Winter in Kentbury (Kentbury Tales #6)

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Jenna

Well, this day definitely isn’t going the way I thought it would.

Here I am, in Holden’s house—a place that feels sturdy, grounded, and meticulously put together. Everything is neat and intentional, with the faint scent of fresh wood lingering in the air.

The floors gleam like he’s just polished them, each piece of furniture crisp and new, every surface spotless, barely touched. It all fits together perfectly, yet there’s something about it that feels like it’s still finding its place. Like maybe he is too.

Outside, the snow piles up, thick and relentless, coating the windows until the world beyond looks like nothing more than swirling white. Holden is busy in the kitchen, the quiet clinks of silverware and the steady hum of the coffee maker filling the silence.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, warm and rich, grounding me in this strange moment. But despite the calm of this house, I feel something tugging at me—a familiarity in the way he moves, so confident and sure. It’s like no time has passed, like he’s still the Holden I couldn’t stop thinking about all those years ago.

But my stomach twists, and I know better than to let myself get pulled back in. I was just a kid back then, hopelessly infatuated with someone who was never really mine.

And now?

Sure, I’m not that girl anymore, but I’m not some big-city woman with stories of foreign adventures and wild ambitions, either. I’m just Jenna, the girl who stayed, who built her world in this small town. The farthest I got was Rhode Island and Massachusetts, studying horticulture and floral design.

Grandma used to tell me you didn’t need a degree to work with flowers. But after we built the greenhouse together, she changed her tune. I’m proud of what I’ve made of that greenhouse—growing half of what I use year-round right there, creating something that’s a mix of her legacy and my own vision. Even she’s impressed, though she’ll never fully admit it.

Sometimes, I wonder if my parents would be proud too. They always said leaving Kentbury was the best decision they ever made. They believed there was a whole world waiting for them out there.

But here I am, back in the place they left behind, carrying on their legacy in my own way. After they died, nowhere else could’ve felt like home.

And if I’m honest, I’ll always miss them. Even after years of therapy, even after learning to live with survivor’s guilt, the ache of their absence is always there. Sometimes I think about what it would’ve been like if I’d died with them. But no, I made it through, and maybe, in some strange way, Holden leaving was for the best too.

If he hadn’t left, I’d have spent every day in limbo, worrying, waiting for news from wherever he was stationed. Maybe this is just one of those lies we tell ourselves to make life feel a little less fragile, a little more bearable.

I hear his footsteps as he walks back into the living room, carrying two mugs. He places one filled with tea on the small table beside me, then checks the fire to make sure it’s roaring, casting warmth and light through the room. The house feels so quiet, like the storm outside is a million miles away.

Holden settles into the chair across from me, his gaze drifting toward the snow-covered window as he takes a slow sip of coffee. We sit in silence for a while, questions lingering between us, each one hovering just out of reach. I wonder what he’s thinking, whether his mind is on what happened earlier in the car or somewhere else entirely.

Outside, the storm grows stronger, the wind howling against the windows. I know I should feel trapped, yet somehow, with Holden nearby, there’s a sense of safety that makes everything else fade away.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. “Penny for your thoughts?” I ask, my voice breaking the quiet.

He glances at me, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “My mind . . . wanders sometimes,” he says, taking another sip of coffee. “It’s something I can’t help.”

Is he about to open up? I feel a flicker of hope, but part of me hesitates. If he opens up, he might expect the same from me, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Trust doesn’t come easily for me anymore, and I don’t know if I’m prepared to let anyone—especially Holden—see past the walls I’ve built.

“I imagine dealing with PTSD is incredibly hard,” I say softly. “Have you talked to anyone?”

He lets out a low chuckle, a hint of sarcasm in his smile. “You mean a shrink?” He shakes his head slightly. “Yeah, I talked to one before they discharged me. Haven’t been back since. I’m okay. Just the occasional bad dream . . . and a panic attack now and then.”

He smiles, wide and forced, like he’s trying to lighten the heaviness that lingers between us. I want to believe he’s fine, that he’s moved past whatever haunted him out there. But there’s something else in his eyes, something guarded, and I realize he’s hiding just as much as I am.

I start to wonder if he’s been with anyone else, but the thought of him looking at another woman the way he once looked at me makes me feel queasy.

Which is ridiculous, isn’t it? I’ve had other relationships since him. But none of them ever felt the way it did with Holden.

