Page 77 of Wild Then Wed
She shrugs, her arms still crossed. “It’s just always been…for me. Something I didn’t want to share.”
I glance up at her.
She adds, quieter this time, “And I didn’t want people to tell me it was bad. I know that’s probably stupid, but…”
I shake my head. “It’s not stupid.”
She exhales, a short huff of a breath that lands somewhere between resignation and amusement. There’s a small smile tugging at her mouth now, even if she’s trying not to let it all the way out.
I sit back on my heels, tilt my head. “You want my very professional artistic opinion?”
She groans, but the smile stays. “You’ve already seen it. Might as well ruin it for me completely.”
I laugh. “Alright then.”
I look at the painting again.
“It’s…raw,” I say, still trying to find the right words. “But in a way that feels intentional. Like it’s not trying to impress anyone. It’s just trying tobesomething.”
I pause, squinting slightly at the hands—at the lines, the texture, the quiet dignity in them. They look like they’ve built things. Held grief. Given more than they kept.
“It feels like a memory,” I tell her. “Not perfect, but honest. Something you carry with you whether you want to or not.”
Wren swallows, her throat bobbing slightly. “Wow,” she says, after a beat. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
I stand back up, brushing my palms on my jeans. “You thought I was just a meathead with no depth, didn’t you?”
That pulls a laugh from her. She nudges me with her elbow as I pass. “I never thought that.”
I raise a brow, and she sighs. “Okay. I did. A little.”
I grin. “Glad we’re establishing some trust.”
She nods toward the painting, her expression shifting. It softens, in that way people do when they let something matter.
“They’re my dad’s hands,” she says, kneeling beside it again. Her fingers touch the edge of the canvas, then trace the knuckles like she’s still memorizing them. “I’ve painted them a bunch of times, but this one…I don’t know. This one felt different.”
She’s quiet for a minute. I don’t move.
“It’s weird,” she says, her voice softer now. “The things you remember about someone after they’re gone. I mean, you remember the big stuff—who they were, how they made you feel, the things you did together.
She presses her hand flat against the canvas, right over one of the painted palms.
“But then there’s these random details that get stuck in your brain. Things that don’t seem like they should matter at all. Like the way they walked. Their nervous habits. The way their hands looked when they were tired.”
She exhales through her nose, not looking at me. “For me, it’s always been his hands. That’s what I remember first. The calluses, the way they were always warm even when it was freezing outside. The way he’d rub the back of his neck when he was thinking hard about something. They were so big, but when he held something gently—like a baby bird, or a broken piece of tack—it was like watching strength slow down. Like he knew exactly how much power he had and chose, every time, not to use it.”
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.
She’s not trying to perform for me. She’s not telling me this for comfort or praise. She’s just…sharing. Like maybe holding the memory out in front of her makes it a little lighter to carry.
And God, if I don’t know exactly what that feels like.
She brushes her fingers over the edge of the painting again, eyes still on the canvas. “I know most people think of my dad as this hard-ass.”
She pauses, her voice dipping. “But when I think of him, I think of his hands. Not the ones holding a rope or fixing fence line. The ones he used to rub circles on my back when I couldn’t sleep. Or the ones that picked wildflowers and brought them home in the pocket of his shirt.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “People didn’t see that side of him very often.”
