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)
“You can call me whatever you want as long as your mom’s okay with it,” I say, voice thick. “But I’d be proud if you did.”
He nods, like that makes sense, like my answer satisfies his curiosity. “Cool.”
We fall quiet for a bit, hammering in a few more nails, letting the warm afternoon settle around us.
“You hungry yet?” I ask.
He shrugs. “A little.”
“Your mom said there’s some string cheese in the fridge. And chocolate milk.”
His eyes go wide. “She never buys chocolate milk.”
I laugh. Atticus mentioned that day in the tractor a while back that he loved chocolate milk, that it was his favorite thing about day care. I brought a jug with me today just in case. Thought it might make the day that much more special.
We clean up the tools and wash our hands with the hose before heading inside. He kicks off his muddy Converse sneakers by the door without me asking and leaves them neatly by the mat.
In the kitchen, I hand him the cheese and chocolate milk, and he climbs onto one of the barstools at the island and props his cheeks on his hands while he stares at me with the big blue eyes that match his mother’s fleck for fleck.
For a split second, though, I see Ben sitting here, staring up at me with his big blue eyes, looking at me this very same way—perfectly content to follow me around like my personal shadow.
I realize for the first time since Ben died and the light dimmed for a long, long time—my life is finally becoming full again. Because love doesn’t always knock politely. Sometimes it barrels down your road driving a black Audi, carrying a sunflower notebook, and pushing every last button you have in all the right ways.
64
Wren
Pop music’s playing low on the radio, the air smells like summertime, sunscreen, and perfume, and Reese is digging through my glove compartment for gum like she’s on a classified government mission.
“Do you ever clean this thing out?” she asks, pulling out an expired insurance card, a Capri-Sun straw, and a Hot Wheels car missing two wheels.
“Does it look like I clean it out?” I shoot her a sideways glance.
She makes a noise in her throat and finally finds a piece of gum. “Victory.”
We’re winding down Colton Valley’s Main Street, windows cracked, sunshine pouring in like warm honey. It’s the kind of Saturday that makes the past feel far away. The kind that makes you forget about pain, even if just for a minute. The kind that makes you feel . . . new.
Reese’s been here since yesterday and so far she loves it, just like I knew she would. While I know she’ll never stop being a city girl who breaks out in hives around too much nature, she’s leaning into this visit more than I expected. This morning she fed Sugarplum a carrot and only screamed once.
I slow the car as we pass a familiar boutique on the corner—Natalie’s shop. Window display full of flowy floral dresses and overpriced soy candles that nobody buys.
Reese leans forward, peering through her sunglasses. “That the place?”
I nod. She knows the story, and there’s nothing more to say.
“Park the car,” Reese says, unbuckling. “I’m going in.”
I grab her wrist. “No you’re not.”
Her brows shoot up. “You’re seriously just going to let her get away with everything she did?”
“She’s not getting away with anything.” I glance at the store again. “Natalie’s been Natalie since the sixth grade. Miserable. Insecure. Starved for attention. Drama is her oxygen. I’m not giving her a damn thing to breathe.”
Reese shakes her head, impressed. “That’s . . . awfully big of you.”
I offer a wry smile. “I’ve got more important things to worry about. More important people to worry about.”
She re-buckles her seat belt, leans her head against the headrest, then says, “I’m proud of you, you know.”
“For what? Not throwing rocks at the boutique window?”
“For all of it. For doing the scary thing. For taking the leap. For choosing yourself and that beautiful little boy of yours. For following your heart—even after all the times it betrayed you.”
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. Reese rarely gets emotional like this, but when she does, it always affects me to my marrow in the best way.
“You became the version of yourself you were always meant to be,” she says, reaching across the console and squeezing my hand. “And that led you straight into the arms of someone who was truly worthy of you.”
I blink out the window, trying not to cry.
Damn Reese and her sentimental speeches.
We grab iced lattes at the coffee shop and head back toward the house. Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we turn onto the long drive lined with trees and budding wildflowers, a place I comfortably and lovingly call home.