“If it’s getting worse, you might want to speak to someone about it,” I say softly as I resist the urge to reach across and squeeze his hand.

“Maybe I’ll look into it. You’re cute when you’re concerned, you know that?” he asks in a flirtatious tone.

“Holden, this isn’t funny. This is your health we’re talking about. I’m just worried about you.”

His eyes soften as he looks at me, a grin spreading across his face. I know that look—he’s about to say something, and knowing him, it’ll probably be a smartass comment that’ll make my cheeks burn.

“You’re worried about me?” he asks softly, his grin fading as his gaze turns serious. “You don’t even know me, remember?”

Great , I think, feeling the heat rise in my face. This is what I get for trying to act like a grown-up, for trying to handle this whole reunion calmly. Now it’s coming back to bite me. And not in a good way, either. Though, there is a way he could bite me . . . No, Jenna, stop. Don’t take those thoughts anywhere risky. Sex is not on the table.

“I cared about you then,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “And I still care enough that I don’t want you to end up as another statistic. Just . . . please talk to someone if things get worse.” I look away, embarrassed. “You’ve got to take care of yourself.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, lifting his hands in mock surrender, though I catch the faintest hint of pink in his cheeks. “I get it.”

Even with his gaze lowered, I can see something in his expression—a flash of vulnerability, or maybe just the way his face softens. Is he embarrassed? I can’t tell.

“Are you just saying that to shut me up?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, trying to gauge if he’s really taking this seriously.

He lets out a soft chuckle. “No, I’ll think about it. But only if you do something for me.” His voice drops, a subtle challenge lingering there.

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Why did you pretend not to know me?” he asks, his voice quieter, almost hesitant.

The question hits me harder than I expected, and I feel myself scrambling for words. Why did I pretend not to know him? My mind goes blank, a mess of emotions that I can’t quite piece together.

I do know him.

I know his face.

I know his laugh.

The way he used to look at me like I was the only one in the room. But that was years ago. Back when he was my whole world and didn’t even know it.

“I-I . . .” The words catch in my throat, lost somewhere between my mind and the knot forming in my stomach.

What can I even say? That I thought pretending he was a stranger would make all of this easier? That I’ve been terrified of letting him back in, of feeling the pull I’ve spent years trying to bury?

Because the truth is, from the moment I saw him again, every feeling I thought I’d left behind came rushing back, sharp and unrelenting.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks suddenly, his voice almost too soft.

“Um . . .” I manage, my heart pounding so loud I swear he can hear it. My throat is dry, words slipping away before I can form them.

Because yes, I’m mad. I’m beyond mad—I’m raging. He left me, just like everyone else. No, it was worse than that. He didn’t just leave me; he didn’t even want me. He looked at me that night, saw everything I was, everything I could be—and turned away. Like I was nothing. Like he couldn’t wait to forget I existed.

But I can’t bring myself to say any of it.

His gaze sharpens, his eyes searching mine as if he’s trying to dig up everything I’ve buried. “Are you mad about . . . the last night we spent together?” His voice is low, steady, but the way he asks—it’s like he knows. Like he’s trying to break through every barrier I’ve put up since the moment he walked out of my life.

And I can feel it, the hurt creeping up, the ache clawing its way back to the surface.

“I don’t—” I start, but he cuts me off, his voice pressing, unrelenting.

“You’re really going to lie again? Pretend you don’t remember?” He leans forward, his gaze piercing, holding me captive. “You don’t remember our kiss? The way you looked at me like I was your whole damn world?”

I feel the breath leave my lungs, the memory of that night crashing over me like a wave. Slipping in, fast and vivid.

We were at the lake that night, his truck parked under the cover of the old oak tree, the moon casting silver light over the water. I remember the way the air felt—warm, but with a cool breeze that hinted at fall. We’d been talking, laughing over something silly, neither of us ready to say goodbye, not yet.

Then, suddenly, the words stopped, and a quiet fell between us, heavy and charged. He looked at me, his green eyes darker, searching, and before I knew it, he was leaning closer. My heart had raced, anticipation flooding me, and then his lips brushed against mine, tentative, hesitant.

The kiss was soft at first, a featherlight touch that made my skin tingle, every nerve sparking to life. But then he pressed closer, his hand moving to my cheek, his mouth insistent, deepening the kiss in a way that stole the air from my lungs.

