Rust & Starlight
Chapter 33 : Mason Leaves in the Night
The tour started in two weeks, but Mason had to leave for Nashville in seven days.
Rehearsals. Sound checks. Promotional interviews. A dozen small but essential tasks that couldn’t be done from the farm. Julian had sent a detailed schedule, and every hour was accounted for, from 6 a.m. coffee meetings to 11 p.m. production calls.
Wren had studied the schedule like a battle plan. She’d circled the dates she could join him — long weekends, mostly, when Mabel could cover the farm. She’d booked flights, arranged pet sitters for the sheep (Clarabelle required special handling), and packed a small suitcase that sat in the corner of the bedroom, waiting.
But the first departure would be solo. Mason would drive to Nashville alone, settle into the tour routine, and Wren would follow ten days later for the opening show.
They agreed he’d leave at dawn on Monday.
But neither of them slept on Sunday night.
Mason lay in the dark, Wren curled against his side, her breathing slow but not peaceful. She was awake too — he could tell by the way her fingers traced patterns on his chest, restless and searching.
“You should sleep,” he murmured.
“So should you.”
“I can’t.”
“Neither can I.”
They lay in silence, listening to the wind rattle the windows. Spring storms were rolling across the prairie, and the forecast called for rain by morning. Appropriate weather for a goodbye.
“Tell me something,” Wren said. “Something I don’t know about you.”
Mason thought for a moment. “When I was eight years old, I stole a candy bar from the gas station near my grandmother’s house. She found out, marched me back to the store, and made me apologize to the owner. Then she made me sweep the floor every day for a month to pay for it.”
Wren laughed softly. “What kind of candy bar?”
“Milky Way. I still feel guilty every time I see one.”
“I’ll remember that. Next time you annoy me, I’ll buy you a Milky Way.”
“Emotional warfare. I like it.”
She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. In the dim light from the window, her face was soft, unguarded.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“Not that you’ll cheat on me. Not that you’ll start drinking again. I’m scared that I’ll get used to you being gone. That the farm will fill up the space where you used to be, and when you come back, I won’t know how to let you in again.”
Mason reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“That won’t happen.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m not going to let it. I’ll call every night. I’ll text you pictures of ugly hotel carpets. I’ll send you voice memos of songs I’m working on. I’ll be a constant, low-grade annoyance in your life, whether you like it or not.”
She smiled, but her eyes were wet.
“I like it,” she whispered.
He pulled her down and kissed her, slow and deep, trying to pour every promise he couldn’t speak into the press of his lips against hers.
When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.
“Stay,” she said. “Just tonight. Don’t leave yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
At 2 a.m., Mason woke to find the other side of the bed empty.
For a panicked moment, he thought she’d left — gone to the barn, maybe, or the kitchen, unable to face the morning. Then he saw her silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the hall light.
“Wren?”
“I’m here.” She walked back to the bed, climbed in, and pressed herself against him. “I couldn’t sleep. I went to look at the orchard.”
“How is it?”
“The buds are bigger. They’ll bloom soon.” She buried her face in his neck. “I wish you could be here to see it.”
“I’ll see it when I get back.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it’ll still be beautiful. And so will you.”
She kissed his collarbone, his shoulder, the hollow of his throat. Her lips were warm, insistent, and he felt the familiar pull of desire, tangled with grief and anticipation.
“Make love to me,” she whispered. “Not because we’re saying goodbye. Because we’re saying ‘see you soon.'”
He rolled her onto her back and kissed her, and they moved together in the darkness, slow and tender and fierce. The wind howled outside, the rain began to fall, and the old farmhouse creaked around them like a ship at sea.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on their skin, the rain drumming on the roof.
“I’m going to miss this,” Wren said. “The sound of rain on this roof. The way the house settles around us. The way you hold me after.”
“I’m going to miss everything.” Mason pressed a kiss to her temple. “But I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
At 5 a.m., Mason’s alarm went off.
They’d set it the night before, hoping for a few hours of sleep before the drive. Neither of them had slept more than an hour. But the alarm was relentless, and the sky was turning gray, and the rain had softened to a drizzle.
Mason showered while Wren made coffee. He dressed in clothes she’d laid out for him — jeans, a flannel shirt, his worn boots. He packed the last of his things into the duffel bag, checked that he had his phone and his wallet and his guitar.
