Gus is staring at me. “Uh, why are you getting phone calls about helicopters?”
I exhale. “Remember the night we met? On the cliffs?”
He nods.
“You were concerned about me jumping. Cammie said since I was a rich brat, my family would send the Coast Guard out for me.”
Gus frowns. “Okay. What does that?—”
“She was right. And I’d do the same for him.”
36
“You’ve reached 332-52?—”
“Dammit,” I growl, tossing my phone on the seat and refocusing on the road ahead.
I called Wren on the way to the hospital to get checked out last night. On my way home from the hospital, with Gus casting concerned side-glances so often that I worried he was going to total my truck. After a panicked phone call with my mom, who was suggesting she drive back from New Hampshire in the middle of the night. As soon as I woke up this morning.
She hasn’t answered a single call or text. Not since the string of undelivered texts and missed calls from her finally came through when we made it back to land last night. I’ve listened to her automated voicemail so many times that I could recite it from memory.
I’m working today, even though Dusty strongly encouraged me to take the day off, and I left home a half hour early so I had time to swingby Wren’s mansion on the way to the marina.
I could have died. I didn’t, obviously, but I was expecting aglad you’re okaytext from her, at minimum.
Weirder still, Gus said Wren was worried. That she was at the marina. That she was the one who got the Coast Guard to send five times the resources they normally would for a small rescue. And then she disappeared, allegedly, shortly before we returned to shore.
None of it makes any sense. Obviously, I didn’t intend to stand her up last night. And even if she knew I was okay from updates at the marina, her lack of checking doesn’t explain avoiding my attempts to talk to her.
The strangest, worst part?
Wren is carrying a suitcase out to her convertible when I pull in her driveway. I debated parking on the street because I wasn’t sure what, if anything, she’d told her parents about me—about us—but apparently, time is of the essence.
Because Wren appears to be leaving. And not on a short trip either. There are already several suitcases piled in her car.
I shut off the engine and jump out of my truck. She barely reacts as I slam the door shut, simply tossing the latest bag on top of the rest before adjusting her sunglasses.
“What the hell is going on?” I call out, striding over to her. “Why aren’t you answering my calls? Why are you … packing?”
I glance at the stack of bags. She’s packed.
“I’m leaving,” Wren replies.
Simple. Straightforward. Succinct.
I stare at her. Am I awake right now? Did I die last night after all? Am I about to hear my alarm and be in my bed?
But I blink rapidly, and nothing about the scene in front of mechanges. Blue sky. Blue hydrangeas. Blasé blonde.
“You don’t have to leave until the twenty-ninth.”
There’s a spasm of some emotion on her face, but it disappears before I could assess what it was or determine if I imagined it entirely.
“I’m leaving early. I’m bored.”
“Bored,” I repeat.
“Yes.” She waves a dismissive hand around. “I tried the whole quiet, normal, small-town summer thing, and I’m over it. Gia got tickets to see our favorite band next weekend, and I haven’t been to Europe in months. The South of France isgorgeousthis time of year. Have you ever been?”
