Papers?I don’t even know what papers he’s referring to. Did Collin, my lawyer, find something and send him over documentation? Did the network? Was it my bodyguard, Leo? He was one of my only true friends in California, and when he caught on to what was happening, he was the one to help make arrangements to get me out.
Elias
You’ll payfor this, slut.
The words crawl across my skin, but I swipe them away before the spiral can take me under.
And then, something different catches my eyes. A Facebook notification.Rachel has invited you to join The Bay Buzz.
A laugh sputters from my throat, half relief, half disbelief. Only in Silo Bay would there be an online gossip rag. I hit accept and immediately exit before I can fall into the rabbit hole of small-town gossip. Not without caffeine.
An hour later, I pad downstairs. Hair curled loosely, lips glossed, overalls and boots pulled from the back of my closet. I tell myself it’s practical farm wear, not a deliberate attempt to look like I…fit in. Definitely not in case I bump into a certain someone.
In the kitchen, I tug open the fridge. There it is—a casserole wrapped in foil, with a note taped to the top.
The words blur as my throat tightens. Smiling through the sting, I fold the note carefully and slip it into my purse.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I want to believe I’m exactly where I need to be.
The crunch of gravel under my tires fills the cab, loud against the stillness of a Silo Bay morning. Dustcurls in the side mirrors like smoke trails, disappearing in the bright spring air. My dad’s old Chevy rattles around me, each creak and groan a reminder that this truck has outlived more memories than it should have.
The radio hums low, static giving way to the steady strum of “By and By” by Caamp. The familiar rasp of the singer’s voice tugs at something soft I’d locked away years ago. This song sounds like home—like bonfires on the edge of our field, like stolen nights on the riverbank with Jett’s arm heavy around my shoulders.
I grip the wheel tighter because nostalgia is a liar. It glosses over the pain, skipping straight to the sweetness. Nostalgia doesn’t tell you how much it hurts to lose the only boy you ever loved.
The Chevy jostles over a pothole as the old silo looms in the distance, rust running down its sides like tears. That’s where we kissed for the first time—me breathless and reckless, him tasting like summer beer and wintergreen. God, I was young. Too young to understand how permanent first loves become.
I push the memory away, focusing on the road.
The Riggsby farm stretches wide as I turn down the long lane. Fences cut the property into pastures, with cattle grazing slowly and unbothered. A hawk circles overhead, its shadow gliding across the ground. Barns and outbuildings scatter like anchors—some old, leaning with the years, others gleaming with fresh metal. The air shifts with the scent of cattle, hay, and diesel, pungent enough to sting my nose.
Their farmhouse comes into view at the end of the drive: a sprawling log ranch, its dark stain mellowed by time, two dormers watching from above like eyes that never blink. The wide porch sprawls across the front, rocking chairs lined in a neat row, waiting. I used to sit there with Lydia and Jett’s mom, Nora, in the evenings, lemonade sweating down the glass while she told me stories about raising boys in a town too small to hold them. I can still hear Jett laughing from the yard, his shirt off,shoulders bronzed, hollering for me to join him as he scooped manure.
I swallow hard.
Pulling the Chevy off to the side, the brakes squeak in protest as I slip it into park. My pulse stutters in my throat. Why am I nervous? It’s a casserole delivery from Grams. I’ve been here a million times.
And Jett won’t even be here.
Right?
I grab the dish from the passenger seat and shove open the heavy door with the heel of my boot. The slam echoes across the quiet yard.
“Mark Drummond, what brings you by?”
The voice startles me. I glance up to see Lydia Riggsby already circling the truck, quick and spry despite the years etched into her frame.
Then she gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth. “Oh my goodness. Wren? Is that you?”
Heat rushes to my face. “Hi, Mrs. Riggsby.”
The last time I saw her, my life fit neatly into this town, into Jett, into this farm and the plan we had. Now? I’m sheepish, uncertain of the welcome I deserve.
But she doesn’t scold, doesn't ask where I’ve been, or why I left without goodbyes. Instead, she folds me into her arms, the casserole dish pressed awkwardly between us. My body stiffens on instinct—too many months of bracing for the wrong kind of touch—but slowly, I let myself sink into her warmth.
Her palm rubs circles over my back like I’m still seventeen.
When she pulls away, she cradles my cheek in her small, work-worn hand. “Don’t they have food in LA? Kale isn’t a meal, sweetheart. You’re far too skinny. But as beautiful as ever.” Her eyes are kind, lined at the corners from years of smiling, and for a fleeting second, I forget how badly my chest aches.
