Chapter 38
WREN
I wake up to the sound of sniffling.
At first, I think I’m imagining it. It’s faint, barely there, almost like it’s being muffled. But then I blink and I realize the spot next to me is empty.
I sit up, groggy, my hair plastered to one side of my cheek, the sheets still warm where Sawyer had been. It’s still dark outside, but there’s a thin line of blue-gray light pushing its way over the horizon, just enough to cast soft shadows across the room.
I listen again.
There it is. A broken inhale. Another quiet sniff.
I pull my hair up into a ponytail without thinking, the elastic scraping against my wrist as I climb out of bed. I don’t bother with slippers or a robe—I just follow the sound.
I pad into the hallway and that’s when I see it.
The door.
The one that’s always been closed. The one I’ve walked past a hundred times. It’s open now.
Just slightly, just enough.
I take a few slow steps toward it, my heart beating louder with each one. And when I reach the threshold, I stop.
There’s lavender walls. Butterflies. A crib in the corner with a pale pink blanket draped over the side, soft and untouched.
There’s a butterfly mobile hanging above it, delicate wings caught mid-flight.
A stack of board books on a night stand.
A pale wooden rocking chair with another hand-knit blanket tossed over the back.
A tiny lamp shaped like a bunny. A canvas with the words You Are So Loved in gold script on the wall.
It’s a nursery. Her nursery.
And Sawyer’s in the middle of it.
He’s sitting on the floor, leaned back against the closet door like his whole body has just given up. His long, muscular legs are stretched out in front of him. There’s a photo book open on his lap, pages thick and glossy with memories, some of them probably never lived outside this room.
And he’s crying.
Not just teary-eyed. He’s sobbing.
His shoulders are shaking. His head is bowed. One hand grips the edge of the photo book like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The sound coming out of him is so raw, so full-body broken, that I instinctively press my hand over my mouth.
God.
It does something to me—seeing him like this. This man who has shown nothing but patience and gentleness and kindness since the second I moved in. Even when I was an icy bitch to him at the feed store.
And now he’s here. Falling apart. Alone. In the quietest, saddest way I’ve ever seen someone grieve.
It knocks the wind out of me.
All I want to do is take his pain and hold it. Lighten it somehow. Crawl into this room and sit next to him until it gets quiet again. Not because I know what to say. I don’t. I have no idea what to say to make any of this better. But nobody should have to do this by themselves.
I reach up and knock gently against the door. “Sawyer?”
He looks up.
His face is blotchy, his eyes bloodshot. But he doesn’t rush to wipe it all away like he’s embarrassed. He doesn’t look surprised either. Just…tired. Like he’s been carrying this around for so long, he can’t even be bothered to hide it anymore.
“Sorry if I woke you up,” he says, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.
His voice is hoarse. Heavy.
I shake my head, but the words don’t come right away. I don’t even know where to start.
I walk toward him slowly. Careful, like I might spook him if I move too fast.
He doesn’t look up again, just keeps his eyes on the photo book in front of him, one hand still pressed to the page like it’s something sacred.
I lower myself onto the floor next to him, my legs brushing his. And then I slide closer and wrap my arms around his bicep, leaning my head against his shoulder.
He doesn’t tense. Doesn’t pull away.
The photo on the page is an ultrasound. One with blurry outlines and strange shadows, but somehow it’s still crystal clear what I’m looking at. A profile. A tiny, perfect profile. A baby that was supposed to be here.
I stare at the image, trying to make sense of it—of all the love and heartbreak packed into one blurry little shape.
“Can I look at it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods.
I pick up the book and hold it in my lap, tilting it slightly toward the light creeping in from the hallway. I trace the curve of the baby’s head with my eyes. The outline of her nose. It’s the first thing I see.
“She definitely had your nose,” I say, with this tiny smile I can’t help. It’s not really helpful or happy. But it’s something. A truth.
Sawyer huffs out the kind of laugh that’s mostly breath.
“Really?” he says, wiping his face again with the back of his hand.
I nod, still staring at her. I outline her nose with my finger. “Yeah. It’s right there. Same slope. Same little tip.”
He goes quiet again, and I flip the page.
And there she is.
Julia.
