Chapter 18 #2
Not because it’s too much—but because sometimes, even surrounded by people you love, it’s possible to feel entirely alone.
Boone and Lark have each other. A steady, quiet love that somehow holds everything else up.
Miller and Ridge, as emotionally dysfunctional as they are, have some gravitational pull between them that’s hard to ignore or deny. Even when they’re avoiding it.
Sage has Elvis. He’s completely useless, but he’s hers.
And I—I keep finding myself thinking about someone I shouldn’t.
Sawyer’s stopped by my training sessions a few times in the last couple of weeks, on his days off.
Always with dairy-free hot chocolate in one hand and a quiet look in his eyes like he’s still figuring something out.
Sometimes we talk—about horses, or training, or nothing that really matters.
Other days, he watches from the fence line for twenty minutes and then leaves without saying goodbye.
I never ask why he comes. And he never offers.
I wonder what his family’s Thanksgiving is like.
Probably loud and chaotic, all those siblings packed into one house.
I heard his other brother, Luke, came in from Missoula for the weekend.
I imagine laughter and yelling, a table that doesn’t quite fit everyone, football on in the background, someone burning the rolls.
A beautiful mess that swallows you whole.
And I hate— hate —how much I wonder about him. Where he is. If he’s thinking about me too.
He probably isn’t.
With his face, and that voice, and the confident way he carries himself—it’s not hard to believe he’s got plenty of women who make it easy not to think about someone like me.
It doesn’t stop me from pulling out my phone.
I stare at the screen for a second, chewing the inside of my cheek. Would it be weird to text him? It shouldn’t be. It’s a holiday. A polite holiday acknowledgment. That’s allowed, right?
For God’s sake, we’re getting married in eight days. Living together. Sharing a bathroom. Signing a legal document.
I hate this. This limbo. This tug-of-war between logic and…whatever this other thing is. The way it makes me feel like some teenage girl hovering over her phone, waiting for a boy to maybe, possibly think of her too.
I’m not a teenager. I’m a grown adult. With a stable job and a mild dairy allergy. This shouldn’t feel like a risk.
But it does.
Still, I type out the message anyway.
Me: Happy Thanksgiving. Hope your family wasn’t too unhinged.
I hit send before I have time to rewrite it into something safer. Less…me.
I set my phone face down on the table. Less than a minute later, it buzzes and I blink. That was fast.
I flip it over and see his name on the screen. My stomach does something annoying.
Sawyer: Happy Thanksgiving. They were. How was yours?
I smile at that. Just a little. Not enough for anyone to notice.
Me: Spades is starting to get out of hand. Kind of wish you were here to see it.
I stare at the message for half a second too long before hitting send. It’s fine. Casual. Not a big deal. Friends say that kind of thing to each other. Right?
Three dots appear almost immediately. Then—
Sawyer: Kind of? ??
I roll my eyes.
Me: Fine. Not kind of. Happy? ??
Sawyer: That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Are you sick?
I stare at the message a second longer than I need to. Then press the edge of my phone against my bottom lip, trying not to smile like an idiot.
Damn him.
“Wren,” Ridge says, his voice cutting through the buzz of conversation, “you playing this round or what?”
It snaps me back to the room like cold air through a cracked window. I slip my phone into my pocket and blink away whatever those texts from Sawyer stirred up.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m in.”
Sage lifts her hand from the back of the chair next to me. “I’m playing with Wren.”
Ridge grabs the deck and starts shuffling with way too much flair. “Miller’s with me.”
Miller, who’s been lounging with her wineglass like a queen observing peasants, turns her head slowly in his direction like he’s just spoken in tongues.
“No, I’m not,” she says flatly.
Ridge pats the chair beside him. “Yeah, you are.”
Miller sets down her glass. “I don’t even know how to play…whatever this is,” she says, waving vaguely at the cards.
“You’ve never played Spades?” Sage asks, her tone somewhere between disbelief and pity.
Lark laughs from the other side of the room, a plate of cake now in hand, Boone’s palm lazily rubbing up and down her thigh. “I don’t think Miller’s played a card game in her entire life.”
“Excuse you,” Miller says, indignant. “I was too busy studying for the bar and figuring out how to ruin men’s lives.”
“Seems like you’ve kept up with the latter,” Ridge says, grinning as he cuts the deck.
Miller glares at him. “What if I make us lose? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“You won’t,” he says, like that’s a guarantee written in blood. Then softer, “Just sit down, Millie.”
“Stop calling me that.”
But she sits. Reluctantly. She scoots her chair a few inches away from his.
Ridge doesn’t even pretend to respect it. He grabs the back of her chair and slides it closer to his, their elbows touching now.
“We’ve gotta sit close so I can help you with the cards,” he says, pretending to be all innocent.
Miller rolls her eyes. “You’re annoying.”
He shrugs. “And you’re stuck with me for this game.”
I lean into Sage a little, my voice low. “Five bucks says they start throwing insults louder than cards before the first hand’s done.”
Sage smirks. “You’re on.”
Miller lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “Okay. Someone explain this to me before I stab Ridge with the turkey baster.”
Boone snorts. “Get in line.”
Ridge starts dealing, unfazed. “Alright, here’s the deal.
Spades is played with four people, two teams. You and I are partners.
” He points between the two of them like that’s not already obvious.
“The goal is to win tricks—basically, rounds where you each play one card, highest card wins. You try to win exactly as many tricks as you bid at the start of the hand.”
Miller blinks. “Those words meant absolutely nothing to me.”
He smiles, patient—annoyingly so. “I’ll walk you through it. You’ll be fine.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she also doesn’t get up and walk away, which is its own kind of miracle.
