Page 137 of Seale the Deal

Wrenley’s been a little distant these past few days. Nothing has changed on the surface. We still cook dinner together, still watch TV at night, still fall asleep in the same bed. But the small things are different. She’s quieter while we cook. When a documentary throws out some ridiculous theory, she no longer launches into a ten-minute debate about why it’s wrong. Even when she’s curled up against me at night, her body is there, but her mind is somewhere else entirely. I’ve tried asking what’s wrong more than once, but every time, she gives me the same answer: she’s fine. But I know she’s lying. And whatever is bothering her isn’t small. It’s sitting behind her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking, and every day that passes that she doesn’t tell me leaves me feeling more helpless than the last because I don’t know how to fix it.

Today, I’m going to get us out of the house and away from whatever has been living in her head all week.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast with jam while scrolling on her phone, when I walk in.

Morning. I lean down and kiss her cheek.

She smiles, but it’s the same sort of half smile that’s been on her face for days.

I notice her mug is empty. Can I get you another cup of coffee?

Sure, she says. The pot is pretty fresh in case you want some.

I grab her mug and head for the coffee machine. I grab a mug for myself, then pour coffee into each, followed by cream, then carry them back to the table.

Thanks.

She gives me another tight smile as I sit.

Fuck, I hate this.

You got plans with Remi today? I ask.

She shakes her head. No.

I nod and take a sip of my coffee, trying to think of something, anything we can do that will get us the hell out of this house and hopefully her out of her head.

Then before I can stop myself, five words come out of my mouth that I was not planning to say: Want to shoot a gun?

She chokes on her coffee, coughing into her sleeve. What?

Do you want to go out in the woods and shoot?

Her brow lifts. For fun?

I shrug. Yeah. At targets.

She tilts her head at me. Why?

I shrug again. You seem tense. Figured it might help you relax?

Because someone who seems the opposite of relaxed should handle live ammunition? she asks in that easy, teasing tone she has that I’ve fallen so completely for. It’s like a glimpse of the woman she was before she went to that bridal party and whatever happened.

Exactly! I say brightly.

She laughs, and my heart skips because that’s all I wanted. To see a real Wrenley smile.

An hour later, Wrenley is tugging her flannel jacket tight and wrapping a scarf around her neck. I drop the cooler in the trailer I’ve hooked to the quad as my girl heads toward me.

Would it shock you to hear that I’ve never held a gun? she asks as she stops in front of me.

No. I grin. But no wife of mine’s allowed to say that. I swat her ass, and she squeals, shooting me a look that makes me want to drag her to my bed instead of the woods.

. She climbs onto her usual spot at the back, arms winding tight around me. By the time we hit the clearing, the sharp bite of autumn air and the smell of damp leaves have lodged themselves into my lungs.

I cut the engine and grab the shotgun.

Her eyes go wide. That’s big.