“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Bullshit. Wren’s back. You get in a fight her first night out. You think people aren’t going to connect the dots?”
I rake a hand down my face, the stubble rasping against my palm. “I didn’t go looking for it.”
For her.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve always had blinders on when it comes to Wren.”
The field lights buzz louder, or maybe it’s the blood in my ears. Audrey makes another clean play, and the crowd cheers, but all I hear is Levi’s words pressing into me.
“Well, she’s pissed at me, so she’ll probably be keeping her distance.”
He huffs a dry laugh. “I can imagine being the reason for a bar fight isn’t exactly how she wanted to start her time back in town.”
“Not sure that’s the reason.” Shaking my head, I mutter, “At least not all of it...”
“What do you m—” Eyes pinched, he turns his head to look at me. “She doesn’t know yourdad is the reason you left, does she?”
I stay quiet, eyes on the field, my silence the admission.
“Shit, Jett. No wonder she’s pissed. Does she really think you just left her?”
“I think so. Something doesn’t add up, and I can’t figure out what.”
Levi finally gets me to meet his gaze with a grip on my shoulder, steady and unflinching. “So tell her.”
If only it was as simple as that.
Chapter 5
Wren
Theairsmellslikea memory.
The closer I get to Main Street, the stronger it becomes—the briny pull of the lake, the earthy tang of damp soil, spring mixing with the faint sweetness of budding trees. It’s the kind of scent that seeps into everything: your clothes, your hair, your bones.
And still, when I step onto the sidewalk, my first thought is caffeine.
The sign above the shop is hand-painted, wood worn smooth at the edges, the kind of detail that catches your attention. Shoreline Sips. The perfect name for the coffee shop on the edge of Main. Their back patio gives an unobstructed view of Lake Drummond—the lake named after my family.
I pause, my fingers grazing the door frame as I stare inside the packed shop, my reflection faint in the glass. Loose taupe dress, hem fluttering against my thighs. Cream suede boots, scuffed enough to look lived in. Sunglasses shield my eyes from the locals.
I look like I belong here and nowhere all at once.
The bell chimes as I step inside, and for a moment, I’m swallowed up by it—the shop, the air, the soundscape of low conversation and soft indie folk humming from a speaker overhead. The walls are creamy white with pops of exposed brick. Plants spill from the ceiling in macramé hangers. Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, with string lights draped betweenthem. Booths lined in leather the color of honey flank the wall, while a polished wood bar runs the length of the room.
It smells like heaven. Coffee, pastry dough, and a faint undercurrent of vanilla bean and cinnamon.
I inhale deeply, then exhale slowly. Maybe I can anchor myself before being discovered by the locals.
My boots click against the old wooden-planked floor, and a hush falls over the space. It’s so quiet I can make out the lyrics to “My Silver Lining” by First Aid Kit. With my shoulders pushed back, I let the whispers and stares fuel my walk.
The menu is written on a blackboard above the counter, script letters listing lattes, cold brews, and pour-overs. And, unexpectedly, matcha.
“Good morning!”
I glance down at the petite barista; her name tag says Julie. She’s not much older than me, maybe in her early thirties, hair pulled up into a half-bun, half-chaos style that lets loose curls tumble in vivid indigo blue waves around her shoulders. Against the muted tones of her chambray shirt and inked skin, the color shines like a secret rebellion in this small town where most people play it safe. Her eyes hold curiosity, but not judgment. Not the kind coming from the patrons.
