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)
There’s a page where she writes about independence like it’s her religion, but then right under that, like a whispered secret—she writes I think I could need him if I let myself.
Some pages are stained. Like she was crying when she wrote them.
I’m starting to think this wasn’t a gimmick or some cold, calculated thing.
It’s just her, being a complicated human like the rest of us.
I close the notebook, my thumb resting on the weathered cover, and lean back in my chair.
I’m done spinning my wheels about this. Done listening to other people.
I need to go talk to Wren—hear it straight from her. Let her explain—or yell at me or slam the door in my face. Hell, I probably deserve that much for going radio silent on her, for keeping her at arm’s length when she let me into her world without much hesitation.
But I’m not doing this guessing game anymore.
I need to know once and for all . . . was any of this real?
56
Wren
Nick should be here any minute.
I’m in the kitchen, trying to prep Atticus—gently, cautiously—for what’s about to happen. Not that I have the right words for this kind of thing. There’s no parenting manual for ex-fiancé shows up to apologize for ghosting your kid.
“He’s just coming to visit for a little bit,” I tell him, smoothing a wrinkle from his T-shirt. “Just to say a few words, okay?”
Atticus lights up. “Is he moving in with us? On the farm?”
I shake my head, swallowing the lump that rises. “No, baby. He’s not moving in. He just wanted to see you since he didn’t get to say goodbye before, that’s all.”
Atticus frowns, but he nods. I can tell he doesn’t understand—not fully—but he’s trying to. Trying to wrap his little brain around the grown-up mess he was subjected to.
Then I hear the crunch of tires on gravel and peek out the front window.
There it is. The shiny black BMW. Classic Nick. A fresh haircut, a designer shirt that probably cost more than my monthly utilities, tailored pants, and that signature cocky confidence he always wears like cologne. He didn’t get dressed up like this for my five-year-old.
Thinking about how I used to find this attractive makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little.
Atticus runs ahead of me, bursting out the door just as Nick steps out of the car. Nick barely gets a foot on the driveway before Atticus barrels into him, and Nick scoops him up like they do this every weekend.
“Whoa! Look at you!” Nick laughs, spinning him around. “You’re getting huge!”
Atticus beams, babbling excitedly, already pulling Nick by the hand. He drags him all over the property—the river, the gazebo, the barn, Sugarplum. Nick plays along, pretending to be impressed, though I can tell he’s just following the kid’s lead. That’s the thing about Nick—he’s always been good at performance.
At one point, Atticus tugs on his sleeve. “Can I show you the house?”
“No, honey,” I call from behind. “Nick isn’t staying long.”
Atticus pouts but doesn’t argue. Eventually, we circle back to the driveway, standing beside the front passenger door of Nick’s car.
Nick crouches and lifts Atticus onto his hip, settling him there like he weighs nothing.
“Hey, buddy,” he says gently, “I wanted to tell you something important.”
Atticus stares up at him, wide-eyed, all ears.
Nick clears his throat, glances at me—like he’s searching for the right words—but I don’t help him. This is his mess to clean up.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he tells Atticus. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be your dad. I really wanted to, I did. But . . .”
He looks at me again, then back at Atticus.
“Your mom and me . . . well, sometimes adults figure out they’re not meant to be together. And when you’re older, maybe you’ll understand. And maybe we can talk more about it then. But for now, I wanted you to know I think you’re the coolest kid I’ve ever met, and I’m so proud of you, and I know you’re going to do amazing things with your life.”
Atticus looks down, his little hand clutching Nick’s collar. He doesn’t cry, but I can see the sadness swimming in his eyes. The whole moment—Nick’s unexpected kindness, Atticus’s reaction, it moves me to tears, but I blink them away before they have a chance to fall.
“Okay,” Atti whispers.
I cross my arms, hugging myself. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing that’ll make this easier or cleaner.
I’m waiting for Nick to get going when I hear it—the low rumble of a diesel engine, the distinct hum of tires on gravel.
I turn my head just in time to see Hunter’s big white truck barreling toward my house, kicking up dust like he’s a man on a mission.
Of all the times for him to show up . . .