Page 91 of Wild Then Wed
He lunges. I block. We’re both laughing now, shoving lightly at each other over the centerpiece like this is some kind of edible custody battle.
“You’ve already got, like, ten,” he says, half-exasperated.
“And I will die with ten,” I say, tucking the plate under one arm and spinning away from him like it’s a football.
God, I love that kid.
There’s just something about Hudson—he’s sharp, but kind. A little awkward sometimes, but not in a way that makes him try to be anyone he’s not. He’s always been a good listener. Better than most adults I know. And underneath the sarcasm, he’s got this big, soft heart he pretends not to have. It reminds me a little too much of myself, if I’m being honest.
Jack and Lainey burst into the room a second later, shrieking about something unintelligible while clinging to opposite ends of a dish towel. They’re like a pair of little firecrackers—always sparking and spinning, never landing in the same place twice. I don’t know how Lark keeps up with them. I don’t know howanyonedoes. But I love them. I really do.
Being an aunt is so much better than being a sister. You get all the love and mayhem without any of the crushing responsibility. You can spoil them, rile them up, then hand them back like a loaded Nerf gun and walk away.
Lark drops into the chair beside me with a groan that sounds like it’s coming from deep inside of her soul.
Mom, ever tuned in, looks up from the casserole dish she’s garnishing. “Feeling okay, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” Lark breathes, lifting a hand. “Just tired. Always tired.”
Mom gestures toward the hallway. “The guest room is all made up. Why don’t you go lay down, honey? I’ll watch the twins.”
Lark smiles, reaches for her water, and shakes her head. “Normally I’d take you up on that. But honestly? I’m starving. And everything looks amazing.”
And she’s right.
The table is basically sinking under the weight of it all—carved turkey at one end, a glazed ham at the other. Sage’s cranberry-orange sauce in a little glass dish with a silver spoon. Roasted carrots and brussels sprouts with maple and thyme. Green bean casserole with the crispy onions, cornbread stuffing with bits of apple and sausage. Sweet potato casserole with the marshmallows toasted just past the edge of reason.
There’s also an entire extra section at the end of the table that Mom made just for me: dairy-free mashed potatoes with oat milk and roasted garlic, a pan of stuffing made with gluten-free bread she orders special from Bozeman, and an apple pie I saw her making this morning with coconut oil instead of butter, even though I know it drives her crazy to bake like that.
I swallow the lump in my throat and clear it with a laugh instead. “Honestly, the pie smells so good I might just skip dinner entirely.”
Loretta snaps a towel at me from the kitchen. “Touch dessert before dinner and I will put you in a headlock.”
Hudson nods solemnly. “She means it.”
I lift one hand in surrender and back away slowly, the plate of brownies still firmly in my grip.
Then the front door swings open and Miller’s voice carries down the hall like it’s been rehearsed. “I come bearing gifts, everyone!”
Everyone turns just in time to watch her sweep into the dining room, black boots clicking over the hardwood. In herhands—balanced precariously—is a massive cake box and a small bouquet of helium balloons that the twins instantly make a beeline for as if they’ve been summoned by magic.
The cake is obnoxiously beautiful. Smooth white frosting with thick swirls of buttercream and tiny metallic sprinkles. Across the top, written in loopy, vaguely aggressive pink cursive, are the words:Happy Birthday To Our Favorite Hot Mom.
Lainey gasps like she’s just seen a unicorn. Jack yells, “CAKE!” with all the reverence of a child who’s never been disappointed by dessert. Lark covers her mouth with her hand and laughs so hard she nearly tips over in her chair.
Miller carefully sets the box down on the table, then takes a step back and fans herself like the whole delivery was physically exhausting. “She’s classy, she’s festive, and she’s deeply on brand,” she says, gesturing at the cake like she’s unveiling a sculpture.
For as long as I can remember, we’ve always celebrated Lark’s birthday at Thanksgiving. It’s just the way it’s always been—her birthday falls on the sixteenth, but no one wants to squeeze in another gathering between calving season and holiday prep, so it just sort of got folded in. One big meal, one extra dessert, a birthday song, and a candle or two wedged into the cake Mom baked that year.
But this year, with wedding plans eating every spare moment of Mom’s calendar and brain space, Miller volunteered herself for cake duty. No one argued. And maybe that’s the biggest gift of all: not the cake itself, but the showing up. In the only way Miller knows how—loud, inappropriate, and absolutely perfect.
Lark’s still laughing, cheeks pink as she stares at the cake like she can’t quite believe it. “Hot mom, huh?”
Miller shrugs, unbothered. “Don’t act like it’s not accurate.”
Lark shakes her head, grinning. “I’m gonna pee my pants.”
“Not on the chair,” Loretta warns.
