It’s austere now, gallery-like, clean lines and little color. The walls are bright white and covered in rows and rows of black picture frames with pebbled white matting.
Each frame showcases a different one of Derick’s photos.
I ignore the blue shorts with a crashing-wave pattern across the front and give myself a full tour of his space, the place he can be alone and himself at any time. The room smells like his signature cologne, and the floors have a zigzag pattern to them.
On the far side, beyond a modern-looking black metallic desk with a small collection of books on top—Paul Strand: Sixty Years of Photographspushed up against a textbook about branded storytelling—is a new addition to the collection of pictures. It’s the photo of me from Dunkin’ Donuts, the one he posted on the Wiley’s Instagram, redone in gray scale. The shadows add a hint of mystery.
Just below, on the hook attached to the desk, he’s slung the scarf from his high school Halloween costume.
Something old. Something new.
My heart races. I’ve always wanted commitment, yet I’ve never imagined it would be this scary. Handing your heart to someone else is an act of frightening defiance. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan should’ve warned me about that.
Out the back window, down below, Derick is standing at the edge of the pool, a skimmer pole in his hands. The color-changing lights below the surface of the water reflect onto his face, his features changing from hazy orange to mossy green. When he looks up and catches me peering at him from the window, my body begins to flutter. He waves and yells for me to come out.
I stuff myself into the slim trunks and hightail it back downstairs, until I’m intercepted by David. He’s in a pair of board shorts and expensive-looking flip-flops. “Wren, may I borrow you for a minute?” There’s something in his tone that lets me know it’s not a request. My stomach clenches as he ushers me into an office, which has the same modern stylings as Derick’s room. It’s as if an interior designer came through the entire house, threw out all personal effects, and went with the first idea that popped into their head: monochrome.
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to a geometric chair in front of the impressive desk. This must be where Mr. Haverford works from home.
The scratchy, thin bathing-suit fabric slides wrong against the pristine black leather. It’s like I’m about to reprimanded by a headmaster at a boarding school exclusively for Apple geniuses. “So, what are your intentions with my brother?”
I stifle a laugh. That’s what this is? The classic big-brother shakedown when meeting a new partner—or whatever we’re calling ourselves since New York. It’s new for me but not uncalled for. “I promise my intentions are good.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.” He toys with a decorative glass orb resting in a silver bowl. “As I’m sure you know, my brother went through some shit with his last boyfriend, and I kicked myself for not stepping up for him. Derick’s special. He’s sensitive. He needs a boyfriend he can count on.”
I choke on my own saliva.Boyfriend?Has Derick been referring to me as his boyfriend? A word has never made my heart fully stop before. In a good way, I mean. Overcoming the immediate shock, I reassure David, “He can count on me.”
Silence falls over us. I wait a beat, wondering if that’s all he called me in here for. To ascertain my true feelings and be sure they were pure enough for his baby brother. It’s sweet, if somewhat old-fashioned. But I don’t mind old-fashioned. That’s the kind of romance I’ve always craved.
He eventually breaks the intense eye contact. “Good. I always could tell you were a good one, Wren.” The hard-guy act falls away to reveal a friendly smile. He pats my shoulder as I stand.
Right before we step out back, David adds, “I’m glad you two could work it out despite everything that’s going on with my dad. It’s not personal.”
Before I can ask for further clarification, he zooms over to Preeti. They shed their extra layers by the lounge chairs and race each other into the pool. Father John Misty’s discography plays at a low volume—Derick’s request. Something aboutreal love, baby. You can tell the two in the water have it by the way they try to reenact theDirty Dancinglift halfway toward the deep end. It’s a spectacular, flailing fail, but it doesn’t stop them from trying again, laughing all the while.
“What took you so long?” Derick asks.
“David roped me into a quick conversation.” Derick shuffles his feet. “He shared something very interesting,” I say, a teasing lilt to my voice. Derick must not pick up on it because he appears aghast.
“I can explain, Wren. I was going to tell you. Actually, I’ve been trying to tell you all night that…”
I cut him off. “That you called me yourboyfriend?” It’s funny to no longer be play flirting. This is the main event, real-deal flirting, and it’s deliciously fun after all that practice.
“Oh. That.” He sets the long, blue net up against the cabana where they keep their pool supplies. “I sort of let that word slip out in conversation a day or so ago, and when I tried to take it back, he kept mocking me about it, and I know we haven’t had that conversation, so I told him not to say anything, but he’s my older brother and he loves to troll me so of course he did.” He throws a fiery glare in his brother’s direction. Too bad David’s too busy kissing Preeti to take notice.
“It’s okay. Family is family. Claire would’ve totally done the same thing.”
I want to ask if he meant it, if he wants to make this official, but…
“Hey, lovebirds!” Preeti calls from the waterfall. “Up for a game of chicken?”
Derick is all too down for fun and games. Daring me with his eyes and abandoning our conversation, he throws off his shirt and cannonballs into the pool. Thankfully, I’ve been wearing my contacts instead of my glasses, so I chase right after him. I hold my breath and pinch my nose as I vault off the edge.
“Wren’s cannonball takes the prize,” Preeti cries when I come up for air, adrenaline coursing through me.
David splashes her. “Nuh-uh. No way. Derick’s had more air time.”
“Wren’s had more pizzazz!”
