Chapter 18
WREN
“You cannot bid nil with Ridge on your team!”
That’s Boone, half-shouting, half-laughing through his third losing hand in a row, slapping his cards down on the table like they personally betrayed him.
Across from him, Lark is shaking with silent laughter, one hand over her mouth. Ridge just grins, leaning back in his chair like the king of a very stupid hill.
“Bidding nil makes it fun,” Ridge says, stretching his arms overhead. “Keeps you humble.”
“You’re not humble,” Lark mutters.
“You don’t know that,” Ridge shoots back, grinning.
“Your truck is literally named after yourself,” I add.
“Exactly,” Boone says, pointing at me like I’ve just presented Exhibit A in a murder trial. “She’s not even playing and she still sees it.”
We’re packed around the dining room table—plates cleared, wine half-finished, and a deck of cards that’s probably older than Hudson being shuffled like it’s a sacred ritual.
The kitchen smells like leftover pie and cinnamon-sweet soap from where we’d all taken turns scrubbing.
After dinner, Ridge, Boone, and I washed every last dish, dried every pot, and tucked all the leftovers into Tupperware that somehow never has enough matching lids.
It was the least we could do for Mom and Loretta, who spent all day keeping us alive.
Now, Jack is curled up on Mom’s lap, his cheek smushed against her arm, one thumb still in his mouth. Lainey’s out cold on Loretta’s, her curls matted to her forehead, a tiny fist clinging to the hem of Loretta’s sweater. They’re both snoring through the noise.
How they sleep through this nonsense, I’ll never know.
Loretta’s hair has fallen loose from her clip, soft brown waves curling around her jaw.
Mom’s barefoot now, and one hand rubs slow circles on Jack’s back while the other rests on her knee.
Neither of them are playing—they’re just watching and laughing and occasionally throwing in sarcastic commentary like peanut gallery royalty.
The teams tonight are dangerous.
Lark and Ridge on one side—the twin flames of competitiveness. They are way too synced for this game. They play like they’ve trained together in a Spades bootcamp, throwing down cards with military precision and unspoken cues that are honestly a little creepy.
Boone and Hudson are opposite them, and while Boone knows how to play, Hudson is fourteen and easily distracted and occasionally forgets that Spades isn’t Go Fish.
They’re down by thirty points and Boone is spiraling.
“Hud,” Boone says now, trying to sound calm but mostly sounding like a man being slow-cooked in his own resentment, “did you mean to play the queen of hearts or did you just panic again?”
Hudson blinks. “I thought we were supposed to get rid of the high ones?”
“Not in the middle of a hand where we’re trying to win! ”
Miller, seated beside me, sips her wine and leans over just enough to say, “This is better than reality TV.”
“You bid six books,” Ridge says, flipping over his last card like a showman. “And made three.”
Boone exhales through his nose. “That’s what happens when you have a toddler for a partner.”
“ Rude ,” Hudson says mildly, “but not inaccurate.”
“You could put me in,” I offer. “I’ve got a decent poker face.”
Boone waves a hand. “Nah. We’re building character.”
I settle deeper into my chair, sipping tea that’s gone cold, watching the people I love most in the world argue over strategy and bluffing and whether Ridge can actually count cards (he can, but he pretends like he can’t just to annoy Boone).
The dining room feels too warm, the windows fogged at the edges from leftover heat and too many bodies.
And still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Especially not this.
The noise. The mess. The easy love beneath all the shouting. It’s loud and chaotic and more real than anything I’ve felt in days.
The back door creaks open and slams shut again in that familiar way it always does when it’s cold out, and a second later Sage walks in, cheeks flushed pink from the wind and Elvis padding behind her like her less-competent shadow.
I look up to ask, “How are the horses?”
“Junie’s been moody as hell today. Must be the cold,” Sage says, peeling off her coat. “Rook stepped in a bur and acted like he’d been shot. Moose is pacing. Springsteen is good, though.”
“Sounds about right.”
She hangs her jacket in the closet with practiced ease, then kicks off her boots and pads into the room in her socks, hair still messy from her braid, wisps clinging to her forehead.
Elvis trots in after her and, like clockwork, makes his way over to me, rests his head squarely on my lap, and sighs like it’s been a long day.
I scratch behind his ears. “You’re the worst working dog I’ve ever met.”
Elvis just stares up at me.
Sage glances at the table and lets out a dramatic little huff. “You guys started playing Spades without me?”
