Chapter 19 #4
“It’s wanting to know what their Tuesday looked like,” I say. “Not because it’s anything special. Just because it’s theirs. It’s when you’re with them and everything feels warmer and closer and somehow…brighter? But also, if they’re not around, you start missing them in a really specific way.”
I shrug. “It’s wanting to see all of it, I guess. The nice parts and the messy ones. Not because you’re trying to fix them or anything. Just because…you don’t want to miss it.”
She’s quiet, still. So I keep going.
“And it’s also terrifying,” I add. “Because once you’ve had that—once you’ve seen how full life can feel with someone—you know exactly what it would cost you to lose it.”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.
“That’s what love felt like to me,” I say. “Big. Quiet. Like coming home in the dark and someone’s already left a light on for you.”
Wren swallows slowly, her fork still hovering near her plate. Her voice is quieter when it comes out. “That sounds really…beautiful.”
I glance at her. “It is.”
I shift a little, just enough to be a little closer to her. “Look, I may not be an expert when it comes to my future wife just yet…” —that earns a quick smile from her— “…but I know this: one day, you’re gonna find someone who’s worth the risk. And when you do, you’re not gonna hold back.”
She tilts her head, watching me.
“Because it’s not who you are. You don’t do anything halfway,” I say. “You feel everything at its fullest, even when you try not to. And when it’s the right person? You’ll love them like hell, Wren.”
She smiles again. Just a little. “Maybe.”
I look at her. Really look.
She doesn’t look away.
Her eyes are the same crystal blue—sharp and bright and deep. Ringed in indigo, like someone outlined them in ink. There’s a whole world in them. One she probably doesn’t let many people in to see.
And her freckles…Jesus. They’re everywhere. Across her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. A map. I wonder how many there are. Probably too many to count.
I want to try anyway.
Her cardigan has slipped off one shoulder, low and casual, like it does that on its own without her noticing.
Her collarbone angles sharply beneath her skin, delicate in a way that makes me feel everything too much.
Her neck—long, pale, exposed in the flicker of firelight—pulls my gaze without permission.
There’s a current between us now. Thick and still. Not loud.
But real. Heavy.
And fuck, I feel it.
I clear my throat and set my plate down on the coffee table. The second I shift, her feet fall off my lap and land gently on the cushion, and I already miss the weight of them. Of her.
But I tell myself I can’t.
I can’t miss her. I can’t have her. I can’t let myself go back to that place again, where I could lose someone. I wouldn’t survive it again.
I stand up, and she looks at me, curious but not questioning.
“Have a good night, Peach,” I say, letting it hang there.
She blinks. Then her face breaks into an actual smile. A full one, all lips and a flash of white teeth. “Peach?”
I laugh under my breath. “Yeah. Your hair. It’s all orange and gold and soft-looking. Like a peach.”
She grabs a small pillow off the couch and tosses it at me. It hits the back of my leg, not hard.
But she’s still laughing. And shit, so am I.
What just happened—what we talked about, the quiet way it unfolded—it shouldn’t have felt as easy as it did.
That conversation would’ve been awkward with anyone else. Too much silence, too much honesty, not enough small talk to soften the edges. But with Wren, it wasn’t awkward. It was normal. Natural.
I’m realizing she doesn’t know how to swim in shallow water.
She’s only ever interested in the deep end of people.
She skips right past pleasantries and dives headfirst into the parts of you that aren’t polished or easy to explain.
The things you’ve buried. The truths you only admit when someone asks the right question—and actually stays long enough to hear the answer.
That’s where she lives. In the deep end. And that scares the hell out of me.
The last person I felt that with was Julia. Would she hate this?
Would she hate that I’m sitting in a fire-lit living room, with someone else’s feet in my lap? That I’m wanting to memorize the freckles on her face?
God, I hope not.
Deep down, I know the answer. I know she wouldn’t want me to live in my grief like it’s some sort of sick punishment. She wouldn’t want me stuck.
But the guilt still comes, quiet and steady, like a tide. It never knocks me over, just drags at my ankles. Makes me question if moving forward is the same thing as forgetting, and if forgetting—even for a second—makes me the worst kind of husband. The worst kind of father.
I glance back at Wren.
She’s still on the couch, her hair a crazy, beautiful mess, her legs tucked up now. The shadows from the fire are still dancing across her face.
I pull the front door open, the cold air biting at my skin. I take one step out, and it feels like I’m stepping back into something smaller.
Quieter. Safer, maybe.
But after what just happened in there, it suddenly feels like…less.
And somehow, that’s what feels worse.