Chapter Twelve
Construction began with a shovel.
Wren found this deeply disappointing.
For months, she had watched Daniel create floor plans, sections, elevations, material schedules, cost documents, specifications, bid packages, and approximately four thousand pieces of paperwork.
Then, on groundbreaking morning, Willow Creek gave him a gold-painted shovel.
“Ceremonial,” Daniel said.
“Ridiculous,” Wren corrected.
They stood beside the empty lot beneath a bright September sky.
The town had gathered.
Again.
Willow Creek apparently required a crowd whenever dirt moved.
A small podium stood near the road.
Caleb wore a tie.
Daniel wore a suit.
Wren had been told to dress “nicely,” which she had interpreted as a rust-colored dress and boots.
Lottie Pruitt wore pearls.
Obviously.
Tanner had brought his own shovel.
Nobody had asked him to.
Daniel looked toward it.
“Why?”
Tanner shrugged.
“Backup.”
Daniel turned to Wren.
She smiled.
“Community preparedness.”
Daniel looked exhausted already.
Wren loved him a little for it.
She stopped.
Loved?
No.
Too soon.
She liked him.
A lot.
She was becoming—
Nope.
Groundbreaking.
Focus.
Caleb stepped to the podium.
The microphone squealed.
Everyone groaned.
Daniel leaned toward Wren.
“Tradition?”
“Apparently.”
Caleb glared at the speaker.
“Some things never improve.”
Laughter.
He spoke briefly.
Thanked the state.
Thanked the council.
Thanked residents.
Thanked Daniel.
Then looked at Wren.
“And I want to thank the woman who’s spent half her life keeping Willow Creek moving whether we asked her to or not.”
Wren froze.
“No.”
Caleb smiled.
“Wren Brooks.”
People applauded.
Wren shook her head.
Daniel clapped louder.
Traitor.
Caleb continued.
“The café inside this building exists because Wren believed the new center shouldn’t just give people somewhere to work. It should give them somewhere to belong.”
Wren’s throat tightened.
Not crying.
Absolutely not.
Nora Mae yelled, “DON’T CRY.”
Wren shouted back, “I’M NOT.”
Everyone laughed.
Daniel leaned closer.
“You’re crying.”
“Dust.”
“Nothing has been dug yet.”
“Future dust.”
Daniel smiled.
Caleb waved them forward.
Gold shovels.
Photographs.
Too many photographs.
At one point, Lottie instructed the newspaper photographer to move Daniel because he was blocking her.
Daniel moved.
Wren whispered, “You like her.”
“Quiet.”
They pushed the shovels into loose ceremonial soil.
Wren lifted a small pile.
Cameras clicked.
Then the real excavator behind them roared to life.
Everyone turned.
The machine bit into the ground.
And suddenly it wasn’t theoretical anymore.
Wren stared.
Daniel came beside her.
“Different when it’s real.”
She nodded.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled.
“Actually, yeah.”
He took her hand.
Nobody commented.
Progress.
Dating Daniel turned out to be surprisingly easy.
This irritated Wren because she had expected material.
She had expected scheduling conflicts.
Rules.
Possibly a relationship spreadsheet.
Instead Daniel simply showed up.
Dinner at her house.
Coffee at Nora Mae’s.
Walks.
Occasional evenings at his rental where Wren sprawled across his sofa while Daniel worked and periodically asked her questions about some local detail.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was nice.
Dangerously nice.
On Wednesday night, she let herself into his rental carrying takeout.
Daniel looked up from the dining table.
“You’ve stopped knocking.”
“You stopped locking the door.”
“I lock it.”
“Not when you’re expecting me.”
Daniel considered.
“Fair.”
She put down the bag.
“Thai.”
He looked pleased.
“Good.”
“No dancing?”
“I’m restrained.”
“Stuffy.”
“Hungry.”
They ate on the floor because the table was covered in construction drawings.
Wren had stopped pretending the floor was weird.
Liminal space.
Daniel had stopped arguing with the term.
Halfway through dinner, his phone rang.
He glanced at it.
Firm.
Wren saw the change.
“Take it.”
Daniel hesitated.
“Go.”
He answered.
Wren continued eating.
She didn’t listen intentionally.
Mostly.
A large project.
Client concern.
Need Daniel back in the city for a design meeting.
Thursday.
Possibly Friday.
He hung up.
Wren looked at him.
“You have to go.”
“Yes.”
There it was.
The other life.
Not villainous.
Not threatening.
Just present.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“How long?”
“Likely two days.”
“Okay.”
Daniel watched her.
“Okay?”
