Page 159 of Wild Then Wed
I pause, jaw flexing. The ache’s back in my chest, deep and familiar, but it feels different right now. Not debilitating. Just…there.
“She was smart, too,” I say, my voice dropping a little. “Crazy smart. Like, she could’ve done anything. Sometimes it scared the shit out of me, how fast her brain worked. She’d remember every little detail from a conversation you had six months ago. Shecould read you in five seconds flat, and she didn’t miss a damn thing.”
Wren’s still looking at me. Her expression hasn’t changed, but something about the way her mouth curves at the corners makes me feel like I’ve just handed her a secret.
“She was a night owl,” I add, quieter now. “Always stayed up too late, even when she had early rotations. Said the world was quieter at night, easier to think in. We used to sit on the kitchen floor in our apartment and eat cereal at midnight. And she’d talk—about everything. Her patients. Her parents. Her siblings. The weird dreams she had the night before. I swear she had a story for every damn thing.”
I huff out a laugh. “She kept this tiny notebook in her purse where she’d write down quotes she overheard. From strangers. Professors. Me. I never knew if I should be flattered or afraid.”
Wren smiles, her head still resting on her knee. She’s quiet for a second, and then she says gently, “She sounds incredible.”
I nod, try to say something, but the words catch in my throat. I swallow hard and manage, “She was.”
There’s a pause. A soft kind of stillness.
“You look happy when you talk about her,” Wren says.
I blink, a little thrown. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And she’s right. I hadn’t noticed it until she said it. But there’s no crushing weight on my chest, no sharp edge behind my ribs. Just this slow warmth spreading through me, like a form of sunlight that I haven’t felt in a long time.
Wren tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, her eyes following the snow outside. “Sometimes people treat grief like it’s a wound that’s supposed to close. But I don’t think it works that way. I think when you love someone, really love someone, it leaves a mark. And maybe it’s not supposed to fade. Maybe it’s supposedto stay with you, to remind you it was ever there in the first place.”
She just sits there, not needing anything from me. Just offering that—that simple truth.
She’s quiet for a long minute, her gaze still on the snow blurring past the window. Then she turns, slow and careful, like she’s not sure if she should ask but can’t not.
“What about your daughter?” she says gently. “What was her name?”
I clear my throat, my grip tightening just slightly on the wheel. “Violet.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh my god.That’swhy you didn’t want those flowers at the wedding.” She exhales, like it all just clicked into place. “That makes sense now.”
I just nod. Stiff. Quiet. I don’t trust my voice.
“How old was she?” she asks.
That’s the part that always hits hardest—the part I still haven’t figured out how to say without it slicing me open.
“She wasn’t born yet,” I say, jaw tight. “Julia was still pregnant. When they…”
I don’t finish. Can’t. My throat burns like I’ve swallowed glass. I pray to God Wren doesn’t ask how they died, because I still see it. Still wake up gasping for air, heart pounding, that night replaying like a fucking film reel I never asked to see in the first place.
But she doesn’t ask. She doesn’t push.
Instead, she just says softly, “Violet is a beautiful name.”
I breathe out slowly. “I picked it.”
She glances over at me, one brow raised. “You did?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Surprised?”
“A little,” she says, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “You strike me more as a…Bertha kind of guy.”
I laugh, and it comes out louder than I expect. “What the hell?Bertha?Okay, I’m offended.”
