Chapter 8 #2
Wren slides into a chair next to Emily, tucking herself in like she’s trying to disappear. I take the seat beside her.
The chair creaks under me—not because it’s weak, but because I’m too damn big for normal furniture. Always have been. I shift, spreading my legs out a little to make room, and my knee knocks into hers under the table.
She jerks like I zapped her, a quick glance flicking up at me before she stares hard at her plate.
Mom leans over the table. “You want some dressing for that salad, honey? Made it myself. It’s my kids favorite, better than that store-bought stuff.”
Wren shakes her head, polite. Smiles just enough to be nice. “No, thank you. Thanks for offering, though.”
I squint at her plate—bare lettuce, a few sad cucumbers—and lean in a little. “What kind of psychopath eats salad without dressing? I don’t know if that even constitutes as a salad.”
Her chin tips up, those sharp blue eyes slicing right through me. “It takes one to know one.”
I huff out a laugh, taking a bite of my own food.
The table’s a mess of chatter. Riley’s telling some half-bullshit story about a tourist at the Lucky Devil who asked if cow-tipping was a real thing. Emily and Mason are trying not to laugh while Nathan corrects him. Crew’s just shaking his head like he’s been through this a hundred times.
Mom dishes up a plate like she’s feeding a small army, then glances up. “Your dad’s not gonna make it. Had some ranch business to handle.” She waves a hand like it’s nothing. “Told us not to wait for him.”
She turns back to Wren, her smile as warm as the smell of bread still hanging in the air. “Don’t be shy now, Wren! There’s plenty. You sure you don’t want some of this green bean casserole?”
Wren, who hasn’t touched much more than a leaf of spinach, shakes her head again. “I’m good, really. Thank you.”
I nudge her with my elbow, just enough to get her attention. “You trying to waste away over there or what?”
Her teeth catch on her bottom lip for a second like she’s debating something. Then she sighs and says, “No, I promise I’m not trying to be rude or anything. I…uh, I have a dairy allergy.” A pause. Then, like it costs her to admit it, “And gluten.”
The table goes a little quieter around us. Not silent, just…aware.
Mom’s face crumples with instant sympathy. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” She sets down the bowl of rolls like they’ve personally offended her. “If I’d known, I would’ve made something special for you.”
Wren waves a hand, brushing it off like she’s swatting a fly. “It’s no big deal. Totally fine.” She nudges my elbow back with hers, just enough to jolt me out of my own head. “Someone doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”
I open my mouth to apologize, but she cuts me off before I can even get the words out.
“Seriously,” she says, reaching for the vegetables. “It’s not a big deal, Sawyer. It happens all the time.”
I sit back in my chair, feeling like a piece of shit.
I dragged her in here like it was no big thing when she was probably just trying to get home to her own fridge full of food that wouldn’t make her sick.
Riley whistles low under his breath. “Damn. That sucks. You can’t eat, like, anything.”
Crew shoots him a look from across the table. “Real nice, man.”
Riley just shrugs, unbothered as ever. “What? It’s true.”
Mom glares at him like she’s two seconds from smacking him upside the head with a wooden spoon.
I fight the urge to rub a hand over my face.
Riley’s only a few years younger than me, but sometimes it feels like twenty.
Always the first to say something that doesn’t need saying.
Always the first to make everyone else laugh about it, too.
He’s a bartender at the Lucky Devil, the only dive bar in town, and the people love him. Something about his shit-eating grin and that zero-filter mouth makes folks want to buy beers and tell him their life stories.
Right now, though, it’s not helping.
Wren lets out a small laugh. “It’s okay. He’s right. It does suck.”
“See?” he says, smug as hell, taking a bite of green bean casserole.
Crew mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like jackass and throws a dinner roll at him anyway. It bounces off Riley’s shoulder and hits the floor, but Riley doesn’t even flinch. Just picks it up and takes a bite out of it.
Mom points a warning finger across the table like she’s debating whether lunch is even worth salvaging at this point.
Emily leans in, her brown hair swinging over her shoulder. “So what do you eat then, if you can’t have like…anything?”
Wren shrugs one shoulder, casual. “A lot of meat. Vegetables. Rice. Salad. Potatoes. Things like that.”
Mason, who’s been quietly buttering his biscuit in the corner, glances up. “What about snacks? Sweets?”
Wren purses her lips together as she thinks. “There’s an ice cream brand I love called Swoon . Gluten-free, dairy-free. It doesn’t taste like you’re licking a cardboard box, which is rare. But it’s only in the Stedford grocery store in Bozeman.”
“Let me guess,” Nathan says. “You don’t get out that way much.”
She shakes her head. “Not unless I have a reason to.”
Mom sets her fork down and wipes her mouth with a napkin. “I’ve never heard of Swoon , but I’ll have to try it. I need to start eating healthier anyway.”
Then she leans in a little, like it’s a secret between them. “What’s your favorite flavor?”
Wren tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “The s’mores one. It’s the best.”
Mom’s face lights up. “S’mores? That sounds yummy. I’m definitely going to try it next time I’m in the city. Maybe I’ll get Sawyer here to pick some up for me.”
Wren gives a small nod. “You’ll have to let me know if you like it.”
The conversation spins out from there—Crew grumbling about how Bozeman’s too far to drive for ice cream, the twins and Mason arguing about what flavor of ice cream is better, Riley mouthing s’mores like he’s never heard the word before.
Wren just looks back down at her plate and focuses on eating. I don’t have to ask why she never told me back at the round pen about the allergies.
I know.
Because Wren Wilding doesn’t want to be an inconvenience.
Because somewhere along the way, she learned that needing something—anything—makes her harder to be around.
It hits me in a place I thought I’d locked up years ago. A hollow, familiar ache that sneaks in before I can shove it down. It’s not just about the allergies—it’s about her.
About how easily she folds herself smaller, quieter, like she’s convinced that’s the only way to be wanted. How she’d rather go hungry or sick than risk being “too much.”
God, I hate that for her.
Under the table, I nudge her knee with mine. Just a small, intentional push. I see you.
For a second, I brace for her to pull away again. The way she always does.
But she doesn’t. She presses back. I see you, too.
It’s stupid, how much it gets to me.
How that tiny, quiet thing—her trusting me enough to stay close instead of pulling away—makes something sharp in my chest ease for the first time in…I don’t even know how long.
She peeks up at me from under her lashes, the smallest smile curving at her mouth—barely there, but real.
And then she looks back down and keeps eating, like it never happened.
I don’t say anything. I just sit there, feeling it settle between us.
Something small.
Something new.
And for once, I don’t try to make sense of it.
I just let it be.