Page 217 of Wild Then Wed
I wake up before I realize I’m awake.
No dream this time. No sound. Just this slow, restless awareness in my chest, like something’s pulled me to the surface and won’t let me go back under.
I reach for my phone—4:14 a.m.
Hank’s snoring at the foot of the bed, limbs sprawled out. Wren’s facing the other way, back to me, her hair everywhere—half tangled in the pillows, caught on her shoulder. One of her legs is tucked under the covers, the other kicked out across the sheets.
The nightmares don’t come as often when she’s next to me—but some nights, like this one, it’s not the dream that wakes me. It’s the date.
Christmas Eve.
Five years.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake either of them, and climb out of bed. My footsteps are quiet against the hardwood as I make my way to the kitchen. It’s dark except for the soft blue glow of the coffee maker.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it at the sink. My hand’s steady, but my chest feels tight.
Five years ago tonight was the worst night of my life.
I think about that version of me all the time—the one who called the ambulance, who rode with his wife to the hospital already knowing what he was about to be told. The one who stood in a sterile white room and held Julia’s hand while someone gently explained there was nothing more that they could do.
I remember every second of that night.
Every sound. Every smell. The cold of the tile. The way it felt like time just split in half.
And then there was Violet. I never got to meet her. Never got to hear her cry or hold her against my chest. I remember the way the doctor saidwe’ve done all we could, Dr. Hart, and how final that felt. Like the last page of a book I didn’t want to finish.
Since then, I’ve existed.
Gone to work. Fed the dog. Worked on the ranch. Trained at the gym. I got through it. Not over it. Just…through.
And then somehow, Wren showed up.
And I don’t mean that in some dramatic, save-the-day kind of way. She just came into my life and didn’t ask for anything I wasn’t ready to give. She just stood next to me and handed me pieces of myself I hadn’t realized were still lying around.
And God, I love her for that.
But I still miss them, so much. Julia and Violet. Not just tonight. Every day. Even when I’m happy. Even when I’m okay.
I take a slow sip of water and lean against the counter, thinking about the life I was supposed to have, and the life I have now, and how grief isn’t either/or. It’s both.
I put my glass in the sink and turn to head back to my room, but my feet slow without warning, like they’ve stopped listening to my brain. I pass the hallway light switch, barely brush my hand against the wall like I always do, and then I just…stop.
It’s there. The door. Same as it’s always been. Closed. Untouched. The only one in this house I’ve never opened, not since that day.
I glance at my bedroom door, still cracked open, still safe. But my eyes drag back to that door like they’ve got a mind of their own. And before I can talk myself out of it, before I can get too rational about it and shut this whole thing down, my hand reaches up to the ledge above the doorframe. The key’s still there. Cold. Familiar. Heavy as hell.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe it’s Wren. Maybe it’s something about having someone else in the house again that makes it feel a little less haunted.
I open the door.
The air hits me first. It’s stale and soft, like time stopped in here. Like it’s been holding its breath for five years.
The lavender walls are exactly the same. The butterflies—those little decals Julia spent hours arranging just right—still flutter in perfect, frozen patterns across the far wall. I step in as if the floor might collapse under me. Like if I move too fast, it’ll all dissolve.
The crib is there. Fully assembled. Finished. Ready.
Violet’s baby blanket—pale pink, stitched with tiny violets along the edges—is folded neatly inside, right where Julia left it. There’s a fine layer of dust on it now.
