Page 17 of Homesick

She looks between the two of us and I think she can sense the tension in the air. She walks around the bar and gives Blake a hug. My heart melts for a moment. Seeing them in the same room brings up memories of how close they’ve always been.

For a split second, I see Blake’s eyes wash over his mom and there’s worry in them, but it’s quickly replaced when his eyes land on mine again.

“You’re not bothering poor Wren, are you? She has full permission to kick you out,” she says and shoots a wink my way.

Blake’s demeanor changes and if I wasn’t so irritated with his presence, I might find it cute how nervous he looks. He’s always been a momma’s boy to his core. If he thought Sheila was disappointed in him, he’d fall apart instantly. I wonder what she said when you broke my heart, I think to myself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother. I was simply telling her how you won’t shut about up how amazing she is since you both started working together.”

I roll my eyes at the blatant lie, but keep my mouth shut. It would be fun to see her yell at him, though.

“That sounds more like my boy,” she says, patting him on the back.

“Well, this has been fun, but I’ve got to get to work. Here’s your house key you forgot this morning.”

“Thanks, hun. Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve had to work late the last few days. I’ll let you know later,” he says giving his mom another hug.

I can’t help but notice he holds her a little longer and squeezes her a little tighter than he did before her cancer diagnosis. I see the sweet Blake I grew up with shine through the surface, but it’s quickly dimmed when he pulls away.

He turns to walk away and gives me one last smug look before heading toward the door. I will myself not to stare at his ass, but unfortunately, I can only be so strong.

I look up and of course Sheila catches me, but thankfully doesn’t acknowledge it. I quickly change the subject and say, “hey Sheila. Who’s in charge of the Rustic Inn’s social media?”

* * *

The day goes by fast and before I know it, I’m already on my way home. After Blake left this afternoon, I got the grand idea to volunteer myself to take over the Rustic Inn’s social media channels. Even though I’m technically employed as a waitress, I have the itch to do something a bit more creative.

My goal at my old marketing research job was always to transition into a more content-driven role, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be. For now, I’m going to set my sights on improving the Rustic Inn’s social presence and hopefully use my knowledge for good.

I reach my driveway before too long, but I get stuck behind the tractor my dad is currently using to haul an empty hay wagon. Oh shit, I think to myself. Haying was one chore I absolutely dreaded in the summer. Hay season at the Campbell farm was all-hands-on-deck and any free time I had was spent riding on that old wagon, trying not to push my brother off the moving platform.

I debate throwing my car into reverse, but he’s already seen me. He pulls off to the side of the driveway and lets me pull up next to him.

He opens the little side door and hops down onto the gravel. I grimace when he hits the ground and I hear the crunching noise under his boots. A few years ago, he took a really bad fall, and I haven’t seen him as the same since. He used to be this strong and solid force in my life, but now he just looks so fragile. It was hard watching your parents get old.

“Hey, kid. How was work?”

“Good! It feels nice to have a job after all these months”

“That’s great. I’m glad you were able to get back on your feet.”

He looks down the driveway and I can see my brother stomping toward us. He’s always been very heavy footed, which didn’t help when he was trying to sneak out. I always laughed when Dad gave him a hard time at breakfast the next morning.

“Hey, Wren! You’re home just in time.”

I roll my eyes at him like it’s my second nature.

“You don’t have to do hay, sweetheart. I know you just got off work. Your brother and I can handle it.” He smiles at me reassuringly.

“Yeah, it’s probably for the best. She’ll just slow us down.”

I throw daggers his way. I’m not taking the bait, I think to myself.

“Hell, I doubt you can even pick up a bale of hay with those scrawny little arms. Don’t want you getting hurt out there,” he taunts. I’m not taking the bait.

“I bet you . . .”

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