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)
Wren sits up, eyes wide. “Natalie Dinsmore?”
I wince. “Ah, so you know her.”
“That’s one of my oldest friends. We’ve been hanging out.”
I rub the back of my neck. “So she’s the one filling your head with stories about me?”
She doesn’t answer, just stares at me, her mouth pressed tight.
“Natalie meant nothing,” I tell her. “We dated a little over six months. She wanted to move fast—marriage, babies, the whole thing. But I wasn’t feeling it. I kept hoping maybe I’d catch up, maybe the connection would show up, but it didn’t. There was never a spark. It was always surface level, performative. I never really felt like I knew the real her.”
Wren is quiet, contemplative.
“She seemed . . . desperate. Her clock was ticking, early thirties, ready for the next chapter whether I was or not. She didn’t get my humor. She hated my long hours. Always starting fights about me not making enough time for her.” I shake my head. “It was never gonna work, so I ended it. I didn’t want to waste her time.”
Wren watches me, her expression unreadable.
“She didn’t take it well. Tried for months to get me back. Blew up my phone every day. Left me crying voicemails. Texted me big, long paragraphs. She must’ve been more attached than I thought. Took her a few years to get over me—least, that’s what I’ve been told.”
I meet her gaze, my voice steady. “It’s in the past, Wren. It means nothing. You need to know that.”
She shakes her head slowly. “I’m not upset about that.”
“No?”
She looks down, frowning. “I’m upset that Natalie never mentioned it. We’ve talked about you multiple times. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling that answer isn’t gonna make this easier.
46
Wren
I planted sunflowers near the river this morning. Not for me, but for Ben—technically for Hunter. I wanted him to have a place to go to “be” with Ben, a memorial of sorts. I thought maybe this might be a way to quietly heal a part of Hunter. I think about the way his eyes turned glassy and his voice broke as he told me the story. It was as if he was still there, the moment fresh in his memory. Having to stay off the land for decades after Rich Sanders bought it must’ve been difficult for him, but I want him to know he’s welcome here anytime he wants.
I don’t quite have a green thumb yet, but I thought, too, this might resonate with Hunter because the soil, the sun, the seasons—that’s his language.
Sunflowers seemed like the obvious choice, not just because they’re stubborn and resilient but because they’re always turning their faces to the sun no matter how heavy their heads get. My grandmother once told me sunflowers symbolize loyalty, adoration, and longevity—things, I imagine, that defined the bond between Hunter and his brother.
When these eventually grow and bloom, Hunter will have a place to visit that doesn’t require words, apologies, or explanations. A place that isn’t sterile or grave-like but living, breathing, and growing. Something beautiful rising in a place where everything went dark. A reminder that life always goes on, even in places where death once stood.
My hope is that with enough time, this will be a place where Hunter can come to unburden himself, to forgive himself—because I know he still blames himself for what happened, even if he didn’t say it.
The dirt is still under my fingernails, my knees a little sore from kneeling too long, but I don’t care. It’ll take months for the flowers to grow—maybe longer if the soil doesn’t cooperate—but I love the symbolism of it. A stretch of tall, unapologetically bright flowers in a place that’s carried nothing but darkness and grief for too long.
There’s a weeping willow nearby, its branches sweeping low like they’re mourning something too. But I think the sunflowers will brighten the space. I’ve already decided I’ll add some colorful wildflowers—blues, pinks, purples. When it all fills in, it’ll be like sunshine surrounded by the soft chaos of color.
I’m going to order a bench too. Something solid and weatherproof, something to last all year round because grief knows no season.
Hunter’s done so much for me and for Atticus. He’s shown up again and again, never asking for anything in return. I want to give him something back. Something meaningful.
Back inside, I’m folding Atticus’s laundry in his room, the repetitive task soothing in a way I didn’t expect. But even as I match his tiny socks and stack his folded shirts, my mind keeps circling one thing like a vulture: Natalie.
Why didn’t she tell me about Hunter? About their history? Especially if he broke her heart like he said. If it took her years to get over him, why wouldn’t she have mentioned it? We’ve talked about Hunter plenty of times. It would’ve been easy to slip it into conversation, even casually.