I grip her wrist, firm enough that I can control her position. She lets out a yelp as I flip her around, so we’ve switched places. Wren is backed up against the wall now, my thigh in between her legs. Her hips buck a little as she takes a sharp inhale of breath.
“Don’t expect me to lie down and take it, Miller,” Imurmur into the shell of her ear, drawing out the words and revelling in her breath hitching and coming out as a soft whimper.
She wrenches her hand free from my grip, and I back away slightly, enough so we’re staring each other down. But I don’t hide the playful smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“This isn’t one of our little games, Landry. I told you the other day, I have a lot riding on this,” she snaps, her eyes going dark, murderous.
“It means something to me, too. But we can still have some fun with it, right?”
Wren pushes off the wall and slides out from where I’m blocking her in.
“I don’t have the time for petty games anymore. I’ve grown up. You should, too,” she says before turning and walking into the gymnasium, leaving me speechless and alone. Where was the fun, playful Wren from the other day? It’s like she put on that pantsuit and transformed into someone else entirely.
When I enter the room, Wren has already taken her place at the front, her presentation already up on the projector, illuminating the darkened space with a blue glow.
I take a seat off to the side and watch as she addresses the crowd. She flicks through the first few slides, an introduction to her engineering firm, the prestigious work and awards they’ve won for groundbreaking architectural design. She lists off famous architects they’ve consulted for, as if these accolades will convince the people of Heartwood. It’s like she doesn’t evenknow the town at all, like she didn’t spend over half her life here. Her presentation already seems out of touch, but when she gets to the design for the arts centre, I swear you could hear a pin drop.
I wince at the deafening silence in the crowd. The expression on Wren’s face tells me she was expecting shock and awe, not crickets.
Her mouth falls open momentarily before she schools her expression and continues, explaining how each of the different rooms will have walls made entirely of glass so anyone walking through the arts centre can see artists at work with their various mediums. What was meant, I’m sure, to promote inspiration, looks like everyone will be on display at a zoo. I catch a few grimaces from people who are lit up by the screen in the front row of the crowd.
I feel myself grimacing, too, not at Wren or her design, but the unanticipated reaction of everyone in the room. And now I have to get up and present my concept. I wasn’t necessarily convinced it would win earlier, but now I am, and guilt stabs at my gut.
Wren sits down. The confidence she had earlier has fallen off her and dragged her shoulders lower to the ground with it. She slumps in the chair, and I regard her for a moment. All the wind has been knocked right out of her sails. That feisty, strong woman I went toe-to-toe with outside? The one who can turn me on with the fire behind her eyes? That woman is nowhere to be found right now.
Standing slowly, I walk to the front of the room and address the crowd with a little less pizazz and gumption than I had planned. Wren likes a fair fight, and she wouldnever want me to concede, but it feels wrong to shove this in her face when her presentation went so catastrophically.
I deliver my speech, my voice monotone, speeding through slides highlighting the strengths of my concept. The arts centre I designed is colourful, vibrant, yet cozy. There are big wood-framed windows on one side to let in natural light for the painting studio, and plenty of windows elsewhere to incorporate the beautiful views around Heartwood.
I believe in this design. It fits with the feel of Heartwood. It incorporates suggestions from the public forum—the reasonable ones—I did not account for a porcelain doll room. Mostly, it makes me feel close to my mother. She was creative and colourful and larger than life. And she loved Heartwood because, as she said, everywhere she looked gave her inspiration. She felt inspired every day of her life because of the stunning landscape.
That’s what I wanted to showcase in my design. I fucking nailed it. But you wouldn’t know I felt that way by my presentation, because every time I click to a new slide, I glance over at Wren. She’s staring into space now, zoned out, dissociating. Her mind isn’t in the room with us.
I conclude the presentation by pointing everyone’s attention to the three-dimensional model I had made of the arts centre, and someone announces that the voting is open. I scan the room for Wren. Her chair is empty, but before I can move to search for her, the crowd has begun rushing the front of the room to get a better look at my model, and I’m bombarded with questions.
‘How did you come up with the design?’
‘Where will the pottery studio be?’
‘Will it be accessible?’
I answer them in absent-minded, one-word sentences, because all I can think about is finding Wren and making sure she’s okay. It was stupid of me, riling her up. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best approach.
As soon as I get a break in the questions, which feels a lot more like an interrogation, I bolt. I stride through the cramped room, pushing past people who are milling around waiting to vote, brushing off more comments on my presentation, and eventually make my way into the lobby.
Empty.
I suddenly remember the last time Wren took off after the public forum, the way she ran outside for fresh air, feeling like she was having an asthma attack. So that’s where I go. I exit the building and glance around in the dim light of dusk, and I spot her. Sitting on the same bench I found her on after the forum, knees tucked up to her chest.
My chest caves in, air sucked out of my lungs. She looks the same as before, but I know better now. It’s still unclear if she’s aware of what’s happening—that what she’s experiencing is a panic attack. Severe anxiety.
She looks so … small. It hits me that I had a part to play in it. The way I goaded her, trash-talked her, egged her on. And she tried to tell me, this wasn’t a game to her, it meant more. I wanted it, but not the way she did.
I’m a fucking asshole. All I do is hurt her. Somehow I never consider how my actions are going to affect her. Maybe she was right the other day, I haven’t learned. I haven’t changed. But I want to. I want to for her.
I jog over to where she’s sitting and take the spot next toher, pulling her into my chest. Being this close to her now, her chest heaves against me, desperately trying to catch her breath.
“Wren. Wren, I’m here. It’s okay,” I whisper into her hair, clutching at her, wanting to comfort her and somehow make this okay. “I’m so sorry, Wren. Just breathe.”
