Page 219 of Wild Then Wed
He’s sitting on the floor, leaned back against the closet door like his whole body has just given up. His long, muscular legs are stretched out in front of him. There’s a photo book open on his lap, pages thick and glossy with memories, some of them probably never lived outside this room.
And he’s crying.
Not just teary-eyed. He’s sobbing.
His shoulders are shaking. His head is bowed. One hand grips the edge of the photo book like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The sound coming out of him is so raw, so full-body broken, that I instinctively press my hand over my mouth.
God.
It does something to me—seeing him like this. This man who has shown nothing but patience and gentleness and kindness since the second I moved in. Even when I was an icy bitch to him at the feed store.
And now he’s here. Falling apart. Alone. In the quietest, saddest way I’ve ever seen someone grieve.
It knocks the wind out of me.
All I want to do is take his pain and hold it. Lighten it somehow. Crawl into this room and sit next to him until it gets quiet again. Not because I know what to say. I don’t. I havenoidea what to say to make any of this better. But nobody should have to do this by themselves.
I reach up and knock gently against the door. “Sawyer?”
He looks up.
His face is blotchy, his eyes bloodshot. But he doesn’t rush to wipe it all away like he’s embarrassed. He doesn’t look surprised either. Just…tired. Like he’s been carrying this around for so long, he can’t even be bothered to hide it anymore.
“Sorry if I woke you up,” he says, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.
His voice is hoarse. Heavy.
I shake my head, but the words don’t come right away. I don’t even know where to start.
I walk toward him slowly. Careful, like I might spook him if I move too fast.
He doesn’t look up again, just keeps his eyes on the photo book in front of him, one hand still pressed to the page like it’s something sacred.
I lower myself onto the floor next to him, my legs brushing his. And then I slide closer and wrap my arms around his bicep, leaning my head against his shoulder.
He doesn’t tense. Doesn’t pull away.
The photo on the page is an ultrasound. One with blurry outlines and strange shadows, but somehow it’s still crystal clear what I’m looking at. A profile. A tiny, perfect profile. A baby that was supposed to be here.
I stare at the image, trying to make sense of it—of all the love and heartbreak packed into one blurry little shape.
“Can I look at it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods.
I pick up the book and hold it in my lap, tilting it slightly toward the light creeping in from the hallway. I trace the curve of the baby’s head with my eyes. The outline of her nose. It’s the first thing I see.
“She definitely had your nose,” I say, with this tiny smile I can’t help. It’s not really helpful or happy. But it’s something. A truth.
Sawyer huffs out the kind of laugh that’s mostly breath.
“Really?” he says, wiping his face again with the back of his hand.
I nod, still staring at her. I outline her nose with my finger. “Yeah. It’s right there. Same slope. Same little tip.”
He goes quiet again, and I flip the page.
And there she is.
