Page 6 of The Ex Project (The Heartwood #3)

WREN

“So, Claire-bear, where are you jetting off to next?” my mom asks across the dinner table as she twirls her vegan fettuccine Alfredo around her fork. All night, this is what we’ve talked about. Claire and her latest international aid trip with Doctors Without Borders.

Now that my parents have exhausted every avenue of what Claire-bear has been up to for the last six months, they’ve moved on to something new—what Claire-bear’s plans are for the next six months.

It’s as if they never talk to her, when I know for a fact Claire calls Mom and Dad more than I do.

She even visits more than I do. She’s down here in Heartwood almost every other weekend.

What more could they possibly have to catch up on?

Meanwhile, I haven’t been home in almost a decade, but no one seems to care.

“You make it sound like I’m going on some expensive tropical vacation or something, Mom.

I’m going to Central Africa. Rwanda, actually.

They’ve been wrapped up in this awful civil war in the Congo.

They need extra hands at the medical centres,” Claire replies, reaching for a dinner roll from the basket in the middle of the table.

Her answer causes Mom’s expression to fall, a wrinkle forming between her brows.

“Oh, I know, honey. I hate to think of you putting yourself in harm’s way. It’s easier for me to imagine you lying on a beach somewhere.”

“I’m not planning on going for a few months anyways, and only if work allows me to take more time off.” Claire is always trying to appease our parents, and she’s always so good at it. I grind my molars together as I stifle my annoyance. I’ve never been able to figure out how she does it.

“Does it bother Kevin, having you go away all the time?” The mention of Claire’s husband makes me realize he’s not here. He normally attends family dinners.

“Kevin doesn’t get a say about what I want to do,” Claire says, taking a long pull of her wine.

“She’s doing good work, Brenda,” my dad inserts. “ Selfless work.”

Puuuuke . I gag on my dinner.

“Everything all right with your pasta, Wren?” My mom notices how I’m choking it down. The vegan sauce isn’t my favourite, but it’s the conversation making me nauseated.

The thing is, as much as Claire flaunts that she’s a doctor, she does care about her work, and she cares about the people in all the countries she visits. But Mom and Dad will talk about Claire to anyone who will listen, and it’s performative.

I give my mom a forced, closed-mouth smile and nod.

“It’s great, thanks.” I refrain from saying how I feel.

I learned from a young age that sometimes it’s best to smile and nod and not give my parents any more reasons to favour Claire over me.

Because if one of them has an issue, it’s fine.

But as soon as I say anything, suddenly I’m looking for an argument.

The dinner table finally goes quiet, and the lull is a sweet reprieve. Once I finally swallow my bite of noodles, I break the silence, hoping to capitalize on the opportunity to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“I got the contract for the arts centre today.” My dad sets his fork on his plate with a clank and stares at me for a moment.

The sound of Claire chewing makes my eye feel twitchy, but I carry on.

“It’ll be good for VanTek. They’ve been trying to branch out to more work for municipalities, broaden their portfolio.

My boss was thrilled when I told him. I’ll get promoted to principal if it all goes well. ”

It’s not news about travelling to a war-torn country to save lives or anything, but it feels like a success for me.

It’s a big success. It means my company might recover from their shady dealings, and I might earn a promotion for bringing in more work at a critically low point in the firm’s history.

And okay, it wasn’t like I had to fight for it. Shelley practically handed it to me. But no one needs to know.

“That’s great, sweetie,” my mom offers, but her praise feels as bland as the pasta.

“Yeah, Wren, that’s awesome,” Claire jumps in, and her words almost sound sincere.

“Aren’t you up for a promotion as well, Claire-bear?” my dad interjects. Good, we’re back to talking about Claire. She looks up from her plate, a long string of noodles hanging from her pursed lips. She slurps them up and swallows before answering.

“Well, I wasn’t going to mention it yet. It’s not a for sure thing. But I am going to apply for the emergency medical director position at Banff General.”

Now I choke on my pasta, a noodle sliding down my throat and making me cough and sputter. No one looks my way except Claire. She’s staring at me with assessing eyes, like she’s worried I’m going to take away from her big moment.

