Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
And then Hunter’s truck barreling up the drive like some goddamn avenger, his face thunderstorm dark, his eyes on me like I was the villain when he was the one who ignored me all week and then listened to an ex-girlfriend who “meant nothing to him.”
It’s all too much, too fast, and I can’t catch my breath from any of it.
Heading to my room, I change into something comfortable and breathable, my day clothes suddenly feeling suffocating. Then I grab my phone and call Reese.
“Baaaaaabe,” she answers. “Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to hear from you. What’s going on?”
I picture her in her favorite fuzzy robe, pausing some Netflix show and putting a bowl of popcorn aside to give me her undivided attention. It’s a heartwarming visual that also sends a painful stab to my chest because it reminds me of how much I miss her.
I begin to say something, but my voice breaks.
“What? What is it?” she asks. “Are you crying?”
“No,” I say, sniffling.
“Don’t lie to me, Wren Jensen.” Her voice is stern. “Spill it. Now. Or I’m coming to your house immediately.”
“I wish you would actually,” I say with a pained laugh. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I’ve been waiting for a formal invitation. You told me how beautiful this property was and how you had a spare room and then . . .”
“I’ve been a little . . . preoccupied.” I dab my nose on the back of my hand. “And you know you don’t need a written invite. You’re welcomed here anytime. You know that.”
“Yeah. I just like teasing you. But seriously, what’s going on? Why are you calling me this time of night, pretending like you’re not crying?”
I perch on the end of my bed and spill everything.
When I’m finished, she tells me she’s coming to visit as soon as possible—that she just has to clear some things off her work schedule. This puts a smile on my face for the first time all night. I head to the bathroom, splash some water on my face while she updates me on her latest work drama.
By the time I finally make it back downstairs, I expect the house to be quiet. I expect the driveway to be empty. But through the front window, I see the silhouette of a man still sitting on my porch swing, the wood creaking faintly under his weight.
He’s still here.
He never left.
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts, my exhaustion giving way to irritation.
He isn’t moving, he’s just staring out at the dark.
Waiting.
For me.
“Reese,” I say. “I have to let you go.”
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, though I don’t quite believe myself.
We hang up and I head outside.
“You have some nerve,” I snap, crossing my arms, my voice sharp. “Showing up here like this. After ignoring me. After lying to me and my son. After breaking promises you swore you’d never break.”
His head turns, his eyes finally finding mine, calm in that infuriating way like nothing I’m saying is news to him.
“I believed you, Hunter,” I push on, my throat tightening. “I actually thought . . . I let myself think you were different. And now I just feel like a fool. Again. Because you’re just like the rest of them.”
“I never lied to you,” he says, grounded in his signature stoic confidence. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls something out. “But you lied to me.”
My heart stutters when I see it—the sunflower notebook.
I snatch it out of his hand without thinking, my fingers clutching it tight like it might disappear again. “You’re the one who stole this?”
“No,” he says evenly. “Atticus gave it to me that day in the tractor. Had it in his backpack.”
I blink, stunned. “Atticus?”
But . . . he knows better. He knows he’s not allowed to take things from my office, let alone this.
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
“He said my name was all over the pages and he thought I should have them.”
My cheeks burn, my skin hot. “They were written to you, but never intended for you to read.”
How do I explain it was a journal and a writing exercise in one? If I hadn’t also used it to outline the plot of my book, I think he’d understand. But the rest of the content is pretty damning.
I look down at the cover, at the worn spine and smudged pages. My hands tremble, just a little. Because it feels like he’s read my soul, like I’ve been stripped bare. My deepest, darkest, most soul-revealing thoughts are in the pages of this book, and he’s read them all.
“I was just trying to get my spark back,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze hardens. “The notes about what we did. About us. You using that for a book? Is that all I was to you? Just some research project?”