Page 18 of The Ex Project (The Heartwood #3)

HUDSON

My phone has been burning in my back pocket ever since yesterday.

I slide it out to check it again. It’s compulsive at this point.

I can’t stop myself, and it’s been borderline dangerous at work.

I had my head down earlier on a job site and nearly got knocked out by someone carrying an armload of two-by-fours.

It doesn’t help that I hardly got any sleep last night, so I feel like I’ve fried my last nerve.

I check it, and check it, and check it, until I’m going insane.

It’s like when you keep opening the fridge, hoping this time there will be something in there that wasn’t there before.

Except, instead of food in my fridge, I’m desperately hoping to see Wren’s name pop up on my screen.

An e-mail, a text, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been worrying about her since the public forum.

Fretting. Wanting to know if she’s okay and that she didn’t sit in her room and spiral. Or worse.

I was initially worried about her having a medical emergency, an asthma exacerbation, or whatever she tried to tell me it was.

Then, Emma stopped me as I was getting into the truck, and the reality of what Wren was struggling with hit me like a freight train.

And like a freight train barrelling towards me at breakneck speed, I should have seen it coming from a mile away.

It was right there in front of me the entire time.

I’ve seen it before in my line of work at the firehall.

When people experience something traumatic, they usually respond in a few ways, and one of them looked almost identical to how Wren reacted at the public forum.

The distant eyes, disconnected from reality.

The shallow breathing. The desire to be as far away from everyone as possible.

She had a panic attack.

Emma said she had a gut feeling, that Wren needed a friend more than she needed a doctor.

The whole way back to Wren’s house, we sat in silence, and I turned over this new perspective, trying to look at it from all angles.

Trying to make sense of moments I’ve shared with Wren over the last few weeks.

The pieces started to fit together like a game of Tetris.

The way Ruby pawed at her, forcing contact, leaning into her with her body weight.

I know Ruby well enough I should have recognized it.

It’s how she was trained to support people in crisis.

She rubs up against them until they are forced to pet her, and then she leans all her body weight into them like a big, fluffy, warm, weighted blanket.

I saw the tension release from Wren’s shoulders as she pet Ruby, too. It should have been obvious, and I’ve been on edge about it all day, angry with myself that I didn’t see it sooner. Angry I didn’t realize Wren needs help. She needs an ally, not an adversary .

I finish taking off my work boots, dumping them in the bed of my truck and swapping them for my worn-in brown leather ones. I slam the tailgate closed and rest a hand on my lower back. It’s been sore all day, but that’s what I get for the way I slept last night.

“Hey Hudson,” Nav calls over to me as he starts packing up, removing tools from his tool belt and chucking them into the back of his truck, “we’re just about finished here for the day. Framing is done for now, so we’ll get working on the exterior walls tomorrow.”

“Sounds great, buddy,” I say, surveying the progress they made today. “Looks fantastic.”

I was supposed to get more information on how the Donaldsons’ house has been coming along.

Brad Donaldson has been asking me for an update on the timeline, namely when they might be able to move in, but I still don’t have a clear idea.

All I have is the brief update from Nav, and that will have to do for now.

We’re too far off from move-in anyways. Brad might not be happy, mostly because he’s going to get shit from his wife about it, but there’s not much else I can do. Building quality houses takes time.

“So, when do we get to break ground on your house?” Nav asks. “The lot you bought has been sitting empty for a long time.” A teasing smile spreads across his tanned face, dark stubble peppering his chin after a long day of work. I shrug in response.

“Soon, hopefully. Once the arts centre is well under way, I’ll have time to build myself a proper place to live.

” I love my apartment, but with Ruby and I, and Jett during the summers, it’s getting cramped.

Then, last year, an empty lot came up for sale right on the river, and I snapped it up.

I’d been saving a lot of money working both jobs, and I finally had enough that when the opportunity arose, I didn’t want to pass it up.

At this point, though, the house I want to build feels more and more like a pipe dream.

I keep putting it off, and everyone around me hears the excuses.

But I want it to feel right. I want to feel ready.

And right now, I don’t. Nav shakes his head with a knowing smile, gets in his truck, and drives off.

The rest of the crew is also dispersing, going home, so I wave off a few of them before heading out myself.

I check my phone once more, and my heart skips in my chest when I see the name I’ve been waiting for all day.

I added Wren’s new number in my contacts after she handed me her card, and there she is, displayed on the screen.

This time, the message has come through as a text, not an e-mail. I can’t help but feel like this might be progress. Even though I was firm in walking away from whatever remnants of feelings I still had for her, the small step towards not hating each other feels good.

SHE-DEVIL

Are you still good to come by this evening? I have cold beer in the fridge (not a bribe).

I write out a quick response, my heartbeat picking up the pace, thundering behind my ribs with every word I type back.

Be there in five, leaving work now .

Something about sending a text feels so casual, so familiar, and I hate that it causes this ripple of excitement through me at the prospect that Wren and I could be nearing friendship territory.

I don’t want to hate her—I never have, so the disdain I felt for her the first day I saw her on the build site was foreign.

I can be realistic, I can know deep down in my bones that I ruined things irreparably the day I ended things with her, that the door on our relationship has been shut for good. But I can also want things to at least be comfortable between us.

I back away from the Donaldsons’ half-built house and turn down the street towards Wren’s.

It’s a route I know like the back of my hand.

One, because having grown up here, I know every street in Heartwood.

And two, because no matter where I was on this earth, I could find my way to Wren blindfolded.

We spent so much of our childhood there. So many days spent racing around these streets on our bikes. Walking the block leading up to her house because I was trying to sneak in late at night and my car was too loud.

I don’t worry about that today as I pull my truck up in her driveway beside her white Audi. I’m pretty sure the sound of my truck is being drowned out by the thumping of my heart in my chest, anyhow. For some reason, coming to Wren’s house tonight feels different.

I’ve been here a few times since she’s been gone—her dad and I have become close, if you count borrowing his power washer once a year close—and the other night, which happens to be the precursor to this visit. I should be desensitized to coming over .

The moment I raise my hand to knock on the door, I know these feelings aren’t old ones, and if I’m being honest with myself, ending things with Emma wasn’t a relief because I didn’t have feelings for her.

It was a relief because I gave myself permission to keep feeling the ones I have for Wren.

The front door swings open, and suddenly, whatever quippy, snarky greeting I had planned fails to come.

I stutter for a second, mouth open, unable to speak.

Because Wren is in front of me now, and the feelings I’ve been stuffing down for the last ten years feel like they’re right on the surface—exposed, raw, tender.

Her dark hair is twisted into a bun at the top of her head, and her face looks like it’s been freshly washed.

She’s in another matching lounge set, this time a soft cotton grey T-shirt and a loose pair of pants.

Today she’s obviously wearing a bra, unlike the other morning when it took every ounce of self-control not to look at the way her nipples peaked through her tank top.

Still, my eyes catch on the strip of tanned skin peeking out from between the T-shirt and pants, that soft spot of her abdomen.

“Thank God you’re here,” she says, and the words send a gooey warmth down my spine. She’s glad I’m here. My mouth lifts into a soft smile, and my shoulders drop. Being welcomed by Wren like this feels like coming home.