Chapter 3
Edie
The rain has been falling again since dusk. Fine, needling drops wisp against the windows and blur the floodlight outside. Coos Bay after dark always feels so eerie. Smaller, too. Like the world shrinks to what’s inside your own walls, and if you go outside, you’ll see the emptiness that precludes most zombie movies. Gonna be honest. Halloween is not my vibe as much as Christmas is, so I think I’ll hang out in here.
My apartment near Mingus Park isn’t much. Just a one-bedroom over a retired couple who complain if I play music too loudly. The heater rattles to life every few minutes, and still the air has a chill that seeps into my bones. I light the small candle on my counter, anyway, hoping the festive “Evergreen Celebration” scent will make the place feel less empty. Either that, or I’m bringing the woods into my apartment. What’s the difference?
I should be asleep. Or folding laundry. Or answering the texts that piled up this afternoon while I was… distracted. Instead, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, half-clothed, staring at the dress hanging from my closet door. A silky red wrap dress, new, tags still attached. I bought it on sale earlier this summer while in the valley, thinking I’d wear it to the Hall family’s Christmas dinner. Back then, I’d imagined showing up on Nick’s arm.
Now I don’t know who I’m showing up as. Myself? Ha! That’s what my mother would say. The woman who pretended to understand what had happened between Nick and me, while deep inside was losing all of the light in her eyes. She had bankedso muchon…
Nope. Never mind!
I press my palms against my knees and exhale. The whole day has been a blur since that brunch with Wren. Since the truck. Since the way she looked at me like she already knew every thought I was trying to hide, because it’s a small town, and she pays attention.
God.
I drop my head into my hands. My cheeks are still warm just remembering it—the rasp of her voice in my ear, the way she called me angel, the smell of nature-meets-machine in her hair. It’s ridiculous how one kiss can undo years of discipline. I’ve been with men who said they loved me, who tried to pull that same reaction from me, and not one of them ever came close.
Wren didn’t even have to try.
I pace to the window, tugging the curtain aside. Mingus Park glows faintly beneath the streetlamps. Wet paths, the lake rimmed with fog, the fountain turned off for winter… I’ve walked there a hundred times, always feeling like I belonged to this town as long as I stayed properly invisible and small-town quiet.
Because, as you’ve probably gleaned by now… I’m not good at being invisible. Or quiet. It’s those parts of me that make me agreat kindergarten teacher—or, at least, I like to think so. And for most of my life, the only people to push against it were my own teachers and some so-called friends who really weren’t at all. It wasn’t until Nick that I thought of my core personality as a liability. As if extroversion—is that even what I have?—was something to be ashamed of.
But Wren doesn’t think it’s bad. She likes it… right?
I tell myself this is just a rebound reaction. That I’m not actually falling for her, not really. That it’s just been too long since someone touched me and made me feel wanted. That I’m still trying to wash the taste of Nick out of my mouth.Yeah, with his sister’s mouth.Damnit. Damnit!
Except Wren’s touch doesn’t feel like a wash. It marks me. And it’s only been about two occasions.
I step away from the window and turn off the light, letting the room glow only from the flickering candle. My reflection in the glass looks strange. My hair, tousled, lips a little swollen from biting them. I unhook my bra, toss it onto the chair, and crawl under the covers. The sheets are cold, and for a second I imagine Wren’s warm hand sliding up my thigh, the rough drag of her thumb crossing my skin. My breath is trapped in my chest.
Stop it, Edie.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the image away, but it only grows sharper. Her voice—low, teasing, that gravelly confidence that should annoy me but doesn’t. The way she’d looked at me afterward, not like she regretted it, but like she was memorizing me.
I roll onto my side and clutch my pillow. My body aches with wanting, but I don’t move to relieve it. If I start, I won’t stop. And if I let myself do that—if I admit how badly I want her—I’ll have to admit what that means.
That it isn’t just about Nick, or loneliness, or curiosity…
It’s aboutWren.
The girl I grew up half-remembering. The one who used to follow her dad around the yard when our families would have barbecues. We were never close. She was always somewhere else—off with the older kids, or gone completely by high school, while I stayed here and became what everyone expected.
The steady one. The respectable one. The one who goes to the local community college before taking online child development courses because the thought of actually moving to Eugene, Corvallis, orPortlandis too damn much. Even now, thinking about packing up my life and moving to a proper city makes me tremble. I’ve always been a small-town girl. Coos Bay and North Bend are about the right size for me. I could see myself visiting other cities—maybe even other countries—but it has to be temporary. A momentary escape, yeah. Because as much as it’s eerie looking out that door and watching the world close in on a foggy, coastal night… this ismyworld. I’m invested in the kids that are born in Bay Area Hospital and grow up in the local school system. And the kids who move here, whose parents turn to the Bay Area for a new life or to return to their old one! That’s what I’ve always wanted. Not to travel the world and discover that innermost part of me, the one who survives without knowing another language or even how foreign currency works, but to plant my roots right here at home and be a bedrock for future generations to rely on.
Well, Wren also came back. She decided this town was good enough. It doesn’t sound like she has bigger aspirations than her own garage and knowing everyone’s damn business.
She’s back, and I can’t even breathe when she looks at me. In a Christmas tree lot!
I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling, the faint prattle of rain filling the silence. My job, my apartment, my family—all the things that make my life “together”—feel like a costume tearing at the seams. You can sew them up, patch them over, but they’restill there, slowly fading and degrading the quality of your clothes. If anyone at Westside ever found out what happened in that truck, I’d never hear the end of it. Hell, I can barely look at myself in the mirror now.
But, God, it felt so good.
I rub my hands over my face and groan quietly. Maybe I should call someone, talk myself down. But who? Most of my friends are more like colleagues, people I grab coffee with when schedules line up. The only person I used to talk to about real things with was Nick, and that bridge is well and truly burned.
I’m on my own.
