“Are you ok now?” I hate how concerned—how desperate—my voice sounds. But maybe that’s exactly what I am.
Yesterday, in the hardware store, I’d played off her irritation. I was cocky and confident, like what she thought of me didn't matter. But it does. And letting my guard down with her again—letting her see that I care about what she’s going through—it’s a risk. One I’m still not quite sure I want to take because I absolutely know without a doubt that she has the power to obliterate me again.
She clears her throat and bobs her head. “Yeah. I mean, things are still messed up, but yeah, I’ll be ok.”
“Ok.” I thumb the strap of my bag. “Good.” I nod. “That’s good.”
We stand there, looking at one another for at least twenty seconds.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around then, Hank.”
“Sure. Ok. See you around.” She turns to go, and the sight of my name on her back makes me want to beat my chest like a caveman. I can’t let her walk away without letting her know I noticed.
“Hey, Wrenley?”
She turns back, her brown eyes searching. “Yeah?”
I lift my chin. “Nice shirt.”
Her lips tip up in a ghost of a smile and her cheeks blush the faintest pink. “Thanks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
wrenley
I’m in the kitchen,finishing up my breakfast dishes, when I hear the engine of a truck out front. A door closes, and then there’s the crunch of boots on gravel and a light knock on the screen door. I’m not expecting anyone, and especially not on a random Wednesday morning.
Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I follow the sound through the kitchen to the entryway. The front door stands open. I can’t see his face as the morning sun backlights him, but I would know that silhouette anywhere.
“Hank?” I push open the screen, and he steps back, his gray eyes meeting mine from under the bill of his hat as he tugs on the back of his neck. “What are you doing here?”
Eyes wary, he watches me for several seconds with uncertainty clear on his face before he clears his throat. He looks wholly uncomfortable under the weight of my stare.
“Hey.” He swallows hard, looks away for a second, and then back at me. “Listen…I, uh, I know you said you don't want my help, Wren, and I guess on some level, I get that.” He nods, pulls his hat off, and runs a hand through his hair before replacing it. “But I’ve been helping your granddad keep this place up for years. So, if you’d let me, I’d like to help with whatever needs fixing.”
We’ve been at one another's throats pretty much nonstop since I’ve been back. So, I don’t know if it’s the mention of my granddad, or our interaction at the game on Sunday, but this is so different from the way he’s spoken to me recently. There is so much sincerity in his voice, and so much kindness in his eyes, that I find myself momentarily unable to do anything but stare at him.
He lets out a long breath. “I know we haven’t—” He stops and looks down at his boots. Shaking his head, he then brings his eyes back to mine. “I haven’t been the nicest guy to you since you’ve been back, and I just want you to know I’m here to help in any way I can.” His throat works again over a hard swallow.
I watch him for a beat and then nod. I’m sure this is taking a Herculean effort for him to admit, given our history. And I recognize how hard this must be for him, to stand here on my porch and ask my permission to do something he has had free license to do for however many years he’s been helping my granddad. He probably knows more about what needs to be fixed and updated around here than I do.
“Ok, Hank, sure.” I step back, pressing the screen open wide with my palm.
His handsome features flood with something like relief, and he answers with a wordless nod, stepping inside. The foyer instantly feels smaller.
He looks around, not quite meeting my eyes as he takes in the boxes stacked against one wall and the pile of TV Guide magazines teetering against the back of the couch, where they’ll stay until I can find a recycling center nearby. He looks nervous, so I incline my head toward the hallway.
Extending an olive branch, I turn and look at him over my shoulder as he follows me to the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thanks. We can just…get to it if you want.” Something in his voice tells me he isn’t in the mood for small talk either. He's probably just trying not to start an argument with me before we even get started.
He isn’t rude, just quiet, and even though he says he wants to help, I get the impression that he would rather be anywhere other than here. I almost prefer his snarky comebacks and biting tone.Almost.
“So, you’re, uh, you’re selling then?” He seems hesitant to ask, but given that he’s going to help me, it seems pertinent to know what kind of timeline we’re working on.
Nodding, I move farther down the hall. “Yep. I don’t love the idea, but even if I did plan to stay in Timber Forge, this house is way too big for one person.”
He pokes his head into rooms as we pass and nods. “Yeah, I imagine it is.”
