen has been staring me in the face for the last few days. I can’t wait for it to be fixed and never have to think about that disaster again,” Wren calls over her shoulder as I follow her into the kitchen.
Suddenly the reality of why I’m here smacks me in the face, waking me up from the daydream I’ve let myself slip into. Wren didn’t ask me here to hang out, she isn’t having me over because she likes my company. I’m here because I offered to help fix her kitchen before her dad finds out about the fire.
The thought of her struggling with anxiety and panic attacks reminded me that I still care about her. It had me feeling like I would do anything to help her. But I can’t let that cloud my judgement. I ended things with Wren for a reason, and clearly nothing significant has changed.
The kitchen opens up before me, and Wren putsher hands up as if to display the charred backsplash like a piece of artwork she’s unveiling. I half expect her to sayTa-da.
“It’s not so bad,” I say, rounding the island and nearing the stove so I can inspect it closer. “You’ll need to get a new oven. This one is wrecked.”
