Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I had no idea.
Just like I had no idea that Wren likes to tear it up on the dance floor, had a crush on me for years, or would be so devastated by me leaving without saying goodbye in February that she’d run all the way to Thailand to avoid looking at my face for three months.
I wonder where she’ll go this time.
Or maybe, I should offer to go. It wouldn’t be easy to leave my practice or my patients, but I know several hospitals in the area that are short of OB-GYNs. I could get a job at one of them and only drive into Bad Dog for special occasions with my family.
After enough time has elapsed, maybe I’ll forget how right it felt to be with Wren.
I could text her that option now. Or maybe an email would be better, something she can read tomorrow morning and respond to at her leisure.
I roll over in the big bed in Drew’s guest room, reaching for my phone to draft the message, but it buzzes before I can swipe open the screen.
When I do, I see a message from Wren that simply reads—Open the window.
A beat later, there’s a sharp ping from my right. I jerk my head that way in time to see a rock hit the pane, sending a louder clink echoing through the quiet space.
My phone buzzes again—Now. I know you’re in there. I saw your truck parked beside Drew’s minivan in the garage.
Swinging my legs out from under the covers, I cross to the window and peer out into the night. After a beat, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I make out Wren’s slim figure in a pool of moonlight at the base of the large elm tree growing too close to the house. Drew should have it trimmed or torn down before its limbs damage the roof or the roots burrow into the foundation. I’ve mentioned it to him half a dozen times, but all he ever says is, “But Sarah Beth loves that tree so much.”
My niece “loves” a tree.
I can’t imagine having an emotional attachment to a tree or indulging my child in a way that puts our home at risk. Which is why I’d probably be a terrible parent. I’d lean into logic and away from compassion. I’d be a hard ass with no patience for nonsense and alienate my child before they’re old enough to say, “Daddy messed me up.”
It’s just another reason to end this thing with Wren before it goes any further. She wants kids, a family. She’ll be an amazing mother, but she deserves a partner who won’t drag her down or damage the children. She deserves so much, including the opportunity to tell me to go to hell, if that’s what she came here for.
But I don’t trust myself to stay strong in her presence.
If I go down there to talk to her in the cool, dark night, I’ll want to hold her, comfort her. I’ll want to confess why I left the wedding early and, knowing Wren, she’ll find a way to ease my fears.
But I don’t want my fears to be eased. I have to hold onto the fear and stick to my guns. This is how I prove I love her, by breaking her heart a little now to keep from blowing it to smithereens down the line. It’s the difference between a hairline fracture and a bone shattered in multiple places. One will mend with just a little time and care; the other might leave her crippled for life.
So, I text back—I’m sorry, I can’t.—and pull the curtains.
I expect that to be the end of it. Maybe she’ll text once or twice more, but that’s it. Wren is determined, but she knows how stubborn I am. Once I’ve come to a logical conclusion backed by facts, I’m an immoveable object.
But it turns out Wren might just be an unstoppable force, a fact I realize a few minutes later when the windowpane slides up and she whispers, “Come help me in before I fall to my death, and you really have something to be sorry for.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
WREN
He appears at the window, ripping the curtains out of the way and grabbing me around the waist so fast, I barely have time to suck in a breath before I’m suddenly deposited on the cushioned bench at the end of Drew’s guest bed.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands, crouching down in front of me as he runs shaking hands over my arms and legs. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a couple scratches from the bark but—”
“You could have killed yourself,” he cuts me off, his eyes blazing in the dimly lit room. “In what world did climbing a tree in the dark in a dress and your bare feet seem like a good idea? You could have broken your neck. You could have been paralyzed for life. Or worse.”