Rust & Starlight
Chapter 24 : Something Breaks Inside Wren
Morning came slowly, filtered through the lace curtains that had hung in this bedroom for thirty years. The light was pale gold, the kind that promised a warm April day, and Wren woke to the sound of birdsong and the weight of Mason’s arm across her waist.
For one perfect moment, she was happy.
Not the cautious, guarded happiness she’d allowed herself in recent weeks — the kind that came with fine print and escape clauses. This was full-bodied, unapologetic happiness. The kind she hadn’t felt since before Luke deployed. The kind that made her want to laugh and cry and never leave this bed.
She turned her head to look at Mason. He was still asleep, his face relaxed, his lips slightly parted. In sleep, he looked younger — the lines of worry and regret smoothed away. He looked like the man he might have been if fame hadn’t gotten its claws into him.
I love him, she thought. I actually love him.
And that’s when something broke.
It started as a small crack — a whisper of doubt in the back of her mind. You don’t deserve this. He’ll leave. Everyone leaves. Luke left. Your father left. Your mother left in every way that mattered. You’re alone. You’ve always been alone. This is temporary. This is a fantasy. Wake up.
The crack widened.
Wren sat up slowly, pulling the sheet to her chest. Mason stirred beside her, his hand reaching for her automatically, but she slipped out of bed before he could touch her. She stood by the window, her back to him, looking out at the dead orchard.
The orchard is dead. The farm is dying. Clive Hanson is circling. And you’re in bed with a celebrity who’s going to get bored and leave.
You’re a fool.
“Mason,” she said. Her voice was flat, hollow.
He woke at the sound. She could feel his eyes on her back.
“Wren? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She pulled on her bathrobe — the same one she’d worn the night she found him in the barn, shaking and sweating through withdrawal. “I need you to go.”
“Go where?”
“Back to the spare room. Or back to Nashville. I don’t care. Just… not here. Not in this bed.”
She heard him sit up. The bed creaked. The floorboards groaned as he stood.
“Wren, look at me.”
She shook her head.
“Please.”
She turned. His face was confused, hurt, searching. He was wearing only his jeans, the scars on his chest visible in the morning light. He looked like a man who had been given something precious and was watching it slip through his fingers.
“Last night,” he said carefully, “you said you were falling in love with me. You said you weren’t scared anymore.”
“I lied.”
The words came out before she could stop them. She saw the impact — the flinch, the way his hands dropped to his sides.
“You didn’t lie,” he said. “You’re scared. That’s different.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel.” Her voice rose. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to show up here, crash into my life, and tell me what I feel.”
Mason took a step back, giving her space. “I’m not trying to—”
“You’re trying to save me. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done. You see a broken woman and you want to fix her. But I’m not a song, Mason. I’m not a project. I’m a person, and I’ve been taking care of myself for three years, and I don’t need you to—”
“Wren.” His voice was quiet, steady. “Stop.”
She stopped. Her chest was heaving. Her hands were shaking.
“I’m not trying to save you,” he said. “I’m trying to love you. There’s a difference.”
The word love hung in the air between them, shimmering and terrible.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t do this.”
“You can. You’re just afraid.”
“Of course I’m afraid! I’m terrified! Every person I’ve ever loved has left me. My father walked out when I was twelve. My mother moved to Florida because she couldn’t stand to look at this farm. Luke died in the barn. And you — you’re going to leave too. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. Because that’s what people do.”
Mason crossed the room and took her by the shoulders. She tried to pull away, but he held her gently, firmly.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I’m not your father. I’m not your mother. I’m not Luke. I’m a man who crashed his truck into your fence and fell in love with you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that I’ve been sober for sixty-three days. I know that I’ve written more songs in the past month than I wrote in the past two years. I know that when I think about my future, I don’t see Nashville. I see this farm. I see you. I see us.”
Tears were streaming down her face now. She hated them. She hated him for making her cry. She hated herself for wanting to believe him.
“Please,” she said. “Please just go.”
Mason released her shoulders. He stood there for a long moment, looking at her — really looking, as if he were memorizing her face.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll go.”
He walked to the door.
“Mason.”
He stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t turn around.
“I know you are,” he said. “But being sorry doesn’t fix anything. You have to want to get better. You have to choose it.” He opened the door. “I’ll be in the barn. When you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me.”
He walked out.
Wren stood in the bedroom, alone, listening to his footsteps fade down the stairs. The front door opened and closed. Then silence.
She sank onto the bed, pulled her knees to her chest, and wept.
