Page 141 of Wild Then Wed
Idowant to. But I don’t.
Instead, I hold her. Let my thumb drift just slightly along the exposed part of her spine.
She looks up at me finally. And this close, I can see everything—the flecks in her eyes, the tension she carries in her jaw.
“Your turn,” she says.
“My turn for what?”
“To tell me something good.”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to give her something—but because I don’t know where to look for it. Not right away.
It takes me a second to realize that’s my problem—I don’t look for good things anymore. I stopped when the best ones I had were suddenly gone.
But I dig anyway. And eventually, I land on something.
“When I was a kid,” I say slowly, “my dad and I used to leave each other notes. Nothing serious—mostly stupid jokes.”
Wren doesn’t interrupt. Just nods and listens.
“My brothers and I had this book full of them. Dad jokes. Really bad ones. We thought it was hilarious. We’d tear out pieces of notebook paper and leave them around the house—under his keys, in the glovebox, tucked into his wallet. He’d always write back. Always.”
A breath moves through me, quieter than I mean for it to be.
“I still remember what it felt like to find one. That excitement of seeing my name in his handwriting, knowing he’d seen it and laughed. Or maybe pretended to.”
Wren’s eyes are still on mine. She shifts slightly, just enough to press her arms tighter around my neck.
“I think that’s why I still like handwritten notes,” I say. “It means someone took time out of their messy life to think about you. To give it to you. Doesn’t sound like much, but it feels like it.”
I shrug, my thumb still brushing the base of her spine.
“He got busy, though. When I got older. He stopped leaving them. I guess we both did.”
Wren’s smile is small but real. She’s still looking up at me, like I said something that made her see me differently. Or maybe more clearly. She nods once, slow.
“Okay,” she says. “Now tell me the best joke. I want to hear it.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Come on.” She tips her chin up. “Make it count.”
I pretend to think, even though I’ve already got the one. It’s terrible. Which is exactly why it’s perfect.
“Alright,” I say, straight-faced. “Did you know that diarrhea is hereditary?”
She scrunches her nose, but she waits.
“It runs in your jeans,” I say.
There’s a full beat of silence. Her mouth drops open a little. Then—
She bursts out laughing. Big, unfiltered, head-tipped-back laughter.
And then she snorts. Actually snorts. Followed immediately by a gasp and her hand flying to her mouth like she can shove it back in.
“Oh mygod!”she says behind her fingers, eyes wide.
