Page 67 of There's Pumpkin About You
“Tell me everything. Now.”
* * *
WREN
I ignore the knock at my door, instead curling up further into my duvet. The tears dried up a couple of hours ago, but that sensitivity to both questions and thoughts about today still remains.
The knock sounds again and I once again ignore it.
“Wren!”
I bolt upright when Gus’s voice reaches my ears, quiet yet desperate.
“Wren, are you in there?”
Reluctantly, I wrap my blanket tighter as I waddle my way from the living room over to the front door.
He’s holding a cup from the café, the edges buckling slightly from his tight grip. A cowboy hat sits atop wild brown hair and gone is his plaid shirt, replaced by an aging brown leather jacket. He uses the edge of the cup to push his glasses back up his nose. If he wasn’t currently standing in front of me looking as if he just lost Cliff, I would take a second to truly appreciate the sight in front of me.
“Hi,” I mumble.
“Hi,” he replies, completely avoiding my eyeline.
“What are you doing here?”
He looks so uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to another and adjusting his grip on the coffee cup. He motions for me to take the cup from him. Hesitantly, I take it. I’m surprised that the cup is really cold, but also full, so cold you’d think he’d been standing outside with it for hours, not merely driven it over from two towns away.
I try and keep my expression neutral so as not to offend. “Thank you.”
He rubs at the back of his neck just as a blush makes its way up from under his jacket. “I, um… I didn’t know your order, and when Lola started to make my usual I just didn’t say anything.”
I hide my smile in my blanket. “That’s sweet. How come you’ve decided to treat me?”
He shrugs. “Every time you come to the farm you bring coffee. This time I was coming to you, so I brought coffee.”
“Huh,” I whisper wistfully. “Thank you. Although, I should chastise you for bringing it after nine a.m.”
He nods once and next thing I know, we find ourselves cloaked in an awkward silence. It’s a strange instance that seems to happen when we can’t find a reason to argue with one another. It’s become such a norm for us to either yell, or stare at one another in a way that shows we have no idea whether we will yell or kiss… again.
I sheepishly move out of the way and motion for him to come in.
He steps inside, immediately taking off his boots and neatly placing them by the door. I’ve spent this entire time coming to see him in Eaglewood that it’s strange to see him here, in my house in Beckford. He looks so out of place—a farmer in a lawyer’s town.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I answer, heading back to the couch.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you weren’t coming today?” he pushes.
“I didn’t know I needed to tell you everything,” I snap.
A frown mars his forehead as he looks at me, confused. “Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“Well, you sound mad.”
“I said I’m not, August.”
