Last night’s storm wreaked havoc on the surrounding area. The wind destroyed a few trees, and we had to cut down broken branches. Only a few fence posts were screwed up from the high wind. We made it out lucky.
A confirmed tornado touched down a mile from Drummond Farms. And I can’t get it out of my head. The idea of her getting hurt, of being in harm’s way, does something to my insides. Not to mention, the hate-fuck she initiated. Holy shit, watching Wren go all femme domme was the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed. She made sure I knew it was a one-time thing—we’ll see—and she was riding me for her benefit only, as if I didn’t reap any rewards.
Climbing the steps to the small loft area of the Legion, I pick an empty seat where folding chairs are centered in a circle. I’m early, but the rest of the group should be arriving shortly.
Digging in my pocket, I pull out my phone to find a slew of messages: another buyer interested in fifty head of cattle, a Columbus barbecue place wanting to be supplied, broken fences on the east pasture, and my grandma asking if I’ll be at dinner. Life as a farmer never ends, but my bi-monthly Tuesdays at nine-thirty are my time. It’s the only time I’m completely selfish with my appointments.
As more people file in, the room begins to hum with low chatter and the sound of metal chairs scraping on the floor. Group therapy is held at the American Legion, before opening, but it's open to anyone sixteen and older from the surrounding area, not just veterans.
“Morning, let’s get started,” Margo Hughes says, settling into her chair and adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses. She retired from human resources at one of the local factories and tookonline courses and seminars to learn how to be a group facilitator. Margo started this group before I moved back to Silo Bay, after her husband passed away.
There’s something about her presence and no-bullshit personality that speaks to me. Somehow, she manages to get people in these hard-ass chairs twice a month to discuss our feelings.
“Good morning, everyone,” Margo starts. “If you’re new or a returning guest, we welcome you. Before we get started, please make sure all phones are silenced, and as a reminder, what's shared stays in this group.”
Her gaze rotates around the circle, where people in every stage of life sit anxiously waiting to see who will be the lucky—or unlucky—person she calls on to lead the session. A soft smirk tugs at her wrinkled lips, her eyes suggesting she knows exactly what happened last night. Maybe there’s a thought bubble above my head, screaming,I had sex with my ex.
“Jett, it’s been a while since we’ve heard from you. Why don’t you start today’s meeting?”
I rub my hands down my jeans, the callouses catching on the denim as I take a deep breath. “Where should I begin?”
She shrugs. “Wherever you’d like. This is your time to talk while we listen without judgment.”
Without judgment. She definitely knows something happened…
My throat goes dry. I’ve never been one to share how I’m feeling. Emotions are meant to be kept inside. I come to these sessions to not feel alone. Shifting in my seat, I take off my cap, running my fingers through my hair before placing it back on my head.
“I’m—I’m doing fine,” I answer, taking a sip of my coffee.
Margo quirks her eyebrow before giving adon’t bullshit meexpression.
I sigh, shuffling in my seat until my elbows are resting on my knees. If I’m going to share my thoughts, I’m going to be relaxed while doing it.
“I’ve been better,” I grumble, and a few heads nod as if they understand exactly what I mean.
“It’s been an interesting twenty-four hours with the storm blowing through, but last night, I did something, and I’m not sure if I was foolish or brave.”
No one says anything as they give me a second to process and sort through my thoughts.
I glance down at my boots, the leather scuffed and worn on my Ariats. Mud still clings to the soles from this morning in the field.
“Last night, with the storm coming, I knew I needed to get to the farm. I needed to make sure that everything was secure, but when I was driving past their secondary drive, I…” My words trail off as my throat tightens. “I couldn’t escape the feeling that she needed me more.”
“Wren?” Margo asks softly, and I give a terse nod. “Why did you think she needed you?”
And there’s the million-dollar question. Why do I think Wren needs me now? It’s been ten years since we were us. I left, and she moved away. She found another man, and I never forgot her.
“I’ve been telling myself it was because of the storm. She’s staying in the tiny cottage on their property without any shelter from tornadoes, and I wanted to make sure she was safe.”
“I’m not sure that’s everything. What do you think?”
I nod again. “Rafe didn’t get the chance to see his wife and kids again. A part of me feels like this is my second chance. That she came back into my life for a reason, and I owe it to myself, to Rafe, to try again.”
“Rafe is your friend who didn’t make it home, correct?”
My throat burns as images of Rafe lying in my arms, losing his fight, flash in my mind. Emotion clogs my throat. I nod again.
The circle stays quiet—too quiet. The hum of the ice machine downstairs is the only sound. I hatesilence.
