Chapter 5
WREN
The Wilding family doesn’t believe in volume control. Or personal space. Or sitting in chairs like normal people.
We’re still waiting on dinner, but you’d think it was already served the way everyone’s gathered around the kitchen—talking, yelling, eating strategically placed chunks of cheese and fruit off cutting boards like wolves.
Boone’s at the head of the table, one arm draped around his wife, Lark. His fingers trace lazy circles on her arm, and every time she laughs, he looks like he’s been handed a gift from the universe. Honestly, it’s obscene.
Their eighteen-month-old twins—Jack and Lainey—are in high chairs on either side of them, armed with sippy cups and no sense of self-preservation. One of them already flung a handful of peas across the room. The other is working on a second offense.
Hudson, their fourteen-year-old, is halfway through a monologue on aliens and ancient civilizations with Sage and she’s eating it up.
Sage lives for conspiracy theories and all that shit.
Elvis, Sage’s neurotic border collie, is curled under the table, vibrating with anticipation like a landmine waiting for a dropped biscuit.
Miller, Lark’s best friend and our semi-permanent house-guest, is pouring herself a glass of wine like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.
She’s still getting used to the sheer volume of Wilding family life, even though she’s been here so much lately I’m pretty sure the twins think she’s just another aunt.
She and Lark are basically attached at the hip.
Loretta, our ranch cook and long-time family fixture, is at the stove with her dark hair piled high on her head and an apron that says Kiss the Cook and You’ll Lose a Hand. She’s taste-testing the chicken with the focus of a woman who knows this kitchen is her kingdom.
And then there’s my mom, slicing vegetables at the island like she’s preparing for battle. She keeps checking the oven timer, which she swears is broken but still relies on.
The lights are soft. The windows are fogged from the oven heat, there’s soft music spilling from one of the Bluetooth speakers and the snow is piling up outside. It’s all painfully domestic. And somehow, I still feel like I’m on the outside of it.
There are nights—like this one—when I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not built for this kind of closeness.
That maybe I missed the part where everyone figured out how to belong to each other so easily.
I love my family—that’s never been the problem.
But I’m not the one people lean on for fun or softness or comfort.
I’m the one they call when something needs fixing.
When there’s a job to be done. When the wheels fall off and someone has to keep driving us somewhere.
And maybe that’s why I feel out of place in moments like this. Because when nothing’s broken, I don’t always know where to put myself.
Or worse—if anyone would even notice if I left.
Loretta and my mom start laying dishes on the table like they’re staging a Thanksgiving commercial. Cast-iron pans, ceramic casserole dishes, woven trivets, all of it steaming and golden and buttery.
Roasted chicken, skin blistered and glistening. Sautéed green beans with crispy shallots. Bread rolls in a towel-lined basket that’s probably older than me.
And then—center stage—Loretta sets down a bubbling dish of mac and cheese that smells like actual heaven.
She beams at me. “And this one’s yours, sweetheart. Dairy-free everything. Noodles, cheese, breadcrumbs—you would not believe the vegan section at the new co-op. I nearly lost my mind in there.”
I smile, grateful but already mentally preparing for how bad it’s going to taste. “Thanks, Loretta. You didn’t have to—”
“Of course I did,” she says, hand on her hip. “You think I’m going to let you sit here with a plate of sad salad while the rest of us carbo-load like we’re running a marathon?”
I nod, because the alternative is telling her I actually prefer eating alone. Not because I like being alone, but because being the exception at a table full of normal sometimes feels worse than not showing up at all.
I pile salad onto my plate. A few green beans. A modest, polite scoop of the mac and cheese that will absolutely betray me in the end.
Sage leans over, tilting her head. “How do you deal with that? Like, how do you not just spiral when you know you can’t eat anything fun?”
I know she means well. I do. But it still grates on my nerves when she says stuff like that. I stab a cucumber slice and shrug. “Why do you think I’m such a bitch all the time? It’s the cheese withdrawal.”
Miller chokes on her wine. “That checks out.”
Boone glances up from helping Lainey with her fork and points a finger between the twins. “Little ears at the table.”
I hold up my hands. “Sorry. Grumpy dairy-deprived aunt over here. I’ll watch my language.”
Jack giggles and bangs his spoon against his tray like he’s applauding me. Across the table, Miller tips her wineglass toward me. “How long have you had a dairy allergy?”
I stab a cherry tomato. “Basically forever. I think I came out of the womb and immediately broke out in hives.”
Boone doesn’t look up as he starts cutting Lainey’s chicken into tiny, identical cubes. “She also has a gluten allergy. So basically, we didn’t have a single fun snack in the house growing up. Not one. No Goldfish. No Oreos. Not even fruit snacks.”
I shoot him a look as I chew another forkful of salad. “Sorry my auto-immune system ruined your childhood, Boone.”
Lark, who is clearly trying to change the subject to something less inflammatory, smiles. “So, what do you like to eat?”
I shrug. “Rice bowls. Stir fries. Roasted veggies. There’s this one chickpea pasta that doesn’t taste like cardboard if you drown it in garlic and pray hard enough.”
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 says Don’t Moose With Me and 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.