Page 22 of Goose's Wren

Chapter 6

Wren

After everything I’vebeen through, waking up somewhere clean, warm, and quiet feels almost unreal.

I still brace myself every morning for Tim’s footsteps or a slammed door, even though I know he’s nowhere near.My mind doesn’t trust in peace.It’s always waiting for the next blow.That’s the way my life has always been.

But Goose doesn’t push or hover.He gives me the space that I crave so badly.He makes sure there’s coffee in the mornings, and offers a ride when I need to run to town.He even fixed the squeaky hinge on the bedroom door without saying a word about it.

Still...things between us are tense.We’re both too aware of each other now.Every look lingers a second longer than it should.Every brush of our hands when we pass in the hallway feels electric.

He doesn’t touch me on purpose but I feel him in the air.In the rooms he just left.On the mug he hands me without meeting my eyes.

I find myself watching him when he’s not looking, studying the curve of his shoulders under that worn leather cut, the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking, how his eyes soften just a little when he forgets to keep them guarded.

There are moments when I catch him staring back, but he always looks away too fast.Maybe it's all in my head, feelings that I thought I had buried long ago.

He keeps busy working on bikes out at the shop or doing small repairs on the cabins.I help where I can around his cabin by cleaning up, organizing things, and cooking when I know he’s had a long day.

The first time I made dinner, he looked so startled you’d think I’d handed him a live grenade.Then he cleared his throat, muttered a quiet thanks, and devoured the whole plate.

We never eat together, though.He takes his into the living room while I stay at the kitchen table.

At night, I hear him pacing sometimes.Floorboards creak under his heavy boots, then stop suddenly, like he’s changed his mind about something.

I don’t ask.I don’t open my door.Besides it's probably club business and I know that means he wouldn’t tell me anything if I did ask.

And when I can’t sleep at night, I write.

I dig out my notebooks and let the words pour out in the dark.Some of the pages are old poems I wrote years ago, when I was just the girl in the background, watching Goose fall in love with my sister.Thinking he never saw me.Others are newer pieces about survival and bruises that fade on the outside but stay buried in the skin.

Sometimes I wonder if he remembers those old notes Sparrow used to give him.If he knows they were never hers.If he’s figured out they were mine.

I doubt it though as he’s never mentioned it.Then again he’s never seen me in that way before even though I wish he did.

It’s been a week since I started working at Bella’s Brew.I didn’t think I’d be good at it.Smiling at strangers, pretending everything is normal but there’s something oddly comforting about the rhythm of it.

The hiss of the espresso machine combined by the sound of clinking cups.Bella’s constant, cheerful hum as she flits around behind the counter like the queen of caffeine that she is.

The regulars have started to learn my name.Some ask about my coffee recommendations.Others just nod politely and leave generous tips.I’m still figuring out how to take a compliment without flinching.

I’m at the register taking an order from a guy in a construction vest, trying to remember if he’s the one who drinks black coffee with a shot of hazelnut syrup or the one who likes peppermint in the summer like a psychopath, when something pulls my gaze to the front window.

Tim’s across the street, half in the shadows of the corner store awning.Just standing there staring back at me.His arms are crossed, his jaw twitching the way it does when he’s grinding his teeth after a binge.

His clothes are the same he wore the night he hit me outside the Blackcat and he’s got this look in his eyes like he’s thinking something through.

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