Page 113 of Wild Then Wed
And fuck, I feel it.
I clear my throat and set my plate down on the coffee table. The second I shift, her feet fall off my lap and land gently on the cushion, and I already miss the weight of them. Of her.
But I tell myself I can’t.
I can’t miss her. I can’t have her. I can’t let myself go back to that place again, where I could lose someone. I wouldn’t survive it again.
I stand up, and she looks at me, curious but not questioning.
“Have a good night, Peach,” I say, letting it hang there.
She blinks. Then her face breaks into an actual smile. A full one, all lips and a flash of white teeth.“Peach?”
I laugh under my breath. “Yeah. Your hair. It’s all orange and gold and soft-looking. Like a peach.”
She grabs a small pillow off the couch and tosses it at me. It hits the back of my leg, not hard.
But she’s still laughing. And shit, so am I.
What just happened—what we talked about, the quiet way it unfolded—it shouldn’t have felt as easy as it did.
That conversation would’ve been awkward with anyone else. Too much silence, too much honesty, not enough small talk to soften the edges. But with Wren, it wasn’t awkward. It was normal. Natural.
I’m realizing she doesn’t know how to swim in shallow water. She’s only ever interested in the deep end of people. She skips right past pleasantries and dives headfirst into the parts of you that aren’t polished or easy to explain. The things you’ve buried. The truths you only admit when someone asks the right question—and actually stays long enough to hear the answer.
That’s where she lives. In the deep end. And that scares the hell out of me.
The last person I felt that with was Julia. Would she hate this?
Would she hate that I’m sitting in a fire-lit living room, with someone else’s feet in my lap? That I’m wanting to memorize the freckles on her face?
God, I hope not.
Deep down, I know the answer. I know she wouldn’t want me to live in my grief like it’s some sort of sick punishment. She wouldn’t want me stuck.
But the guilt still comes, quiet and steady, like a tide. It never knocks me over, just drags at my ankles. Makes me question if moving forward is the same thing as forgetting, and if forgetting—even for a second—makes me the worst kind of husband. The worst kind of father.
I glance back at Wren.
She’s still on the couch, her hair a crazy, beautiful mess, her legs tucked up now. The shadows from the fire are still dancing across her face.
I pull the front door open, the cold air biting at my skin. I take one step out, and it feels like I’m stepping back into something smaller.
Quieter. Safer, maybe.
But after what just happened in there, it suddenly feels like…less.
And somehow, that’s what feels worse.
Chapter 20
WREN
I shouldn’t be this nervous. We’re only here to sign a piece of paper, hand it to someone behind a desk, and cross another thing off the to-do list. That’s all. It isn’t the wedding—there’s no music playing, no aisle to walk down, no vows to stumble through. No flowers, no teary-eyed aunts or grandparents. Just the two of us and a form that makes it official.
But still, my stomach’s in knots and my palms are sweating.
I wipe them on the thighs of my jeans, shift in my seat, and glance at the time again—even though I already know I’m on time. Fifteen minutes early, to be exact.
