Page 36

Wren

S taring down at the paper in front of me, I pause, twirling the pen between my fingers. It’s been a week since Donnie passed away—a full week of staring at Carson’s name scribbled at the top of my list.

Carson Matthews . The guy no one else has ever compared to—or ever will. No one has ever understood me like he does or made me feel as safe.

I’ve never been attracted to anyone the way I am to him—yes, for his looks, obviously—but more for who he is on the inside. The way he shows up. The way he listens. The way he sees me.

More than anyone I’ve ever met, Carson is someone I admire. He’s hardworking, successful, supportive. I’ve been encouraged by him, inspired by him, probably a thousand times over.

And let’s be real—I’ve been half in love with him since the day everything changed. When I broke apart, he didn’t run. He didn’t retreat, didn’t ghost, didn’t try to fix me with platitudes or avoidance. Instead, he held me while I cried. He sang to me in my moment of weakness. He stayed.

In a time when I was falling apart, he gathered the pieces so I could be put back together again. He has helped me find a way to feel whole again.

“Knock knock,” a voice I’m all too familiar with calls from the living room as the door swings open.

Carson has been checking on me every day since Donnie died. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insists he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary.

“Hey,” I call back, setting the pen down and rising from the table. “I’ll grab my bag and we can go.”

He nods and slips his hands into his pockets.

The jeans fit snugly in all the right places. His navy T-shirt also leaves little to the imagination, hugging tightly to his bulging, tattoo-covered forearms. I tear my eyes away before I get caught staring.

I agreed to ride to the diner with him after the lunch rush was over. He insisted it would be good to get out of the house and focus my mind on other things, stating he knows me and my need to be around people.

As I close my bedroom door behind me, I catch him standing near the table. His eyes are fixed on the paper I left behind, brows slightly furrowed.

The list .

The Wren-ovation Project… With his name at the very top.

Oh no.

“Ready when you are!” I blurt, my voice a little too chipper, hoping to distract him and that he doesn’t read too much into his name on a piece of paper.

Now that I think about it—that list is technically a list of things I want… to do .

Oh my God.

Mortification floods my cheeks.

He probably thinks I’ve made it my new personal goal to sleep with him.

F.M.L.

“Ready,” he replies with a smile, already walking toward the door like nothing happened.

Totally normal. No big deal. Definitely didn’t see his name at the top of a list labeled with the implication of things I want to do.

Maybe he didn’t see that part. Perhaps he was just glancing at the scribbles below.

Maybe, just maybe, he has no idea.

One can hope.