CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wren arrived at her brother's house at six with a bottle of the red Maggie liked and a board book she'd set aside at the shop for Eli. Her nephew was at the stage where he destroyed books with earnest enthusiasm and no malice whatsoever. Wren considered it a professional obligation to keep him in fresh material.
"Uncle's here," Dylan said, appearing at the door, because this was the joke now and had been since the day Wren had introduced herself to her nephew.
"Unkawren," Eli exclaimed, holding his hands out for his aunt.
Wren wrapped the sweet boy in a hug and kisses, which immediately made him squirm to be let go.
The kitchen table was already set, candles lit, Maggie visible through the doorway in a blue apron that had flour on it, despite the fact that the dish was very clearly a roast and required no flour whatsoever. Wren kissed her cheek and was handed a glass of something sparkling and non-alcoholic.
"We're celebrating," Maggie said, her eyes bright, and looked at Dylan.
Dylan, who had always been constitutionally bad at keeping secrets—this was a matter of family record—had already begun to grin.
"Eli is going to have a sibling."
Wren made a sound that was not entirely a word. She put her glass down on the counter without looking at where she was putting it and wrapped both arms around Maggie, who laughed and hugged her back, and then Dylan's arms came around both of them from behind, which was exactly the kind of thing Dylan did without embarrassment now, because he had learned the physical language of family from his wife and the people he cared for on the ranch.
Dinner was loud, unlike the quiet dignity of their family home. Eli held court with his babbling, and every adult was fascinated by anything he said. The toddler sat in his high chair and ate approximately forty percent of his food and redistributed the rest across a radius of two feet on the floor, where an assembly of dogs bowed down to each and every one of his offerings.
"He's going to be a handful when the new one comes," Dylan said.
"He already is," Maggie said. "We love him."
"We love him," Dylan agreed.
Eli, who appeared to understand this even without the words, put his hand flat on the tray in front of him and looked at his father with a huge grin.
Wren watched them. She cut her food and drank her wine and laughed at the right moments and was completely present, and underneath it all, like a low note held below the melody, there was something that pressed gently and persistently against the underside of her sternum.
Her parents had not met Eli. They had not seen Dylan's house, which he and Maggie had painted themselves thesummer after the wedding. It was a warm cream throughout, the front door a deep slate blue. They did not know that Dylan had learned to cook, properly cook, things with stock and resting times, because Maggie had grown up in a house that was food insecure and regularly burned hotdogs. Eli's grandparents had not held this baby. Nor were they likely to hold the next one. They probably wouldn't hold Wren's child if it wasn't Preston's offspring.
Wren knew this and kept it at arm's length, where it was manageable, and refilled her glass and asked Maggie whether they'd find out the gender this time.
"We're waiting," Maggie said. "We wanted to with Eli and we didn't manage to hold out."
Maggie covered his hand with hers with the expression of a woman who had long since fallen head over heels. Dylan turned his hand over and held hers, easy and certain, the way people did when holding hands had become as automatic as breathing.
Wren looked at the window, which reflected the candlelight back at them — the four of them and the small chaos of the table, the light warm and doubled.
She thought: I am so happy for them.
She thought: I want to call Mom.
She said neither of these things, and ate her food, and helped Maggie with the dishes while Dylan put Eli to bed, and left at nine with her coat buttoned and her scarf wound twice and a promise to come back in the middle of the week for lunch.
The cold was proper now, October doing what October had been threatening since the first of the month. Her breath came in visible puffs. The main street was quiet, and her boots were loud on the pavement.
Wren pulled out her phone and called her parents.
The phone rang five times. Six. The voicemail was her father's voice, recorded years ago:You've reached the Banksfamily, please leave a message.She'd heard it so many times the words had lost their shape. She hung up without leaving one. She never knew what to say. She never knew if she was asking for something or offering something or simply wanting to be heard by the people who had known her longest and had chosen, for reasons she still turned over sometimes in the dark, not to know her anymore.
She kept walking. The cold pressed in at her collar. Her phone buzzed in her hand. She immediately thought it might be her parents, and so she pressed accept.
"Wren," Preston's voice, which she had once found reassuring. It had a respectable quality to it, confident and measured, the voice of a man who had always been certain he was the most prepared person in any room. "I'm so glad you picked up."
She stopped walking. "I didn't mean to."