Not the cathartic crying of the night before — the kind that cleanses and heals. This was different. This was grief for something she’d almost had and then thrown away. This was anger at herself for being too broken to accept love. This was the cold, hard realization that she wasn’t as strong as she’d thought.
She cried until there were no tears left, and then she lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing.
The morning stretched into afternoon. The sun rose higher, filling the bedroom with light. Wren didn’t move. She heard the sheep bleating, demanding to be fed. She heard Clarabelle lowing. She heard the sounds of the farm continuing without her, indifferent to her pain.
At some point, she heard Mason outside. The clang of the barn door. The thud of hay bales being moved. He was feeding the animals. He was taking care of her responsibilities because she couldn’t.
He’s still here, she thought. He didn’t leave.
But that didn’t matter. She had pushed him away. She had said terrible things. She had told him she didn’t need him, when the truth was she needed him more than she’d ever needed anyone.
What have I done?
At noon, there was a knock on the bedroom door.
Wren didn’t answer.
“Wren.” Mason’s voice, muffled through the wood. “I made lunch. Sandwiches. There’s one on the kitchen table for you.”
She didn’t respond.
“I’m not going to come in. I’m not going to push. But you need to eat.” A pause. “And you need to know that I’m not leaving. Not the farm. Not you. I’ll sleep in the barn if I have to. I’ll give you all the space you need. But I’m staying.”
She heard his footsteps retreat down the stairs.
She lay on the bed for another hour. Then, slowly, she got up. She washed her face in the bathroom. She brushed her hair. She put on clean clothes — not the dress she’d worn to Clive’s office, not the coveralls she wore for work. Jeans. A soft sweater. The ones that made her feel like herself.
She walked downstairs.
The kitchen was empty. On the table, a plate with a sandwich — turkey and cheese on homemade bread, cut diagonally, just the way she liked it. Beside it, a glass of water and a note in Mason’s handwriting:
“One day at a time. That’s what you said. Today is a new day. I’ll be in the barn when you’re ready.”
Wren sat down, picked up the sandwich, and took a bite.
It was good. Of course it was good. He’d learned to make sandwiches the way she liked them — not too much mustard, the bread toasted just enough.
She ate the whole thing. She drank the water. And then she walked out the back door, across the yard, to the barn.
Mason was in Clarabelle’s stall, his forehead pressed against the cow’s flank, his shoulders shaking.
He was crying.
Wren stopped in the doorway. She had never seen him cry — not really. He’d held her while she wept, had wiped her tears, had been her anchor. But he had never let her see his own grief.
“Mason,” she said.
He looked up. His face was wet, his eyes red.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for you to see this.”
She walked into the stall, took his hand, and pulled him away from Clarabelle. The cow lowed softly, as if to say it’s about time.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Wren said. “I said terrible things. I pushed you away. I told you I didn’t need you, when the truth is…” She swallowed. “The truth is I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone.”
Mason wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Then why did you push me away?”
“Because I’m terrified.” She looked down at their joined hands. “Because every time I let myself be happy, something bad happens. Because I’m convinced that if I love you, you’ll leave. Or die. Or both.”
“That’s not how love works.”
“I know. But knowing and feeling are different things.” She looked up at him. “I’m broken, Mason. I’ve been broken for a long time. And I don’t know how to fix myself.”
Mason pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, burying her face in his chest.
“You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re healing. And healing isn’t linear. You have good days and bad days. Yesterday was a good day. This morning was a bad day. That’s okay.”
“It doesn’t feel okay.”
“It will. Eventually.” He kissed the top of her head. “But you have to let me in. All the way. Even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts.”
She pulled back and looked at him. His eyes were red, but they were steady.
“I’m scared,” she said.
“I know.”
“But I’m not going to run.”
“That’s a start.”
She took his hand and led him out of the stall, out of the barn, into the sunlight.
They spent the afternoon in the dead orchard.
Not working — just sitting. They sat on the ground beneath the largest peach tree, their backs against the trunk, and watched the clouds move across the sky. The blossoms were gone, but the branches were still there, waiting for next spring.
“I’m going to plant new trees,” Wren said. “Not in the same spots. Somewhere else. Somewhere the frost won’t reach.”
“I’ll help you dig the holes,” Mason said.
“You’ll complain the whole time.”
“Probably.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not ready to say the words yet. But I’m getting closer.”
He put his arm around her and pulled her close.
“Take all the time you need,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They sat in the orchard until the sun went down, and when they walked back to the house, hand in hand, the dead trees stood behind them like sentinels — reminders of loss, yes, but also of resilience.
Spring would come again.
And so would the blossoms.