The guitar was already in the truck. He’d loaded it the night before, not trusting himself to remember in the morning.
Wren met him at the door. She was wearing his shirt — the blue flannel he’d worn the day he finished the fence. It hung past her hips, and she’d rolled up the sleeves.
“You look good in that,” he said.
“I’m keeping it.”
“I figured.”
She handed him a travel mug of coffee. “Black. No sugar. The way you like it.”
He took a sip. It was perfect.
“I packed you a lunch,” she said. “Sandwiches, an apple, some of those cookies you like. It’s in a brown bag on the passenger seat.”
“Mabel’s cookies?”
“Mabel’s cookies. She dropped them off yesterday.”
Mason set down the coffee, pulled her into his arms, and held her. She fit against him like she’d been made to fit, her head under his chin, her arms around his waist.
“Call me when you get there,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.
“I will.”
“Even if it’s late.”
“Especially if it’s late.”
She pulled back and looked at him. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying. Not yet.
“Go,” she said. “Before I ask you to stay.”
He kissed her — one last time, soft and quick — and walked out the door.
Mason didn’t look back as he drove down the driveway.
He couldn’t. If he looked back, he’d see her standing on the porch, wrapped in his shirt, watching him leave. And if he saw that, he’d turn the truck around, cancel the tour, burn every bridge he’d rebuilt.
So he kept his eyes forward, on the muddy road, on the gray sky, on the horizon line that seemed to recede as he approached.
The farmhouse grew smaller in the rearview mirror. Wren grew smaller. The life he’d built over the past months — the fence, the orchard, the quiet mornings — shrank to a dot, then disappeared.
He drove for an hour in silence, the rain washing the dust from the windshield, the coffee growing cold in the cup holder. His phone buzzed with a text message. He pulled over to read it.
“The porch is empty without you. Come back soon. — W”
He typed back: “Count the days. I’ll be home before you know it.”
He put the phone in his pocket and drove on.
Wren stood on the porch until the truck disappeared over the hill.
Then she went inside, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table. The house was too quiet. The clock ticked too loudly. The empty mug on the other side of the table — Mason’s mug — seemed to mock her.
She picked up her phone and called Mabel.
“He left,” she said.
“I know, honey. I saw the truck go by.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“How do people do this? How do they love someone and let them go?”
Mabel was quiet for a moment. Then: “They trust that the going is temporary. They trust that the love is strong enough to bridge the distance. And they keep busy until the phone rings.”
Wren looked out the window at the orchard. The buds were swelling, ready to burst.
“How do you know so much?”
“I’m old. I’ve made every mistake there is. Including letting people go when I should have held on tighter.” Mabel’s voice softened. “You’re not making that mistake, Wren. You’re letting him go because you have to. And he’s coming back because he wants to.”
Wren wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Thank you, Mabel.”
“Anytime, child. Now go feed the sheep. They’re not going to wait for you to stop moping.”
Wren laughed — a wet, shaky sound — and hung up.
She put on her boots and her coat and walked to the barn. Clarabelle lowed a greeting. The sheep bleated. The world continued, indifferent to her heartache.
She fed the animals, collected the eggs, checked the orchard. The buds were bigger than yesterday. The trees were waking up.
Spring is coming, she thought. And so is he.
She held onto that thought like a lifeline.
Mason called at 7 p.m., just as he was checking into the hotel in Nashville.
“I made it,” he said. “The room is ugly. The carpet is orange.”
“I told you it would be.”
“The bed is too soft. The pillows smell like laundry detergent.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I’m not sure I will.” His voice was tired, but warm. “I miss you already.”
“I miss you too.” She was sitting on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and purple. “The orchard is almost blooming. You’re going to miss it.”
“Take pictures. Send them to me.”
“I will.”
“Wren?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Now go to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Lie down anyway. Pretend.”
He laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.”
“Sorry.”
“And don’t apologize for everything.”
“I’m not Canadian.”
She smiled. “Goodnight, Mason.”
“Goodnight, Wren.”
The line went dead. She sat on the porch for a long time, watching the stars appear, feeling the distance between them like a physical weight.
But beneath the weight, something else: hope.
He was coming back.
And she would be waiting.