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)
Halfway between me and the back door, she tosses one more look my way, though I can’t interpret it. I mistook this woman for being soft and helpless, but she’s got some bite to her; a little kick.
I don’t hate it either.
Sure wish I did.
“Thank you,” she calls out, though the expression on her face reads pissed.
I stand there, soaked in sweat and river air and something else I can’t name.
No one talks to me like that.
No one has ever talked to me like that.
And I should be mad.
I want to be mad.
But all I feel is this low, simmering heat in my chest—a sensation I don’t know what to do with.
She’s good with her words, with expressing how she feels.
Guess that’s why she’s the writer and I’m the dirt farmer.
Lightning cracks the sky open, followed by a rumble of thunder and the soft padding of raindrops that grow thicker by the second. I trudge back to my planter, contending with the fact that the rest of the night’s a bust.
Rain cuts loose right above me.
I get the tractor out of the field before it gets stuck, and then I make my way to the shop to busy myself with work because there’s always work to be done.
God knows I need the sleep, but something tells me even as exhausted as I am, I’d probably just lie in bed and think about . . . her.
And there’s nothing productive about that.
12
Wren
Atticus is warm, clean, and finally not smelling like river sludge. His damp curls rest against the pillow, still carrying the faint scent of lavender shampoo. He’s tucked under a sunflower quilt my grandma stitched before I was born, the corners fraying just enough to feel like home.
His breathing has slowed, one thumb tucked loosely under his chin. He fought sleep for a good twenty minutes, tossing and turning mostly—probably residual adrenaline. I don’t blame him. That water was cold. Fast. Unforgiving.
And that whole scene scared the hell out of me.
He had to have seen the fear in my eyes and heard the terror in my voice.
I didn’t even know he’d wandered that far until I heard Hunter yelling outside, loud and panicked, echoing through the trees like a warning bell.
I rub a hand across my face and exhale, guilt curling in my stomach. I should’ve kept a better eye on him. I know that. I also didn’t deserve to be barked at or for someone who hardly knows me to assume I’d ever carelessly put my son in danger.
Still . . .
Hunter was the one who pulled Atticus out. He was the one who got there first. The one who noticed.
I shouldn’t have snapped at him either.
The moment was too big. Too charged. Too close to the kind of thing that changes everything in an instant. And I think that scared both of us more than either of us could admit.
I press a kiss to Atticus’s forehead and pull the quilt a little higher, my throat tightening as I whisper, “I love you so much, Atti.”
He doesn’t stir, just breathes slow and even. Peaceful. Whole. Safe.
On my way to the door, I notice his closet light is on. Reaching in to tug the string, I stop when I see some etchings in the wooden doorframe. I crouch closer, reading words carved in childlike handwriting.
Ben Farted Here 9-4-1993
No Girls Allowed
Aliens Took Jimmy
Cows are Dumb
Hunter was here
They make me giggle, but the last one gives me pause. What are the odds Hunter wanted this property and his name is carved on the inside of what was clearly some little boy’s closet? And who is Ben? These are questions I realize have a slim chance of ever being answered, so I tug the light string and save them for another day.
Leaving Atticus’s door cracked like always, I head downstairs, flipping on the hobnail milk glass lamp in my office—a vintage piece gifted to me from the same grandmother who sewed a sunflower blanket for her “little sunflower.” The light glows soft and golden through its papery white shade, casting shadows across my desk. The river’s quiet again, less in a hurry than it was earlier. Nothing but the croak of frogs and the whisper of breeze through the trees. Despite the stillness, I replay tonight’s events in my mind on a loop at least a dozen times.
Seeing my small son—my whole world—in Hunter’s strong arms, the seriousness in his bright blue eyes contrasting against the panic chiseled into his face as he rushed Atticus over to me . . .
It was all the things, all at once. The sensations burn at the top of my skin, begging for a release. If I don’t get these words on paper, it’s going to be physically painful.
I settle into my chair and pull out the sunflower notebook. Flipping past the last entry, my fingers are already tingling.