Page 22 of Wild Then Wed
We’re still waiting on dinner, but you’d think it was already served the way everyone’s gathered around the kitchen—talking, yelling, eating strategically placed chunks of cheese and fruit off cutting boards like wolves.
Boone’s at the head of the table, one arm draped around his wife, Lark. His fingers trace lazy circles on her arm, and every time she laughs, he looks like he’s been handed a gift from the universe. Honestly, it’s obscene.
Their eighteen-month-old twins—Jack and Lainey—are in high chairs on either side of them, armed with sippy cups and no sense of self-preservation. One of them already flung a handful of peas across the room. The other is working on a second offense.
Hudson, their fourteen-year-old, is halfway through a monologue on aliens and ancient civilizations with Sage and she’s eating it up. Sage lives for conspiracy theories and all that shit. Elvis, Sage’s neurotic border collie, is curled under the table, vibrating with anticipation like a landmine waiting for a dropped biscuit.
Miller, Lark’s best friend and our semi-permanent house-guest, is pouring herself a glass of wine like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. She’s still getting used to the sheer volume of Wilding family life, even though she’s been here so much lately I’m pretty sure the twins think she’s just another aunt. She and Lark are basically attached at the hip.
Loretta, our ranch cook and long-time family fixture, is at the stove with her dark hair piled high on her head and an apron that saysKiss the Cook and You’ll Lose a Hand.She’s taste-testing the chicken with the focus of a woman who knows this kitchen is her kingdom.
And then there’s my mom, slicing vegetables at the island like she’s preparing for battle. She keeps checking the oven timer, which she swears is broken but still relies on.
The lights are soft. The windows are fogged from the oven heat, there’s soft music spilling from one of the Bluetooth speakers and the snow is piling up outside. It’s all painfully domestic. And somehow, I still feel like I’m on the outside of it.
There are nights—like this one—when I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not built for this kind of closeness. That maybe I missed the part where everyone figured out how to belong to each other so easily. I love my family—that’s never been the problem. But I’m not the one people lean on for fun or softness or comfort. I’m the one they call when something needs fixing. When there’s a job to be done. When the wheels fall off and someone has to keep driving us somewhere.
And maybe that’s why I feel out of place in moments like this. Because when nothing’s broken, I don’t always know where to put myself.
Or worse—if anyone would even notice if I left.
Loretta and my mom start laying dishes on the table like they’re staging a Thanksgiving commercial. Cast-iron pans,ceramic casserole dishes, woven trivets, all of it steaming and golden and buttery.
Roasted chicken, skin blistered and glistening. Sautéed green beans with crispy shallots. Bread rolls in a towel-lined basket that’s probably older than me.
And then—center stage—Loretta sets down a bubbling dish of mac and cheese that smells like actual heaven.
She beams at me. “And this one’s yours, sweetheart. Dairy-free everything. Noodles, cheese, breadcrumbs—you would not believe the vegan section at the new co-op. I nearly lost my mind in there.”
I smile, grateful but already mentally preparing for how bad it’s going to taste. “Thanks, Loretta. You didn’t have to—”
“Of course I did,” she says, hand on her hip. “You think I’m going to let you sit here with a plate of sad salad while the rest of us carbo-load like we’re running a marathon?”
I nod, because the alternative is telling her I actually prefer eating alone. Not because I like being alone, but because being the exception at a table full of normal sometimes feels worse than not showing up at all.
I pile salad onto my plate. A few green beans. A modest, polite scoop of the mac and cheese that will absolutely betray me in the end.
Sage leans over, tilting her head. “How do you deal with that? Like, how do you not just spiral when you know you can’t eat anything fun?”
I know she means well. I do. But it still grates on my nerves when she says stuff like that. I stab a cucumber slice and shrug. “Why do you think I’m such a bitch all the time? It’s the cheese withdrawal.”
Miller chokes on her wine. “That checks out.”
Boone glances up from helping Lainey with her fork and points a finger between the twins. “Little ears at the table.”
I hold up my hands. “Sorry. Grumpy dairy-deprived aunt over here. I’ll watch my language.”
Jack giggles and bangs his spoon against his tray like he’s applauding me. Across the table, Miller tips her wineglass toward me. “How long have you had a dairy allergy?”
I stab a cherry tomato. “Basically forever. I think I came out of the womb and immediately broke out in hives.”
Boone doesn’t look up as he starts cutting Lainey’s chicken into tiny, identical cubes. “She also has a gluten allergy. So basically, we didn’t have a single fun snack in the house growing up. Not one. No Goldfish. No Oreos. Not even fruit snacks.”
I shoot him a look as I chew another forkful of salad. “Sorry my auto-immune system ruined your childhood, Boone.”
Lark, who is clearly trying to change the subject to something less inflammatory, smiles. “So, what do you like to eat?”
I shrug. “Rice bowls. Stir fries. Roasted veggies. There’s this one chickpea pasta that doesn’t taste like cardboard if you drown it in garlic and pray hard enough.”
