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 know, maybe this makes me sound petty, but you’re finally getting a taste of your own medicine, and I kind of love this for you,” she says, wearing a smug smirk that only serves to discredit most of what she’s saying. People like Natalie don’t change. She’s as jealous and insecure as she’s ever been. “Also, you know she’s still texting her ex, right? He blows her phone up all the time. If you ask me, she’s still not over him. She says she is, but . . .” Natalie sips her drink. “Anyway. Nice to see you, Hunter. Enjoy being book material while it lasts.”
Wren’s still talking to Nick? After I warned him off? And she didn’t tell me? Was she not comfortable asking for my help?
This, along with the notebook and Wren’s insistence that we should just keep things physical, is starting to make sense now. She never let me in—not as deep as I thought she did. She kept things from me.
From the start, I secretly worried I wasn’t capable of meeting her depth.
But I thought she was giving me a chance.
Turns out she was keeping me at an arm’s length the whole time—same as I did to her in the beginning.
I never saw this coming, but then again, that’s what makes love dangerous: You never do.
52
Wren
I can’t stay in this house a second longer.
Every time I pass a window, I catch a glimpse of the lodge on the hill—Hunter’s house, looming over me like a shadow I can’t escape. And every time I see it, I feel everything all over again. Anger. Sadness. Confusion. That awful ache that settles in my stomach and just sits there.
I haven’t written a single word in days. Every time I sit down, my head floods with him. His mouth on mine. His voice in the dark. His promises. The way I feel every time I’m around him, calm and at ease, like nothing could go wrong as long as he’s by my side.
I stuff my laptop and notebook—a new one the color of maraschino cherries, because the sunflower notebook is still missing—into my bag and drive into town, aiming for the coffee shop. Maybe a change of scenery will shake something loose.
I’m pulling into a spot across the street when I catch them.
Hunter.
And Natalie.
They’re outside the coffee shop, him in his truck, her standing beside him, deep in conversation. Natalie’s grinning, laughing, her hand brushing his arm like she has every right to touch him. Hunter’s head is down, too far away for me to read his expression.
I don’t get out of the car. I stay there, frozen, watching, slumped down behind my steering wheel while my heart sinks lower with every passing second.
Hunter told me Natalie meant nothing.
Natalie said Hunter was ancient history.
I believe him.
But he’s listening to her, hearing her out.
And the longer I watch, the sicker I feel.
What if Natalie lied? What if she took my notebook, showed it to him, spun some story about me being unstable or obsessed? About me using him? She could’ve convinced him I was exploiting him for the sake of some stupid book. She’s clever enough. Petty enough.
And now, maybe she’s using it to worm her way back into his life.
My blood runs cold at a different thought—one of her not spinning a narrative that I used him as book material. Instead I imagine her poking fun at my “teenage girl diary,” maybe pointing out how pathetic my confessions are and using my rawest, most vulnerable emotions to paint me in a cringey light.
Whatever she’s saying to him about my notebook, it’s out of context—and that’s a thought that chills me to the core.
I’d give anything to see his face right now. Does he look annoyed? Bothered? Is he eating this up? Laughing along with her? A hundred scenarios fill my mind, none of them ideal.
I’m still spiraling when my phone vibrates in the cup holder.
Another text. I hold my breath, unreasonably hoping it’s from Hunter.
Nick: I’m coming to Colton Valley.
I stare at it, dread sinking low in my gut. Before I can overthink it, he’s calling.
I answer. “Don’t. Don’t come here. You’re not welcome here.”
“Wren, please,” he says, his voice low, urgent. “Hear me out.”
“There’s nothing you can say to change anything,” I snap. “You’ve done enough.”
“I’m not trying to change anything. I just want to apologize to Atti,” Nick says. “That’s all I want. That’s what I’ve been trying to do this entire time. I know I blew it with you, I know you don’t owe me the time of day, but I feel awful about what I did to Atticus. Let me tell him I’m sorry. I at least owe him that.”
I blink, caught off guard. I never expected that. But the way he says it, I can tell—this has been the real reason he’s kept contacting me. He wants closure. Or maybe absolution.