Page 52 of Off the Beaten Path

Motioning to the couch, I take my bag of products with me, the plastic rustling. “You sit on the ottoman, and I’ll sit behind you on the couch.”

When we’re in our respective spots, I ask, “You want to watch a movie while I do this?” The distraction of the TV always helped me when my mom had to tackle my hair as a kid.

June nods eagerly, reaching for the remote, and I set to work, applying the detangler to her hair first. We’re both quiet as I go through my hair care steps, not even pausing to think since it’s become second nature to me. I take extra care on detangling, working through the tiny knots that have formed and trying to stay in tune to any flinches or tension she may have.

But surprisingly, June gets wrapped up in the cartoon movie on the screen, and I do too. Before I know it, I’ve finished with the entire process, and her hair is tangle-free, so I set to work braiding it into two french braids to hopefully keep it from getting tangled again while she sleeps. It’s a trick my mom discovered when I was around June’s age. I was unable to keep still even when I was sleeping, and all her hard work detangling would be ruined again by morning.

“All done,” I say, and June spins around, surprised.

“Really?”

I tug on one of her braids. “Yeah, Bug. These will keep it from getting all tangled again while you sleep.”

Her fingers touch the braid, and a smile breaks across her face. “That wasn’t so bad.”

I can’t help the laugh that rumbles out of me. “Well, good. I’m glad. I’ll let your daddy keep all this stuff to use on you, and I’ll get some more for myself.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Can you come show him how to do it?”

“Sure,” I say, the smile still playing on my lips. It falls when she climbs off the ottoman and into my lap, snuggling against me. I let my hand trail down the smooth expanse of her arm, breathing in her little girl scent mixed with the smell of my hair products. She’s so warm and soft and trusting, and I feel that responsibility like an aching weight in my chest.

My arm tightens around her, and she settles more fully against me. “Thank you, Wren.”

“Anytime, June Bug.”

IthinkI’mgoingto die in this truck. We’ve been stuck here for five hours, the highway shut down on both sides, unable to move. That alone would be frustrating, but being trapped in a car with my mom and sister, knowing I just missed out on my little girl’s first performance, is making my skin itch.

Up ahead, the stark red glow of brake lights pierces the darkness, and adrenaline surges through me. My hands tighten on the wheel until my knuckles turn white in the dim interior of the truck.

“Oh, we’re moving!” Mom says, interrupting her monologue on…something. If I’m being honest, I tuned her and Finley out hours ago, instead focusing on the anxiety and nausea roiling in my gut.

I shift the truck into gear, feeling antsier than I have all night. Wren has been texting me updates all evening, keeping me apprised of what she and June are up to, and with every single one, I want to be home more.

I can’t believe Wren dropped everything. I can’t believe she left her event to show up for June. She owes June and me nothing, but she did it without question.

It makes me want to get home to her just as much as June. I don’t know what to say or how to thank her, but I need to see her, to clear this lump in my throat enough to try to express my gratitude.

Tonight, Wren Daniels has been better to us than Mia ever has.

That’s the only thought running through my head as I drop my mom and Finley off at Mom’s house and turn around to make the drive home. Wren’s house is dark, only visible when my headlights slice across it, but my house is lit, warm, golden light seeping through the gaps in the blinds, the porch light casting shadows across the yard. Something in my chest tugs at the sight.

Cold whips at me, but there’s a warm buzzing beneath my skin as I climb out of the car, my boots clomping on the cracked walkway leading to the house. For the first time since getting stuck in traffic tonight, the anxiety and the frustration melt away, replaced with an emotion I can’t quite name.

My hands shake as I fit the key into the lock and let myself in. The TV plays softly in the living room, but my eyes catch on the shoes in the entry, Wren’s boots kicked off next to June’s. I expect Wren to sit up on the couch or June to bound for me, but it’s quiet except for the TV, and as I make my way into the living room, I see why.

June is stretched out on the couch, her matching flannel pajamas twisted around her body, her head resting in Wren’s lap, mouth ajar as she sleeps. Wren is curled protectively toward her, one of her hands curved around June’s shoulder like she fell asleep smoothing it up and down her arm. June’s hair is tied back in neat braids that Wren must have used some kind of magic to talk her into.

Everything inside me softens as I watch them, my feet rooted to the floor. There’s a lump in my throat, thick and heavy, and an ache in my chest so strong that I have to press my palm there to try to ease it.

I must make a sound, because Wren’s eyes flutter open, catching on me staring at her. They’re soft from sleep, and her lips curve in the barest of smiles. I can picture her waking up next to me on a lazy Saturday morning, her skin drenched in morning sunlight, giving me that same smile as I tug her close.

Suddenly, that’s what I want to do more than anything. It’s a need so visceral that my body aches with it. With the need to touch her. With the need to feel her. With the need to thank her for showing up when she didn’t have to. With the need to tell her how important she’s become to me without my permission. With the need forher, in any way I can have her.

June stirs in Wren’s lap at the movement, her own eyes fluttering open, and Wren’s hand smooths down her arm just like I imagined it doing earlier. The movement wrecks me even further because it looks so natural, so instinctual, and that single movement feels like a piece I didn’t even know was missing clicking into the puzzle.

“Daddy,” June says, her sleepy eyes clearing as she notices me. She sits up, and I’m moving to her, scooping her up, and holding on tight.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, June Bug,” I say into her neck, breathing in the scent of her. It’s different this time. There’s no watermelon shampoo. Instead, she smells faintly like Wren.

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