It was a kiss that felt like a promise. Like he was carving himself into my memory. By the time we pulled apart, I was trembling, breathless, my heart pounding so hard I could barely think. I couldn’t hold back the words that had been sitting on my tongue for what felt like forever.

“I love you, Holden.”

The words slipped out, soft and vulnerable, like a secret I’d been keeping. But his face changed—just slightly, but enough. His hand fell from my cheek, and a tight smile replaced the warmth in his eyes.

“Jenna . . . you can’t.” He’d hesitated, and I could see it, the way he was searching for the right words to let me down. “I’m leaving, remember? Going to the Air Force. I can’t give you . . . I don’t feel the same.” He looked away for a moment, then back at me, his gaze colder, distant, as if he’d already left. “It was just a kiss, Jenna. A goodbye kiss. The kind I’d give any girl. Nothing more.”

Each word cut deeper, twisting the knife. I felt my heart drop, the sting settling somewhere too deep to reach. All those nights I’d spent dreaming, hoping, feeling that maybe he felt it too—all erased in an instant, reduced to “just a kiss.”

I had felt something shatter then, a raw ache spreading as his words sunk in. All that hope, all that feeling I’d held for him, suddenly felt like a wound. I wanted to disappear, to take back my confession, but it was too late. I’d laid my heart bare, and he’d left it out in the open, exposed.

He’d pulled back, saying something about timing, his age, me being just a child. Something about how it wasn’t fair to me. But I barely heard him. I’d already felt myself pulling away, turning inward, the sting of his rejection sharper than anything I’d ever known.

The memory fades, and I’m back in Holden’s living room, feeling that old ache twisting through me, a familiar pain I’ve carried for years. It presses in on me, unshakable, like the ghost of everything we’d left unsaid.

“Well?” he asks, his voice softer now but still unrelenting, as if he’s determined to pull the truth out of me.

I don’t know how to respond, I don’t know how to tell him that I’m still angry—that part of me has never stopped being angry. The hurt, the betrayal, it all just came rushing back the moment I saw him. And the worst part? It never really left. Maybe it’s been there all along, waiting for him to come back and unravel it.

“It’s okay to be honest, you know,” he says, his voice low, a bit rough. “I know what I did was pretty fucked up.”

I let out a bitter laugh, unable to hold it in. “Isn’t that just what men do?” My words are cutting, but I can’t stop them. “Some ‘crazed’ teenager practically throws herself at you, and you just . . . take her heart and toss it aside. Just a kiss, right? A goodbye kiss any girl could’ve had.” My chest aches with the memory, and I look away, forcing myself to breathe, to keep it together.

A flash of pain crosses his face, his jaw tight as he looks down at his cup, holding it so tightly I wonder if it might shatter. He’s silent for a moment, then he looks up.

“You think I didn’t feel anything for you?” he says, his voice trembling just slightly, but every word cuts through the room like a blade. “You think I didn’t feel something every time I was near you? You think I didn’t burn for you the way you burned for me?” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “There were so many times I wanted to make a move, Jenna. But I was scared. Scared of ruining your life, scared of what it would mean for both of us if I did make a move and still left. I didn’t want you to wait for me, not knowing if I was going to make it back to you. And look at me now . . . I’m here but battling through each day.”

I swallow, heart pounding. His words are hitting me hard, each one peeling back a layer of the anger I’ve held on to for so long.

“You . . . you really felt the same?” My voice comes out softer than I’d intended, barely a whisper. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything? You made me feel like it was one-sided, like I was some fool with a crush on a guy who barely noticed me. You kissed me that night, but you left without a word. How was I supposed to know?”

He looks down, his shoulders sagging slightly as he stares into his cup, as though he might find the answers there. “I was scared to say anything. And when I knew I was leaving for the Air Force, I thought it would be better if I kept my distance. I didn’t want to make you wait around for someone who might never come back. I thought staying quiet was better than making promises I couldn’t keep.”

I feel the old bitterness creep in, the sting of those unanswered letters, every word I’d poured out to him that went into silence. “I wrote you,” I say, my voice trembling as I try to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I wrote you so many times, and every letter went unanswered.”