“Daniel, you have a job.”
“So do you.”
“Mine currently involves waiting for concrete.”
He smiled.
Wren twirled noodles.
“This was always part of it.”
“What?”
“You being from somewhere else.”
Daniel was quiet.
She looked at him.
“No sad faces.”
“I don’t have a sad face.”
“You do now.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
Daniel leaned back against the sofa.
“I don’t like leaving.”
Wren’s heart warmed.
“Good.”
He smiled.
She bumped his foot with hers.
“Go be internationally important.”
“I’m not internationally important.”
“You have awards.”
“So does the county fair.”
“Different category.”
“Still.”
She leaned forward and kissed him.
“Go.”
Daniel kissed her again.
Longer.
Then said against her mouth, “Come with me.”
Wren pulled back.
“What?”
“Come.”
“To the city.”
“Two nights.”
She stared.
Daniel waited.
Her immediate answer was no.
Willow Creek.
Tasks.
Things.
People.
Then she heard his Chapter Seven question:
What do you do that’s just for you?
Wren looked at the takeout container.
“What about—”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to list obligations.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Annoying.”
“Accurate.”
Wren thought.
Two days.
Nobody would die.
Probably.
“Okay.”
Daniel blinked.
“Okay?”
“Don’t make me reconsider.”
He smiled.
Wren’s stomach fluttered.
Road trip.
Daniel’s world.
Oh, Lord.
Daniel’s city apartment was exactly as Wren imagined.
And somehow worse.
She stood inside the entryway with her overnight bag.
“No.”
Daniel closed the door.
“What?”
“This is a furniture catalog.”
“It is my apartment.”
“There is no clutter.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t praise.”
Daniel took her bag.
Wren wandered.
Concrete.
Warm wood.
Glass.
Beautiful furniture.
Art.
A place for every object.
Nothing extraneous.
She opened a kitchen cabinet.
Daniel stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Research.”
“Into my cabinets?”
“Yes.”
She opened another.
Everything aligned.
Wren gasped.
“Your spices are alphabetized.”
“They are not.”
She looked.
They weren’t.
She seemed disappointed.
“They’re by use.”
Wren turned.
“That is somehow worse.”
Daniel laughed.
She opened the refrigerator.
Still ingredients.
“Sad.”
“We discussed this.”
“Where’s the emotional-support pickle?”
“I do not have an emotional-support pickle.”
“Exactly.”
Daniel put her bag in the bedroom.
Wren followed.
Then stopped.
One bed.
Obviously.
They had been dating.
They kissed frequently.
They were adults.
Still.
One bed.
Daniel looked back.
His expression changed.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
“No pressure.”
“I know.”
“I can—”
Wren kissed him.
That solved the sentence.
Daniel’s hands settled at her waist.
She smiled against his mouth.
“No spreadsheets.”
He pulled back.
“What?”
“For romance.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“I’m establishing boundaries.”
Daniel laughed.
“Good.”
They kissed again.
The city hummed outside the windows.
Different from Willow Creek.
Anonymous.
Bright.
Alive.
Wren liked it.
She also knew immediately it wasn’t hers.
That was okay.
Not everything had to be.
The next morning Daniel went to his meeting.
Wren explored.
Coffee shop.
Bookstore.
A gallery.
Lunch alone.
Nobody stopped her.
Nobody asked for extension cords.
Nobody needed a banner.
It felt strange.
Then liberating.
Then slightly lonely.
At two, she sat in a café by herself, sketching ideas for her future menu on a napkin.
Her future menu.
Wren stared at the words.
Not Willow Creek’s.
Not the center’s.
Hers.
Daniel found her there at four.
He slid into the chair opposite.
“What is that?”
Wren covered the napkin.
“Nothing.”
Daniel reached.
She moved it.
“Private.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Now I absolutely need to know.”
“No.”
“Wren.”
“Daniel.”
He waited.
She sighed and slid it over.
Menu ideas.
Drink names.
Pastries.
Simple lunches.
Daniel read.
“You’ve been working.”
“Apparently.”
He looked up.
“For you.”
She smiled.
“Maybe.”
Daniel reached across the table.
Took her hand.
“Good.”
There was that word again.
Simple.
Supportive.
No speech required.
Wren squeezed his fingers.
“I like your city.”
Daniel smiled.
“But?”
“I like my town.”
“I know.”
She watched him.
“And you?”
Daniel looked outside.
People moving fast.
Towers.
Traffic.
Then back at her.
“I like both.”
That answer mattered.
They didn’t explore it further.
Not yet.
There was still time.