“Oh, Claire!” My mother throws her hands up, narrowly avoiding knocking over her glass of wine. “We’re so proud of you!”

I’m fine, everyone. Don’t pay attention to me, I’m only choking to death , I think.

I finally catch my breath again, but now it feels shallow and tight, my heart rate picking up.

Claire finally looks away from me, and my breath evens out a little bit more.

My news was supposed to give me a leg up tonight, but now the hill I have to climb to get any scrap of recognition from my parents is much higher.

“Don’t get too excited yet, Mom. Like I said, I still have to apply, and there will be a lot of other applicants. It also means I might not be able to take time off for my international trips anymore, so I haven’t decided if I even want it yet,” Claire says.

It’s not lost on me that she has the luxury of deciding if she even wants a promotion at work—my parents would be proud of her if she told them she was selling weed to teenagers.

Claire can do no wrong. But me … I’m still trying to prove myself to them.

And every time they gush over Cl aire instead of me, the jealous monster inside me rears its head.

They’ll see. Once the arts centre is built, they’ll see what I am capable of, how hard I’ve worked to get where I am today.

It will all come to fruition eventually.

I resolve to do the best possible job I can, regardless of whatever tension there is between Hudson and me.

I’m a professional, and I know how to get shit done.

Despite my new sense of determination, my breathing still hasn’t evened out, and I take a gulp of air to try and relieve the pressure in my chest.

“Are you okay? You just went super pale.” Claire’s is assessing me from across the table. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” I squeak out. “My chest is just feeling a little tight. Can we move these candles?” I point at the row of tea lights my mom has lit as a centrepiece. They must be made of cheap wax or something.

“Is this the first time this has happened, Wren?” Claire’s brow is furrowed as she watches me try to slow my breathing. I squint back at her, trying to figure out if the tone in her voice is sincere or to put on a show of concern for Mom and Dad.

“No, it’s okay. It happens sometimes,” I lie. It happens a lot. But it’s been going on for a long time, and usually I need some fresh air. “It’s just the candles.”

“It could be asthma, or some type of allergic reaction,” she notes. The suggestions cause my mom to interject as she returns from taking the candles back to the kitchen.

“Claire-bear, did you bring your stethoscope? ”

I shake my head no. The last thing I want is for this situation to turn into Claire-bear saving the day, and me looking weak in front of my parents.

“It’s fine, really.” I plaster on a smile.

“Let your sister listen to you. She’ll know exactly what to do.”

“I’m okay. I promise. I’m going to go upstairs and lie down,” I say, and my mom frowns, a matching one appearing on my sister’s face at the same time.

I excuse myself from the table. A silence stretches on until I reach the top of the stairs, and then my family moves on to a different topic, seemingly having forgotten I couldn’t breathe a moment ago.

I shut the door to my bedroom behind me, and although the quiet haven of my childhood calms my nerves, there’s still an antsy, jitteriness lingering in my limbs.

This room hasn’t changed since I was ten—the walls are the same obnoxious hue of purple that I remember, and stacks of books and records are piled in every open space along the walls.

I find my purse and reach around until my fingers grip the smooth, spongy ball I keep on hand. It’s a stress ball I got at a work conference, and I’ve kept it in my bag ever since. It comes in handy for moments like these, when I need something for my hands to do while I wait for it to pass.

I lie back and sink into the mattress of my old twin bed, staring up at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars are all still there, forming random shapes and constellations. I focus my attention on the feeling of squeezing and releasing the ball with my fingers.

Eventually, my mind starts to wander, and the distraction takes my thoughts away from the tightness in my chest, whatever that was.

My body is starting to relax when there’s a soft knock on the door.

“Wren?” My sister says from the other side, her voice laced with concern. Whether it’s genuine or because my mother sent her up here to check on me, I can’t be certain. “Are you okay?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I screw my eyes shut and turn over on my bed, facing the wall. The door handle squeaks as Claire lets herself in, standing in the doorway. To her, I must look like I’ve fallen asleep, and it clearly satisfies her because she closes the door softly and leaves.

A few moments later, I do fall asleep.

I can’t tell how long I’ve slept for, but it was at least a few hours because when I wake up, my room is dark and the rest of the house is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.