His head snaps up, and I see something like shame flicker across his face as he meets my gaze. The silence stretches, heavy and raw between us, like he’s trying to find the words that won’t make this worse. But the truth is, there’s nothing he can say that’ll hurt me more than he already has. I’ve been hurt so deeply that I’m not even sure what healing would feel like.

“I know you wrote me,” he says finally, voice rough. “I thought . . . I thought if I wrote you back, it would make things harder for you. That it would only hurt you more if I kept you tied to me. But I never wanted to hurt you, Jenna. And if I could go back and fix everything, I would.”

“You staying quiet did nothing but make the pain worse, Holden,” I say, each word heavy with the pain I’ve buried. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, but you did. I tried so damn hard to forget you, to let it all go. But it never worked.”

I stand up, feeling the room closing in on me, and walk over to the window, staring out at the snow that’s still falling steadily, turning everything outside into a blur of white. It’s like the storm’s swallowed the world, and I don’t know when—or if—it’ll let us go.

Holden is quiet behind me, the tension thick enough to feel. I still don’t know how long this storm will last, don’t know if I’ll be able to make my delivery on time or if the flower shop can survive another disappointment.

“I know,” he says softly, his voice pulling me back. “I was a coward for not answering your letters. I wish I’d handled things differently. Maybe if we didn’t have so much history, things would be easier now. Maybe we’d be able to start fresh.”

I nod, keeping my gaze forward. “Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe if none of that had ever happened, we wouldn’t be here like this.”

Holden doesn’t respond, just moves away, heading over to the fireplace and adding another log. He stares into the flames, his jaw clenched, refusing to look my way, and I can feel the weight of everything left unsaid. When he finally glances at me, guilt fills his expression, and I know he’s carrying every one of my unanswered letters, every unspoken word, like a burden he can’t set down.

I try to shake it off, but the sting of those unanswered letters still lingers. Each one I sent, wondering if he was alive or dead, if he’d ever even read them. I’d wondered if he’d been killed in action, feared the worst every time I dropped a letter into the mailbox. And all the while, he’d just . . . stayed silent. Made me feel like our friendship meant nothing, just like that kiss.

Breaking the silence, Holden clears his throat, his voice breaking a bit. “I’ve got to head out to the shed to grab more firewood. Will you keep an eye out by the door and open it when I come back?” He grabs his coat and gloves, layering up against the cold.

“Yeah,” I reply, nodding as I follow him to the back door. I watch him trudge out into the storm, his figure disappearing almost immediately in the swirling snow. For a second, I can barely breathe, the sight of him vanishing into the white making panic flare up. I tell myself he’s fine, that he’s just in the shed, but still, a knot of worry settles in.

Minutes later, he reappears with his arms full of logs, and I quickly open the door, feeling a rush of relief as he steps inside, shaking off the snow. He piles the logs in the holder by the fireplace, then turns to me with a frown. “I’m going back out for one more load. Just keep watch for me at the door, okay? Visibility’s getting worse, but you’ll see me when I get back.”

I nod again, standing by the door as he steps out into the storm. I press my face to the window, trying to keep my eyes on him, but the snow falls so thick that he fades from view almost immediately. My heart pounds in my throat as I wait, my breath fogging up the glass. Finally, I see him emerging from the shed, another load of logs in his arms, and I pull open the door, relief washing over me as he steps inside.

“It’s getting too dangerous to go back out there,” I say, helping him set the logs down by the fire. “We should have enough wood to last us the night. You don’t need to risk it again.”

He nods, his face flushed from the cold, and as his eyes meet mine, something shifts between us. For a second, I feel the warmth in his gaze—a softness that unsettles me more than the storm howling outside. It’s like he can see straight through every defense I’ve put up, right to the mess of feelings I thought I’d buried. And I realize, with a strange jolt, that maybe the storm outside is nothing compared to the one still raging here, in this room, between us.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, his eyes sparking with a familiar mischief. “You do like me,” he says, his voice taking on that teasing tone I remember so well.

I roll my eyes, trying to brush it off, to hold on to some semblance of control. “Oh, shut up,” I say, giving his shoulder a playful nudge.

But even as I laugh, I can feel my guard slipping, feel the truth rising to the surface. He’s right, as much as I hate to admit it. I do still like him—more than I probably should, after all this time. I feel it in the way my heart jumps when he’s near, in the way my pulse races at the smallest touch. But how do I tell him that? And is it even worth saying?