Rust & Starlight
Chapter 44 : The Apology That Takes an Hour to Say
The black SUV pulled into the driveway at 10 a.m. on a Wednesday.
Wren was in the garden, pulling weeds, when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. She looked up, expecting Mabel or a delivery truck. Instead, she saw a vehicle she didn’t recognize — tinted windows, gleaming paint, the kind of car that belonged in a city, not on a farm.
The driver’s door opened, and a woman got out.
She was tall, blonde, dressed in expensive jeans and a cream-colored sweater. Her sunglasses were designer, her boots were impractical, and her face was familiar in the way that faces on magazine covers are familiar.
Brandi Shaw.
Wren’s hands tightened on the weeds.
Mason was in the barn, sharpening the blades on the mower. He didn’t see the SUV arrive. Wren considered calling out to him, warning him, giving him a chance to prepare. But something stopped her — a curiosity, maybe, or a stubborn desire to face this woman on her own terms.
She stood up, brushed the dirt from her jeans, and walked toward the house.
Brandi saw her coming and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale. She looked like she hadn’t slept.
“Wren Calloway,” Brandi said.
“Brandi Shaw.”
“I know I’m the last person you want to see.”
“That’s true.”
Brandi nodded, as if she’d expected that response. “Can we talk? Not here — inside? I don’t want this to be a spectacle.”
Wren glanced at the barn. Mason was still inside, unaware.
“Five minutes,” Wren said.
They sat in the living room, on opposite ends of the couch.
Wren had left the front door open — a small act of defiance, a signal that she wasn’t afraid. Brandi sat with her hands in her lap, her expensive boots crossed at the ankle. She looked smaller than she did on television. Less polished. More human.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” Brandi began.
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” Brandi took a breath. “That’s actually why I’m here. To apologize. For real. Not for the cameras, not for the publicists. For you.”
Wren said nothing.
Brandi looked down at her hands. “The Instagram post was cruel. What I said about you — ‘Kansas cowgirl’ — it was mean and petty and I regretted it the moment I posted it. But I didn’t take it down because I was embarrassed. And then it went viral, and I couldn’t take it down without admitting I was wrong.”
“But you were wrong.”
“I was wrong.” Brandi looked up. “I was also jealous.”
Wren blinked. “Jealous of me?”
“Of what you have. The farm. The quiet life. The way Mason looks at you.” Brandi’s voice cracked. “He never looked at me like that. Not even in the beginning. I was always competing with the music, with the road, with the bottle. But you — you’re his peace. And I hated you for it.”
Wren sat back, processing.
“You drove all the way from Nashville to tell me this?”
“I drove all the way from Nashville to apologize. The rest is just… context.”
The silence stretched between them. Wren could hear Mason moving around in the barn, the clang of metal, the hum of the grinder. She thought about how different her life was now — the fence, the orchard, the man who had chosen her over a Grammy. And she thought about Brandi, alone in a hotel room somewhere, posting Instagram stories to fill the emptiness.
“Thank you,” Wren said finally.
Brandi looked surprised. “Thank you?”
“For apologizing. It couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t. But it was necessary.”
Wren stood up. “I’m going to make coffee. Do you want some?”
Brandi stared at her. “You’re offering me coffee?”
“I’m offering you coffee. It’s what people do when they’re trying to be civil.”
Brandi laughed — a surprised, almost childlike sound. “Yes. I’d love some.”
They sat at the kitchen table, mugs in hand.
The coffee was strong, the way Wren liked it. Brandi added sugar and cream, stirring slowly, her eyes on the window.
“This is a beautiful farm,” Brandi said.
“It’s a lot of work.”
“I can imagine.” She looked at Wren. “Mason seems happy. Healthier than I’ve ever seen him.”
“He is.”
“I’m glad.” Brandi set down her spoon. “I wasn’t always a terrible person, you know. I just got lost. The fame, the pressure, the constant need to be more — it changes you.”
Wren nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I know what it’s like to lose yourself. Maybe not in the same way, but… I spent three years hiding on this farm after my husband died. I stopped living. I just existed.”
Brandi’s eyes softened. “How did you find your way back?”
Wren looked toward the barn, where Mason was still working.
“Someone crashed into my fence,” she said.
An hour later, Mason walked into the kitchen.
He was sweaty, covered in metal dust, and clearly not expecting to see his ex-wife sitting at the table with a mug of coffee.
“Brandi?” He froze in the doorway.
“Mason.” Brandi stood up. “I know this is weird. I’m sorry for showing up unannounced. I just… I needed to apologize. To both of you.”
Mason looked at Wren. Wren nodded.
“Sit down,” Mason said. “Talk.”
Brandi sat. She told him the same things she’d told Wren — the regret, the jealousy, the apology. She didn’t make excuses. She didn’t blame the tabloids or the publicists or the pressure of fame. She owned it.
When she finished, Mason was quiet for a long time.
“I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of,” he finally said. “I hurt you too, Brandi. I was a lousy husband. I was drunk more than I was sober. I wasn’t there for you.”
“I know. But that doesn’t excuse what I did.” She looked at Wren. “To her. To your life here.”
Mason reached over and took Wren’s hand.
“I forgive you,” he said. “But I need you to understand something. This woman — Wren — she’s my home. If you ever try to hurt her again, there won’t be a conversation. There won’t be coffee. There won’t be forgiveness.”
Brandi nodded. “I understand.”
She stood up, walked to the door, and paused.
“Your song — ‘Kansas Rain’ — it’s beautiful. It deserved every award it got.” She looked back at them. “I hope you’re happy. Both of you.”
“We are,” Wren said.
Brandi smiled — a real smile, sad but genuine — and walked out.
They watched from the porch as the SUV drove away.
Mason put his arm around Wren’s shoulders.
“You offered her coffee,” he said.
“I did.”
“After everything she did?”
Wren leaned against him. “She came a long way to say she was sorry. The least I could do was listen.”
“You’re a better person than me.”
“I’m not better. I’m just tired of being angry.” She looked up at him. “Life’s too short for grudges.”
He kissed her forehead.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now we fix the mower. Then we have lunch. Then we take a nap.”
“A nap?”
“The orchard won’t bloom forever. We should enjoy it while we can.”
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.”
“Sorry.”
“And don’t apologize for everything.”
“I’m not Canadian.”
They walked inside, hand in hand, the door closing behind them.