Chapter 13:

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My uncle had been dropping hints for weeks.

“You need to get out more.” This while handing me a plate of scrambled eggs. “You work, you come home, you practice your little coffee drawings. That’s not a life, Wren. That’s a routine.”

“I like my routine.”

“You like hiding. There’s a difference.” He pointed his spatula at me. “I have a friend I want you to meet. Before you say no—you already know him. He’s asked about you. Several times.”

I said no. He asked again the next day. And the day after that. My uncle had the tenacity of a man who believed he was right and would simply outlast any disagreement.

On the fourth day, I gave in.

The friend turned out to be Leander Chen.

I hadn’t heard that name in over a decade, and when I saw him standing by the park entrance, hands shoved into his jacket, squinting against the late afternoon sun, I needed a full three seconds to connect the tall, slightly awkward man in front of me with the boy I’d chased through backyards when we were ten.

“Wren. It’s been so long.”

His voice was deeper than I expected. He’d grown into his features—broad shoulders, a strong jaw, the kind of face that looked serious until he smiled, at which point it became clear he’d never been serious about anything in his life. His hair was a mess. Not artfully disheveled. Actually messy, as though he’d combed it with his fingers in the car and called it done.

“Leander. I barely recognized you.”

𝗜𝘯𝘵e𝘯se 𝘳o𝗺a𝗇𝖼е 𝘰𝗻 𝗴а𝗹n𝗈𝗏еl𝘴.c𝗈𝗆

“That’s because I’m taller now. And sadder. But mostly taller.”

We walked along the lake. He told me about his work—engineering, something to do with bridges, which he described with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely found load-bearing calculations exciting. I told him about the coffee shop, about Marjorie’s novel collection, about my grandmother’s conviction that I was dangerously underweight.

The conversation should have been stilted. Fifteen years is a long time. But Leander had a way of talking that made gaps feel intentional rather than awkward, as if silence between sentences was just another form of keeping company. He asked questions and listened to the answers. He didn’t interrupt. He laughed at himself more than at anyone else.

We discovered we still shared things. Long walks. Live music. A mutual dislike of small talk, which he pointed out was ironic given that we were currently making it.

“This isn’t small talk,” I said. “This is medium talk. Small talk is weather and parking.”

“Fair enough. Medium talk it is.”

Over the following weeks, medium talk became a habit. Walks after my shifts. A concert in the park where the bassist kept losing his place and Leander leaned over and whispered, “That’s me at every work presentation.” Sunday mornings at the farmers market, where he’d pick up vegetables he didn’t know how to cook and I’d have to explain what to do with an eggplant.

It was easy. Not effortless in the way that hides something fragile underneath, but genuinely easy. I didn’t have to translate my moods for him or edit my sentences before they left my mouth. He met me where I was, and where I was happened to be enough.

One evening, after a few drinks at a bar near the river, we were walking home through the kind of loose, aimless warmth that alcohol gives you. My steps weren’t entirely straight. Neither were his.

“How is it,” I asked, bumping his shoulder with mine, “that you still haven’t gotten married? Isn’t your father losing his mind?”

Leander’s ears turned red. The blush started at his neck and climbed upward with visible determination.

“I’m… waiting for someone.”

“Waiting for someone? Who?” The drinks had made me bold. “Does this person know?”

He opened his mouth to answer. I stumbled. My foot caught a crack in the sidewalk and the ground swung toward me, fast and tilted, and then Leander’s hands were on my shoulders, pulling me upright. His grip was firm. His face was very close.

“Careful—”

A hand came from behind and shoved Leander’s arm off me. Hard.

“What are you doing? Who is this man?”

Julian. Standing under a streetlamp with wild eyes and a clenched jaw. He must have followed me. Again. The alcohol in my system burned off instantly.

“We have nothing to talk about,” I said, already turning, already reaching for Leander’s arm to steer us away.

“I already resolved things with Ivy.” Julian’s voice chased us down the sidewalk. “Wren, give me one last chance. During this time without you, I feel like part of my heart is missing. I didn’t realize how important you were to me—”

“Julian.” I stopped. Turned. “You make me feel repulsed. I don’t want you to appear in my life again.”

He didn’t hear it. Or he heard it and couldn’t absorb it. He looked past me, at Leander, and his desperation curdled into something uglier.

“Do you think he’s sincere? You just got divorced and you’ve been with him for—what, a few weeks? He’s playing with you!”

Leander, who had been quiet until now, stepped forward. He didn’t shout. He didn’t puff up. He just took my hand, gently, and looked at me. Not at Julian. At me.

“You know my feelings are real, Wren.”

His voice was steady. No performance. No rehearsed lines.

“All these years I’ve been waiting for you. A few years ago, I found out you’d gotten married, and I thought that was the end of it. When your uncle told me you’d come back to the States…” He paused. Swallowed. “You have no idea how happy I was.”

His hand was warm. Not gripping, not possessive. Just there.

I turned to Julian. “If after your divorce there’s someone who wants you, why can’t I have the same?”

Julian took a step toward us. Then another.

I pulled out my phone. “One more step and I’m calling the police.”

He stopped.

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