She’s…stunning. Like stop-you-in-the-street gorgeous.
She has this bronzed, dewy skin that looks like it’s never seen acne a day in its life, with long black curls that fall past her shoulders and thick lips.
Her eyes are big and brown and somehow soft and sharp at the same time.
You look at her and you know she lit up every room she walked into.
There’s a picture of her on a beach, pregnant, her hair wild from the wind, her hands on her belly, smiling like the whole world is right there in front of her.
There’s another one of her sitting on the floor of what looks like this room, her back against the crib, both hands resting on her pregnant belly.
She’s laughing at something off camera, her head tilted back just slightly, curls spilling everywhere.
Her joy is so infectious it practically glows off the page.
It’s the kind of moment you don’t stage—you just catch it, if you’re lucky.
And you can feel it—how much she loved this baby. How ready she was.
It hurts to look at. Not in a jealous way, but in that way where you’re suddenly aware of every past life someone’s lived without you. Every version of them you’ll never meet. I’ll never know that version of Sawyer.
They were so happy. So…alive.
I feel this ache crawl into my chest and settle into my ribs like it’s making itself at home. I glance at Sawyer again—at the way he’s still looking at the photo.
He loved her. He still does. It’s plain as day. And I get it—that kind of love doesn’t just vanish. It stays. It changes, maybe. But it doesn’t leave.
And I don’t resent that. I just wish I could take even a fraction of that pain off his shoulders. I set my hand on his thigh gently.
“She’s beautiful, Sawyer,” I say, and I mean it. Not in the way you say it when you don’t know what else to say. Not like I’m trying to fill the silence with something soft. I say it because it’s true.
Julia was beautiful.
And not just in the perfect hair, perfect skin, glowing-from-the-inside-out way, though there’s that, too.
But she has this light in her. Even in still photos.
That rare kind of warmth people either have or they don’t.
And now that I’m looking at her, it makes perfect sense.
Of course he loved her. Of course she’s the one he picked.
They were made from the same stuff. That same light, that same goodness.
He sniffles and clears his throat, but it doesn’t do much. His voice still cracks when he speaks.
“She loved butterflies,” he says, his eyes lifting to the wall where the decals scatter across the paint like they landed there on purpose. “She said they reminded her to slow down. That they only live a few weeks, and they spend almost all of it looking for something sweet.”
He smiles, barely. “She used to stop whatever she was doing if she saw one outside. Like—mid-conversation, didn’t matter. She’d point and go, ‘Look, a butterfly!’ every time.”
He glances at the crib, then back at the wall.
“She said she wanted Violet’s room full of them, so even on hard days, she’d always have something cheerful to look at. Something that made things feel a little better.”
He pauses. Just long enough for the silence to feel real again.
“I miss how she used to talk to the baby,” he says, still staring down, “like she was already here. Like Violet could understand her. She’d tell her everything. What she ate for lunch. What color she was painting her toes. It didn’t matter.”
He leans his head back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling, breathing like he’s trying to remember how.
I don’t try to stop him. Or fix it. There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t sound small and useless. So I just sit there, my hand still on his leg, and I stay with him.
He wraps an arm around me and pulls me in close, pressing his nose to the top of my head.
I can feel his tears drop onto my scalp, warm and slow.
I don’t move. I don’t care. If this is what holding space for someone looks like, then I’m all in.
I can be here. I can do this for him the way he’s done it so many times for me.
His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally speaks again.
“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad, Wren. Or to compare. Or to drag you into the mess of it all,” he says. “I just…I needed to let it out. And for the first time in a long time, it felt okay to not do that alone.”
I nod into his chest. My eyes are closed, but I’m listening to every word.
“I don’t expect you to carry this,” he says. “You didn’t ask for any of it. This baggage.”
I lift my head from his chest and turn toward him, my hand on his jaw. His face is still wet, his eyes still glassy. And God, he looks so tired. So sad.
I hold his face in both hands. Not gently. Not carefully. Just firmly enough so he knows I’m not going anywhere.
“I want to carry it,” I say. “Not because I have to, and not because I feel sorry for you, but because I love you. And this is what that means.”
His face crumples like he’s trying to stop more tears from coming, and I keep going.