“On what?”
He lifts his head then, and his eyes bore into mine. I feel like one of his suspects on the other side of an interrogation table.
“You know,” he starts, pausing to scan around the cottage. “I can’t believe you actually moved out here.”
“Why?” I snap defensively. “I’m not too good for the farm.”
Nate raises his hand. “Drop the attitude, Wren. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounded exactly like what you meant.”
“I meant…” He sighs, running a hand over his cropped hair. “Silo Bay isn’t like it used to be. There are more places to live—new apartments on Main and the condos at Sunset Shores are really nice.”
“Still sounds like you’re saying I’m too good for the farm. Did you forget I grew up here?”
“Did you?” Nate bites back. His words feel like a sting across my cheek.
My eyes narrow on him. “Lowfuckingblow.”
“Is it?” Nate shrugs, sitting up straighter in his chair. “It feels like you moved away and forgot about this town, this farm. Hell, your own family.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“No? When was the last timeyouwere home? Surely, it wasn't when Dad had his health scare.”What health scare?“It definitely wasn’t when Momdied. No, you were nowhere to be found whileIwas stuck holding everything together. Making funeral arrangements and taking on more roles on the farmbecauseourfather was too busy grieving his wife. Or helping run my girlfriend’s son to places becauseshewashere, putting in hours she didn’t have to spare, by helping Grandma feedourfarmhands while she was drowning in her own grief of losingher oldest daughter. It was hell around here, and where were you? All you could do was send a fucking check and wave your money around. Money doesn’t fix everything, Wren.” His chest heaves as his words crack at the end.
Tears burn behind my eyes as I fight the urge to blurt,I was there!But I can’t. He can’t know, because if I tell him that, then I’ll have to tell him everything. And I’m not ready to open that can of worms. But he wasn’t supposed to know about the check. The receptionist assured me it’d be anonymous. Either I shouldn’t have trusted her, or my brother figured it out.
“So forgive me for thinking you’re too good for our farm.”
I’m stuck, frozen, unable to move. For once, I'm speechless. I don’t look at him, but I hear him moving. A strong hand grips my shoulder, and he squeezes gently.
“I’m glad you’re home, Wren. Really, I am.”
I nod at his gentle tone, unable to say anything.
“But I’m allowed to be upset about the last few years.”
Again, I can only nod. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach, learning Dad had a health scare, and I’m stunned at my brother’s candid honesty.
“Call if you need me.”
And with that, he leaves. The ache swells in my chest until I can’t breathe around it. I stand and watch my brother drive down the gravel path, dirt kicking up in his wake. The urge to curl into myself is strong, but I’m stronger. Walking into the kitchen, I grip the counter, swallow down the emotions, and start unpacking. This house has survived storms, time, and neglect. Maybe I can too.
Hours later, with a few boxes of kitchen items unpacked, my clothes steamed and hung in my closet, there's a silence settlingover the cottage. One that's thick enough to feel. Something I'm not ready for.
So I light a candle, the bergamot, juniper, and marine one I found on Main Street, pour a glass of wine, settle myself cross-legged on the floor, and rip open one of the new furniture boxes. Determination sets in as I sip my wine. Too good for this farm, my ass.
I belong here, and I can do this. Although the wood panels scattered across the rug and bags of screws spilling out next to one of those tiny Allen wrenches feel like they're mocking me.
“This is fine,” I mutter, tugging out the instructions. “I’m going to make this furniture my bitch.”
Piece by piece, I build. My phone hums low with music—The Chicks, “Wide Open Spaces.” As I hum along, I realize the lyrics hit harder in this old cottage with my mom’s ghost in the walls. She always had music playing. Often, I came down here with her to help keep the cottage clean. I’d sit at the counter while she wiped down walls, singing along to The Chicks and George Strait. For a moment, it’s like I can hear her voice, soft and low.
The thought clogs my throat. I take another sip of wine and keep going.
Tightening the last screw, I feel a surge of pride at the new nightstand. Now to manhandle this awkward table into my bedroom. I should’ve built the damn thing upstairs, but oh well.
Tucking my phone into my pocket, I grip the nightstand and awkwardly navigate it through the tight cottage. My shoulder bumps into a wall, and I’m grateful I didn’t scrape the paint. I might have a bruise there tomorrow, but it’s worth it.