The game starts. Ridge casually slings his arm over the back of Miller’s chair, all easy confidence and subtle proximity. She doesn’t say anything, but I catch the way her eyes flick toward it, just for a second, before snapping back to the cards in her hands.
Every few minutes, he leans in to explain something quietly, his voice low and close, and she listens without looking at him. Her focus is all on the cards. His is clearly not.
Sage and I are holding our own, though it’s not easy. Miller’s good, smart, pays attention to every card played. We’re staying in it, matching them move for move. But halfway through the game, Ridge and Miller are ahead by a few points—barely, but enough to annoy me.
Sage lets out a groan. “It’s impossible to beat Ridge at card games. I swear to God, it’s like he’s got some freaky mind-reading thing going on.”
Ridge grins. “I’m just good at everything.”
Miller snorts. “Not everything. ”
He leans in. “You’d be surprised how many things I’m good at, Millie.”
He follows it with a wink.
Miller glares at him, but her cheeks flush the softest pink, and I want to claw my eyes out of my skull.
Ew. God.
Sage glances at me, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and smothers a laugh behind her hand.
“Five bucks says they hook up before New Year’s,” she whispers.
“I’m not betting against a sure thing,” I mutter. “I just want it to happen in another room. In another house. In another country. Far, far away from me.”
Headlights cut through the front room windows, throwing long streaks of light across the floor.
Mom and Boone both glance up at the same time.
Boone leans toward her. “Were you expecting anyone else?”
Mom shakes her head, slow and uncertain. “No.”
He’s already getting up. “Who the hell just shows up at someone’s house at nine o’clock on Thanksgiving?”
The room quiets just a little, the card game stalling mid-deal. Sage looks toward the window. Miller stops mid-sip. Even Ridge straightens in his seat.
Boone peeks through the side window beside the door, just a sliver.
He turns around and looks at me. “Wren—it’s for you.”
I frown. “Wait…what?”
I’m already getting up, confused, my pulse ticking up for reasons I can’t name yet. Who would show up here for me? I don’t have spontaneous drop-by friends. I don’t have spontaneous drop-by anyones.
Boone stays close behind, looming like a watchdog as I pull open the front door.
Sawyer.
Standing on our front porch with snow in his hair and a cheesecake in his hands.
My brain short-circuits for half a second. “Sawyer?”
He half-smiles, that crooked little thing he does. “Hey. Just wanted to stop by. Say happy Thanksgiving.”
Before I can figure out what to say, Mom materializes at my shoulder.
“Sawyer!” she beams. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilding,” he says, polite, and a little shy.
Mom narrows her eyes at him. “I told you to call me Molly.”
Then she pulls him into a hug, cheesecake and all.
“Let’s get him out of the snow,” she says, already taking the dessert from his hands and turning back toward the kitchen. “And he comes with gifts!”
Sawyer shrugs, laughing under his breath. “My mom always taught me not to show up at someone’s home empty-handed.”
Mom glances over her shoulder. “I knew I liked that woman.”
She disappears inside with the cheesecake, and the room shifts again. Quiet, curious eyes flick toward us from around the table. Ridge gives me a look. Miller gives me a different one.
Boone lets out a sigh and goes back to sit next to Lark, as if Sawyer’s presence has officially been cleared.
I turn back to him. “You came?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
He meets my eyes. “You said you wanted me here.”
“Yeah, but…” I shake my head, still stunned. “I didn’t think you’d actually drive over here. In a snowstorm.”
“Do you want me to go?”
He half-turns, like he might, like he’s giving me the chance to pretend this didn’t happen.
I grab his elbow before I can think better of it. “No. Stay.”
His expression softens. Something warmer flickers there and he nods once. “Okay.”
As we walk into the dining room, Sawyer leans down just enough that I can hear him over the conversation and clinking forks.
“The cheesecake,” he says quietly, “it’s dairy and gluten free.”
I glance up at him, brows raised. “You just…casually made a dairy-free cheesecake and then decided to show up here?”
He laughs. “No. I stopped by Rosie’s Cafe on the way. Figured they’d have something.”
“In the middle of a snowstorm?”
He just shrugs again, like it’s not a big deal. But it is.
I don’t say anything as we move deeper into the room. Mom’s already found him a plate. Sage is shifting chairs around.
People don’t just…show up for me. Not without expecting something in return, not without a reason tucked into their pocket like a receipt they plan to cash in later.
And certainly not without me proving—somehow, subtly, quietly—that I’ve earned it, that I deserve it, that I won’t be too much trouble.
But he did.
He showed up in the snow. Brought a dessert I could actually eat—gluten and dairy free, which isn’t exactly easy to find this time of year—and he remembered. He remembered the thing about me most people forget before I’ve even finished saying it.
And I hate—truly hate—how much that matters. How it wedges warmth into the colder parts of me I’ve learned to live with. I don’t know what to do with that kind of softness. With someone thinking of me when I didn’t ask them to.
This was supposed to be simple. Clean. A tidy little performance with a mutual understanding. A contract with timelines and boundaries and an expiration date that would come and go without either of us looking back.
But now it feels different. Like something is shifting under the surface, like the air between us has thickened into something that wasn’t part of the agreement.
I don’t want it to mean anything. I don’t want to care. But I already do. And I know—I can feel it curling around the edges of this thing we built to keep safe—that this is where it starts to fall apart.
I sit across from him, trying to drown out the noise in my head, to keep this all from cracking open too soon. Sawyer just smiles, easy and unbothered, reaching for a fork like this is nothing at all.
But I can feel it already.
This is the part where pretending starts to end.