Page 157 of Wild Then Wed
That gets a quiet smile out of me.
“When I was little, Ridge and Sage were always my babies. I’d make us play house in the hay barn, and I’d be the mom, bossing them around, feeding them mashed up dandelions I pretended were soup. I thought one day I’d have that for real. The whole thing. A family that felt like it belonged to me.”
She finally looks over at me, and there’s nothing guarded in her face for once. Just something hollowed out and honest.
“The worst part isn’t that I can’t get pregnant. It’s that I never got to decide if I even wanted to. That choice—having it taken from me before I knew what I really wanted—that’s what hurts the most, I think.”
Something in my chest pulls tight. Not in pity, but in recognition. Because grief that steals before you ever get towant—it’s a particular type of theft. One that leaves a space where dreams used to be.
She turns back to the window again and adds, almost like an afterthought, “Anyway. I don’t usually talk about it. Most people get weird. Or say something like ‘Oh, but there’s other ways’ as if that makes it any better. But…that’s my honest thing. Something I think about.”
Fuck.
That’s the first thought that hits me. Not out of pity, not even shock—just this solid, gut-wrenching understanding. I look at her, really look, and I get it. Or at least…I can imagine what that grief feels like. I can see how that would mess someone up. How it would wrap itself around every single thing you thought you’d have someday and make you question whether you ever deserved it in the first place.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be a father again. That part of my life—the one with a nursery we never used and a name we’d already picked out—went up in smoke four years ago. I haven’t let myself imagine a version of the future that looks anything different since.
But then I think about Nora. My niece. Crew’s daughter.
Crew never planned on being a single dad, but life didn’t exactly ask him for his input. He stepped up anyway, the way he always does. Still foreman of the ranch, still dependable as hell, still the guy who says he’s fine even when his eyes are rimmed in purple and he’s on his third cup of coffee by 9 a.m.
Nora’s a full-time job all on her own—bright, loud, and endlessly curious. A five-year-old blonde tornado in glittery rainboots. She talks so fast you’d think there’s a prize for it. And when she was smaller, I used to babysit her when Crew needed a break. We’d build block towers she’d knock over before they were finished. I once watchedFinding Nemofour times in one day because she cried when Nemo got lost and she wanted to make sure he got home okay. We made pancakes shaped like cows, which didn’t really look anything like cows, but she insisted they did.
It was exhausting. But it was also one of the only things that made me feel like I was still tethered to the world back then.
I think about all of that while Wren stares out the window like she hasn’t just said something that broke me open a little. About how there are a million ways life can gut you, and how maybe, sometimes, it still finds a way to hand you something soft after.
Even if it’s just a loud little niece in glittery rainboots.
Or a woman next to you in the passenger seat who just trusted you with her most honest thing.
“I guess…” I start, and it comes out more fragile than I mean it to. I swallow, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “I guess I’m scared I’ll end up alone.”
Wren doesn’t say anything, but I feel her eyes shift toward me. I keep mine on the road. The snow’s thick now—slow, swirling sheets of it—but I could drive this stretch blind.
“Not physically alone,” I say, glancing over at her. “I’ve got plenty of people around, obviously. My parents. My siblings. Crew never stops showing up unannounced with Nora asking if I have snacks. But…” I exhale, slow. “I meanalone,where no one’s waiting for you at the end of the day. Where no one notices if your shoulders are higher than they were that morning. No one sees you. Really sees you.”
I rub my thumb along the seam of the steering wheel, steadying myself. I don’t look, but I can feel her watching me.
“Is that why your marriage ended?” she asks, her voice soft, cautious.
I let out a breath, steady but a little jagged. “No. I’m not divorced.”
She glances over at me, confused.
“I’m a widower.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then—“Shit.” She starts rambling almost immediately. “God, I’m so sorry, that was—stupid of me. So stupid. I wasn’t trying to assume, I just—your age, and the fact that you never said—”
“Wren.”
She goes quiet.
“It’s okay. You would’ve found out sooner or later.”
She’s still looking at me. I can feel it. I keep my eyes on the snow.
“I lost my wife,” I say. “And our daughter. Four years ago.”