Boone doesn’t even look up. “You were gone for forty-five minutes.”
“I was doing work .”
“Well, I thought you’d started hiking the Appalachian Trail.”
She flops down into the nearest chair. Elvis follows suit, curling under the table beside her foot.
Me and Sage couldn’t be more opposite if we tried.
Where I’m blunt, she’s soft. Where I’m fire, she’s water—calm, adaptable.
I keep things in. She wears her heart on her sleeve.
Sage is more outgoing than me, more spontaneous.
She says yes to things without needing to think them through, and somehow it always works out for her.
She’s fun in a way I’m not—lighter, a little wilder, the person that people naturally want to be around.
Our dad used to say Sage could read a room better than anyone, that she got that from our mom. He was right.
And to top it off, we don’t even look alike.
Sage has that natural prettiness people notice immediately—glowing skin, sea-glass colored eyes that nobody can really tell if they’re blue or green.
Her hair’s a dark chestnut, almost black.
Her lashes are thick and long and her lips are always that barely-there glossed pink.
She rests her chin in her hand, scanning the score sheet Boone’s keeping like it’s rigged, and then glances at me. “You playing next round?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
Sage perks up, already scooting her chair closer. “I’ll be on your team.”
The current hand wraps up with a lot of noise and some truly questionable math on Boone’s part. Ridge throws down his last card, and Lark groans, slumping back in her chair.
“That’s it for me,” she says with a yawn, pressing a hand to her lower back. “I’m going to turn in before I turn to dust.”
Boone stands too. “Hang on a sec—we’ve got something to tell everyone first.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Mom sit up a little straighter, like her instincts just went on high alert. She sets her wine glass down, eyes narrowing just slightly. The room hushes a little, the way it always does when Boone sounds like he’s building to something.
Lark glances at him, then smiles. It’s soft and quiet. She reaches into the front pocket of her jeans and pulls out something small and carefully folded.
It’s an ultrasound photo.
And suddenly the room isn’t quiet anymore.
Chairs scrape. Voices rise. A full chorus of “What?!” and “No way!” and “Are you serious?” explodes from around the table. Ridge is already out of his seat, clapping Boone on the shoulder hard enough to knock him forward a step.
Miller bolts upright like she’s just been personally offended. “Are you kidding me? How the hell did you keep this a secret from me?” She steps around the table, hands on hips, then nudges Lark with her elbow. “You sneaky bitch.”
Lark just laughs, a little red in the cheeks, and holds out the photo.
Sage and I lean in to look.
It’s fuzzy, black-and-white, and so small. A tiny blur curled into itself like a comma, the faint shape of a head and the soft curve of a body not much bigger than a peanut.
Mom pulls Lark into a hug so tight I’m half-convinced she’s going to cry right there in the middle of the dining room. “Oh, honey. This is so exciting!”
“I’m only ten weeks,” Lark says. “So it’s still early. I’ve only had one appointment so far.”
Sage tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “When’s the due date?”
“Sometime in the middle of May, I think.”
Ridge plops back into his seat with a grin. “You guys just keep popping them out, don’t you? You’re like wild rabbits.”
Lark laughs and hugs him one-armed. “That’s rich coming from a man who won’t even commit to a phone plan.”
Across the room, Miller glances toward Hudson. “You ready to be a big brother again?”
Hudson leans back in his chair, all limbs and teen exhaustion. “Maybe. If it’s another boy.”
Lark rolls her eyes. “You know I don’t get to pick, right?”
Hudson shrugs like maybe she does and just isn’t trying hard enough.
The energy in the room shifts again—lighter, fuller. There’s something about news like this that wraps around people and pulls them in, even if they didn’t know they needed it. It softens the edges of everything else.
And standing here in the middle of it, I feel the warmth of it hit me.
Big family. Big noise. Big love.
I can’t help but think that my dad would’ve loved this.
Loretta reaches for the ultrasound photo, squinting at it with the same expression she wears when deciphering a recipe in her own handwriting.
“Well, I’ll be,” she says, adjusting her glasses and holding the photo up to the light like it’s a weather forecast, “that’s a girl. I can feel it in my bones.”
Lark’s already disappeared down the hallway, digging through the diaper bag for wipes and the twins’ pajamas. Boone follows her without needing to be asked, like it’s just instinctual by now.
I catch a glimpse of them—Boone stepping in front of her, cupping her face in both hands like she might float away. He says something I can’t hear, something only for her, and then kisses her once. Then again.
I look away.