Page 76 of Wild Then Wed
“I’ve been…” she pauses, then lets out a breath, puffing a piece of hair out of her face, “decent. Trying not to freak out about—well. Everything.”
I laugh quietly. “Yeah. Same.”
She gives a small smile.
“I wanted to apologize,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it. “For the texts a few days ago. I know I was short with you. I didn’t mean to be.”
She lifts her hand, palm out. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Sawyer. It’s okay.”
“I want to, though,” I say, stepping closer. “It wasn’t okay. I just…had a lot going on.”
She watches me for a second, like she’s trying to read between the lines but isn’t sure how far she’s allowed to look.
Then she nods once. “It’s okay. Really.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You pinky swear it?”
That makes her laugh—an actual laugh, bright and caught off guard.
Her laugh sounds like the color yellow.
Not the artificial kind, not highlighters or taxi cabs. But soft yellow—sunshine through a mason jar. Candlelight catching on a kitchen wall. It’s sunlight on your skin after too many gray days, a warmth you didn’t realize you needed until it found you.
It reminds me of butter and chamomile. Of honey on a spoon. Of the brief moment after a storm when everything smells clean and new and like it might be okay again, even if it’s not.
It’s a sound you don’t realize you’ve been missing until it shows up and stays for a second longer than it needs to. One that makes you wish you were the one who caused it every time.
She shakes her head, still grinning. “A pinky swear?”
I hold mine out toward her, firm. “What? It’s our thing now.”
Her smile shifts a little then. She reaches up and hooks her pinky around mine, light and tentative, like we’re both pretending it’s a joke so we don’t have to admit it feels like more than that. And it does. Somehow it does.
The space between us thins, and for a second, it’s just me and her and this tether we didn’t mean to tie.
There’s paint on her hands. One smudge of it on the side of her neck. A streak of yellow across her wrist like she dipped it in sunlight and forgot to wipe it off. Her bare feet shift on the tarp, toes curling slightly. She’s a little messy and a little guarded and so stunning it knocks the wind out of me.
And suddenly I’m aware of how close we are. How warm her hand is. How my pulse just picked up for no logical reason.
I clear my throat, glancing down at the tarp—not because I need to, but because I have to look at something that doesn’t make my chest feel tight.
“Your painting,” I say. “It’s amazing.”
She looks down at the painting as if she forgot it was there. Then back at me like she’s trying to figure out if I really meant what I said, or if I’m just being polite.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice low and unsure. Her teeth catch the corner of her bottom lip. “That’s…that means a lot.”
There’s a pause. Then she says it—soft, like she’s not entirely sure she should, “No one’s ever seen my art before.”
I blink. “Seriously? No one?”
She shakes her head once, quick. “No.”
“Why not?”
I kneel down, easing onto one knee so I can look closer.
Up close, it’s even more layered. There are colors I didn’t catch before—faint washes of blue and violet buried under the warmth of the skin tones. Hints of green in the shadows. The brushstrokes are purposeful, but not rigid. There’s movement in them. Story.
