Page 47 of Wren's Winter

“You miss them a lot, don’t you?” she asked.

“Every day.” My words were honest, but for the first time, I didn’t feel saddened by them. “They would have liked you. My Gramps would have said you were a looker.”

“A looker?” She smiled at the description.

“And my Gran would have told me my picker was finally working. She said I had a broken picker if I couldn’t find the right girl.”

Our eyes met, and it was as if the cold vanished. The icy wind fell away, and all I had was the warmth of her topaz eyes on me, the deep sincerity in her expression. Never had the urge to fall into someone come on so suddenly. The long moment stretched on, unspoken and fierce. I leaned forward at the same time as her satellites to one another. Suddenly, she reared back, shaking her hand. Hot chocolate had sloshed over the rim of her mug, over her hand.

“You okay?” I asked, concern lacing my words as I took the hot chocolate from her and inspected her hand.

“Yeah, it’s not that hot anymore.”

The moment between us broke, her eyes cut away from mine. Staring across the far reach of the skyline, she pointed to the north. “What is that over there?”

Narrowing my eyes, I looked. “That’s Vancouver Island.”

“Canada?” She raised a brow.

“Yep, Canada. When I was little, my parents would take me on the Black Ball Ferry up to Victoria once a year. We’d stay at the Grand Pacific across from the ferry terminal. Go to the wax museum and Butchart Gardens. Be real tourists.”

“I’ve never been to Canada,” she mused, her eyes growing soft as she gazed out over the scenery. She opened her mouth as if to say something and let out a hard sigh. Shaking her head, her eyes darted down to her boots. “My mom isn’t allowed. Actually, she got arrested in 1994 for drug possession with intent to sell.”

“Wait, seriously?”

She nodded, letting out a low, humorless chuckle. “Yeah, it was before I was born, obviously. But she was dating some guy and made some mistakes. She didn’t do much time, but it was still a felony on her record. She had a hard time finding work. We moved around a lot, sometimes multiple times in a year when my parents could find work.”

“That’s tough,” I ventured.

“Nah, it was okay. I mean, sure, my mom can never work in health care or education or law enforcement, or, well, you get the idea. But my dad had a good enough job, and we were finally able to settle down when I was seventeen in Ridgewood. Though we never could go to Canada.”

I’ll take you.

Her gaze far away, she kept talking, opening up to me. “My parents, they thought the constant moving around was an adventure.”

“Not quite for you, though,” I ventured.

Shaking her head, she spared me a quick glance. “I would have loved coming up to the same spot for a Christmas tree every year. Having the same table to eat family dinners. I think…” She paused, her cheeks flooding. “I think that maybe that’s why I held on so long with Buck. Because at least he was consistent. His family had heirlooms, and his mom would invite me over for Thanksgiving and Easter dinner. For a while, it was nice being around someone who had traditions. But in the end, it wasn’t enough to stay.”

“No, it’s not.” With exactly zero experience in long-term relationships, I still knew the answer.

Tucking her hands under her legs, she frowned. “I don’t know if I even know what a good relationship looks like.”

“I do,” I replied. And I told her. About my grandparents, their commitment to each other, from their first meeting to the years together. The way my Gramps always filled her car with gas without being asked or the way my Gran would bring his coffee every morning while he was getting ready for the day.

Wren’s eyes grew glossy with warmth. “That is so romantic.”

“I always thought that idea was a fluke thing. Only reserved for people like my grandparents, but now, I’m not so sure.”

“Are you saying you believe in love at first sight?” she asked, laughing softly.

I cleared my throat. “I’m saying, sometimes, when we meet someone, if we’re really lucky, we can know they hold the possibility of more.”

“That sounds like attraction and lust,” she corrected.

“Maybe, but it’s still there. The way someone could burst into your life, and deep down, you know nothing will ever be the same, and you can’t explain it or rationalize it. You just want.”

“You want,” she repeated back to me, her voice struggling to sound incredulous. I had the distinct impression she was fighting something inside her at my words.

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