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“Wow,” she whispered. “I’ll take that as a compliment. That reminds me, have you been journaling?”
“I did it a few times, and then I stopped.”
“You should go back to it.”
“You’re bossy.”
“I care about you, Moody. That’s all.”
I tilted my head. “You haven’t called me Moody in a while.”
“Yeah, well, I feel like we’ve worked our way back to it.” She smiled.
I smiled back.
I wanted to kiss her. And that really sucked.
She took a drink and put her glass down. “Oh, I wanted to tell you. I came across this article, and I wondered if it might be helpful when it comes to Rafe.”
“Okay…”
“There’s this therapist I follow online. He has his clients tell their stories in third person—like, their entire life story summarized. He doesn’t want them to think about it too deeply. So it’s sort of like journaling, a brain dump. But he wants them to use third person because he feels like if they hear their story play out as if it were someone else’s life, it helps build self-compassion. That’s something we all struggle with, self-compassion. At least I do.”
“I do agree that people can be roughest on themselves. Forgiving people who’ve wronged you is hard, but it’s nothing compared to forgiving yourself. I feel like I have a lot of personal experience when it comes to that struggle.”
“What are you having trouble forgiving yourself for?” she asked.
Do you have all night? I certainly didn’t want to open up that can of worms right now. I shook my head. “Not tonight. I’m in too good of a mood.”
She nodded in understanding and didn’t pry any further.
“So, Wren…” I said, eager to change the subject.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you tell me your story in the third person.”
“Ah. I get it. So it’s okay for you to pry but not me. Some things never change.”
I smiled and nodded toward the living room. “Come on. Let’s sit.” I carried the bottle of wine over to the coffee table before lighting the fireplace. Wren made herself comfortable on the sofa.
“Be right back,” I said, wanting to check in with Rafe.
I went to his room to peek in on him. He was playing video games and removed his headphones when he saw me standing in the doorway.
“You okay? You want dessert? You left the table before you could have any.”
He shook his head no.
“You want to come hang out with Wren and me? We could watch a movie.”
He shook his head again.
“Alright.” I sighed.
I returned to the living room to take a seat across from Wren on the couch, making sure I wasn’t sitting too close.
“Is he okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. He was just playing video games. I told him you were still here if he wanted to come downstairs and hang out with us.”
“I’m sure he prefers to just play his game, like most teenagers.”
I nodded. “Even if he’s not joining us, I still think it’s good for him to feel like this house is a bit more alive. Like if he did come out right now, he’d see more than just me sitting in that chair reading historical war fiction.”
“War fiction? I didn’t know that was your jam.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty much what I do at night. Read.” And watch you play cello. “I even have reading glasses,” I added. “Does that make me old?”
“No, glasses are hot on men.” She laughed. “And men who read? That’s even sexier.”
I shrugged. “What one person finds old and boring, another finds sexy. Interesting.”
“You’re proof that someone can be all three of those things—old, boring, and sexy.” She winked.
“Wiseass.”
“What are some of your favorite books?” she asked.
“Are you looking for a recommendation?”
“Historical war fiction isn’t my thing, so no. But I’m curious about what you like.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be telling me your story?”
She let out a long sigh. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“You didn’t, but I’d still like to hear it.”
Seeming hesitant, she tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Can I pour more wine first?”
“Allow me.” I grabbed the bottle and poured us each another glass.
Wren cleared her throat. “Okay…”
I settled into my seat and gave her my full attention.
Chewing on her lip, she closed her eyes. Then she opened them and started. “Wren McCallister…had no idea where she really came from, nor did she care. Because where she was—safe in the home of Chuck and Eileen McCallister—was exactly where she was meant to be. Until the age of five, Wren’s doting mother made sure her daughter lived a charmed life. Eileen gave Wren her undivided attention, whether it was accompanying her on playdates, baking cookies, or doing artwork together. Wren’s perfect life came to a screeching halt one day when her mother, on the way home from grocery shopping, was struck and killed by a wrong-way driver.” She closed her eyes for a moment.
