Page 18 of Off the Beaten Path

I nod, even though he can’t see me. It makes sense, and I agree that he’s making the right choice, but my eyes still drift to the mountains surrounding the town, knowing there’s a dilapidated, gutted cabin up in those trees that has to be renovated in less than three months.

“Wren?” Jimmy asks, pulling me from my downward spiral.

I clear my throat, hoping he won’t hear the frantic tears clogging it or sense the anxiety clawing at my insides. “Don’t give it another thought, Jimmy,” I say. “I’m so sorry to hear about Miss B. I’m glad she has you to take care of her.”

Jimmy lets out a relieved sigh, and I can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose between his graying eyebrows, his forehead lined with concern. “Thanks for being so understanding. I’m happy to get you the contact information of some of my contractor friends. Maybe one of them can help you out, although I’m not sure how quickly.”

“That would be great, thanks,” I respond, and my voice cracks on the last word. “Listen, I’ve got to get off here, but keep me posted on how Miss B is.”

“Will do, Wren. Thanks again.”

I pressendon the phone call and lean against the cool glass of the antique store window, only now realizing that the wetness on my face is tears and not rain. My phone beeps again. I glance down at it, hoping it’s Jimmy saying this was all a mistake, but it’s a notification from my credit card company that my payment is due soon.

The bell above the antique shop door chimes, and Mrs. Heeter, the owner, steps out, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “Wren, what are you doing out here in the cold?”

My lips stretch in what I hope is a convincing smile. “Just had to take a phone call, Mrs. Heeter. I’m heading out now.”

Her eyes soften with worry as she no doubt notices my red eyes. “Are you sure, honey?”

I nod, holding my stiff smile in place. “I’m fine. See you later. I’ll probably be in to look for some furniture for the cabin soon.”

This brings some levity to her expression, her eyes lighting up. “I’ll hold back some pieces for you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Heeter. See you soon.”

That is, if I can find someone to renovate this cabin. As I stare up at the mountains again, I feel as gutted and hopeless as my cabin.

There’sapackageonmy porch when I return home for lunch on Monday, and unfortunately, I’m not even angry about it. My gaze darts over to Wren’s cottage. The bright yellow of her front door looks especially cheery on this gray day. The rain falls in heavy sheets, almost obscuring my view, but when I make out the warm glow of the lights on in her living room, my heart picks up speed.

We haven’t talked since Matty’s, not in person or through messages, and I’m shocked at how much I miss it. To be honest, I haven’t been sure what to say. A small piece of me worries that now that she’s gotten close enough to know me, she didn’t like what she saw and bolted. That’s undoubtedly related to Mia, or if I go back further, to my father, who left the minute the strip turned pink. It’s probably something I should talk about with a therapist, but just thinking about that gives me hives.

Needless to say, the whole Wren situation has taken up more mental space over the last few days than I care to admit.

Now, though, I have a reason to go over there and see what’s going on in her head, once and for all.

Icy rain beats down on my skin, soaking through the material of my jacket. It weighs down the thick mass of my hair, landing with heavy drops on my eyelashes, as I make my way across the yard separating our houses.

The closer I get, the brighter the lights in her living room glow, assuring me she’s home. Her vintage yellow Volkswagen Beetle is parked in her gravel drive, but Wren likes to walk through town, even in the worst of weather. Sometimes I’ll look out the window and see her standing in the rain with her face lifted up to the sky. If June notices, she begs to run outside too, and I’ll hear her peals of laughter from across the yard as the two of them jump in puddles or dance to upbeat music Wren cues up on her outdoor speakers.

My hand shakes as I pound on her door. I hate myself for the bolt of nerves that spreads through me as I wait. The seconds tick by, painfully slow, and with each passing one, my jaw clenches tighter, my shoulders lifting until my collar is covering my ears against the damp cold.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting when she opens the door, but it isn’t Wren’s tear-filled eyes. She lookswrecked, and my chest pinches at the sight, my instincts screaming at me to fix whatever made her look like that.

“What’s wrong?” I don’t mean for it to come out like a bark, but when Wren flinches, I instinctively take a step closer and clench my fists at my sides. I scan her body, looking for an injury. “Are you hurt?”

She stares up at me with wide, surprised eyes before finally shaking her head.

I bend at the knees so I can get in her line of sight. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

And then Wren collapses into me, her arms banding around my middle, her face finding the soft spot between my neck and shoulder. Warm tears soak through the collar of my shirt, and for a moment, I stand, unmoving, not sure how to respond. But when her body shudders on a sob, it’s instinct to pull her a little closer, rest my chin on the top of her head.

“Jimmy quit,” she says into my chest, so muffled by my flannel that I can hardly make out the words.

My free hand, the one not holding onto the bubble mailer, runs up and down her back in soothing circles. “Who’s Jimmy?”

“Jimmy Chin.”

“The contractor?” Jimmy is a staple in town, doing this since before I was even alive. I was afraid to step on his toes when I started my business after moving back from Charlotte, but he said there was enough work to go around, and I’ve always been grateful for that.

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