Page 23 of Wild Then Wed
Boone makes a face. “God, that sounds depressing.”
I pick up a slice of carrot from my plate and flick it at his shoulder. It bounces off and lands in his lap. Victory.
“Food’s not supposed to be inspirational,” I say. “It’s supposed to not kill me.”
Mom chimes in, dishing another scoop of green beans onto her plate. “I’ve gotten good at adjusting things over the years. Like the brownies.”
That’s true. Her brownies are actually magic. Fudgy and dense and warm without sending me into anaphylaxis. It’s a low bar, but one I appreciate.
Sage pipes up, twirling her fork. “Remember Halloween as kids? We couldn’t have normal candy because Wren couldn’t eat, like, ninety percent of it.”
Boone snorts. “Mom used to buy those coconut carob bars from the health food store.”
Sage laughs. “Oh, yeah! I hated those things. I can’t ever look at coconut-flavored things the same.”
Everyone laughs, including me, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Smile. Play along. Be a good sport about the weird cheese and the childhood snacks that tasted like cardboard. But the truth is, it’s not really funny. Not to me.
Even now—when I know it’s said with affection, with familiarity—it still lands the way it always has. A soft reminder that I’ve never quite fit the mold. That I’ve always needed something…extra.
It’s never really been about the brownies. Or the Halloween candy I couldn’t eat. Or the careful scanning of ingredients in the grocery aisle. It’s the feeling beneath it. The way I’ve always been slightly off to the side of things. Factored in. Worked around. Adjusted for.
No one’s ever said I was a burden. Not directly. But I’ve heard it in the slight hesitation before someone orders pizza. Seen it in the glance passed between two people trying to remember what I can and can’t have. Felt it in the casseroles baked in two pans, in the quiet effort it takes to make sure I’m not left out.
So I learned early how to make it easier. Not to ask for more than I needed. To smile and say “it’s fine” before anyone even asked. To be easy. Low-maintenance. Convenient. The person who says, “whatever works for everyone else,” even when it doesn’t really work for me.
I love them. I do. More than anything.
But still—sometimes, like tonight—when the table is loud and full and my plate holds a dairy-free version of what everyone else is eating, I wonder if anyone sees it. The effort it takes to keep up. The way I’m always balancing something invisible. The quiet math I do in my head so no one else has to.
And I wish—just once—someone would look at me and ask, gently,“Don’t you ever get tired?”
“I, for one, think more people should eat like Wren,” Miller says, cutting into her roasted squash. “It’s healthier. No wonder why she has the clearest skin I’ve ever seen. It also sharpens your mind. Probably makes you better in bed.”
“Miller!” Lark shoots her a look and then flicks her eyes towards Hudson, pointing a finger at him. “You didn’t hear that.”
Boone doesn’t miss a beat. “Great, Mills. We’ll all just snack on lettuce and see where that gets us.”
Miller levels him with a look over the rim of her wineglass. “You could stand to snack on a little humility, Boone.”
I bite back a grin and shove another forkful of salad into my mouth.
I’ve always liked Miller. There’s a polish to her—the kind of woman who wears designer clothes like it’s a second skin, despite there being a literal blizzard outside. But there’s also a bite to her. She’s the human version of a stiletto with a hidden blade. And what I’ve always respected most about her is that she never once makes herself small to fit into a room. Especially not ours.
“I still think I could take you in a brownie-eating contest,” Hudson says from across the table, looking very serious for someone wearing a hoodie that saysDon’t Moose With Meand has cheese on his chin.
“You’re all talk, Hud,” I shoot back. “You’d pass out halfway through my secret stash.”
“You don’t even have a secret stash.”
“That’s what you think.”
He narrows his eyes at me. I send him a wink back.
The front door swings open with the kind of rattle and flair that only belongs to one person in the family.
“Ho ho ho!” a voice booms from the entryway. “Santa brought your gift early this year!”
There’s a collective gasp from the table as boots thud across the hardwood. Miller groans. My mom’s already half out of her chair, her hand flying to her chest like she’s hearing a ghost.
