Page 156 of Wild Then Wed
I met Julia during my second semester at vet school. She was sitting on the floor in the hallway outside the lecture hall, passing around a bag of Skittles to a group of students as if they were her lifelong friends. Most of them weren’t. But that was Julia—she made everyone feel like they’d known her forever.
Long black hair that waved well past her shoulders. Olive skin that flushed easy when she laughed, which was often. Big brown eyes that crinkled at the corners and made you feel seen—really seen.
I didn’t talk to her at first. Just watched from a few lockers down, wondering how someone like her could look so alive in a room full of over-caffeinated, burnt-out med students. I didn’t think she’d notice me.
But then one day, she did.
She caught me stuffing a half-eaten bagel into my mouth between classes, looked at me like I was an under-fed stray, and said, “You know, I’ve got better food than that in my car. Come with me.”
That was Julia. Warmth and force of will and no patience for anyone who didn’t feed themselves properly. She was everybody’s friend. But somehow—somehow—she chose me. And I don’t think I’ll ever understand why.
I loved her so fast it made my head spin.
And now…now I’m in a car, in a snowstorm, next to someone who makes me feel that same kind of ache in my chest. But this time, it’s slower. More dangerous. Like something sneaking in while I’m not looking.
Like something I wasn’t supposed to get again. But here she is—and I’m scared shitless.
I don’t want to think about Julia.
I don’t want to think about the way we met, or the way she used to braid her hair back when she was studying, or the way she’d roll her eyes at the term “nesting” while folding tiny baby onesies. I don’t want to think about her round belly or how her hand used to rest on it without even realizing. I don’t want to think about Violet.
But it’s winter, and that’s when it happened. And it’s like grief knows how to read a damn calendar.
You’d think four years would be enough.
But no one tells you that grief doesn’t operate on a fucking schedule. That it doesn’t care if you’ve moved houses or if you’re sitting next to someone with the kind of hair that looks like peaches and the kind of laugh that makes you want to hand over all your embarrassing secrets just to hear it again. It just shows up on its own time.
Wren’s got Hank asleep in the crook of her arm, his whole body slack against her like he’s been drugged by the warmth of her. Her eyes are on the book again, skimming the words.
I clear my throat. “Fruit Roll-Up.”
She blinks, looks over, one brow raised.
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the road. “I was a Fruit Roll-Up kid.”
“Figures.”
That makes me look at her. “What gave me away?”
She taps her chin, mock thoughtful. “You’ve got the quiet trauma of a Gushers kid, but the general trustworthiness of someone who likes their snacks less…explosive.”
I let out a loud laugh, my head tipping back against the headrest. “Tell me something.”
She quirks a brow. “That’s vague. Like what kind of something?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Something honest. Something you think about.”
She’s quiet for a second, flipping the book closed, her thumb marking her spot. Then she shifts a little, like she’s debating if I really want to know something about her or if I’m just bored of the silence. I don’t tell her that it’s both. That distraction is my favorite form of survival. That this time of year always cuts me wide open, and right now, the only thing holding me together is her voice in the passenger seat.
She doesn’t say anything for a beat or two as she stares out the windshield at the snow-covered trees in the distance. Then she lets out this soft, barely-there breath. “I can’t have kids.”
Her voice is so calm I almost think I misheard her. But she keeps going.
“I had endometriosis. Really bad. It wrecked everything before I even knew what was happening. For years they told me what I was feeling was normal, but by the time they found how how bad it actually was…it was either live in pain forever or get everything taken out. I was nineteen.”
I glance over. Her face is still turned toward the window, her eyes focused on the blur of snow.
“I’m not telling you that so you’ll feel sorry for me,” she says, crossing her arms. “I know you’ll understand, at least clinically. You’re a doctor…well, kind of…”
