“Oh, look. It’s my personal lifeguard,” Wren drawls as I approach.
“Thought you didn’t need one,” I say, stopping a few feet away.
She acts like I said nothing, glancing at Gus. “Sawyer invited me,” she informs him.
My molars grind. I should have anticipated Wren would make a bigger deal about my kitchen comment than Cammie or Wade.
“He did, huh?”
My best friend sounds surprised, but it’s not because of the invitation. It’s because very few people know my first name. Even fewer use it.
“You remembered my name?” I gasp in mock shock.
Wren rolls her eyes. I doubt Wade even noticed her memory lapse; he was too busy ogling her.
“How long have you guys worked at the marina?” she asks.
Gus answers for us both. “Since the start of high school.”
“Which was … when?”
“Three years ago.”
“You’re my age, then.” She looks at me, not Gus, as she says it.
So, I say, “I prefer older women.”
“Like Cammie?” Wren’s tone makes it clear the dislike is two-sided.
I know what Cammie’s issue with Wren is. Wren is a member—an esteemed member—of the group of entitled, privileged people who consider summer a verb, not a season. Snobs who descend on our hometown like locusts for three months, acting like we’re the interlopers, expecting to be catered to and accommodated and prioritized.
But I don’t know what Wren’s issue with Cammie is. Yeah, Cammie wasn’t welcoming, but Wren doesn’t seem that thin-skinned.
I shrug rather than answer her question. I regret what happened with Cammie, and I have no interest in explaining it.
Wren flicks her hair over one shoulder. “What about you, Gus?” she asks, glancing at him. “You prefer older women too?”
He chuckles nervously, swiping some hair out of his eyes. “Eh, I’m not too picky.” His eyes widen. “Not like—I mean, I’m open to anyone. In-in a, uh, inclusive way. Not like I think girls—women—are easy.”
“I can be easy,” Wren says, then winks.
Gus’s ears go red. “Oh. I, uh … cool.” He takes a long swig from his beer.
I don’t laugh because Gus is uncomfortable. But I want to. I would have if she’d said that to me.
I can’t picture her and Gus together. Wren pushes because she wants to be challenged back, and Gus is too polite. Too worried about offending.
But he needs to recognize that incompatibility for himself. Maybe he has, and that’s why I was called over.
“Gotta take a piss,” I say. “See you later, man.”
I glance at Wren rather than including her in the goodbye, and it’s a mistake. Far less of a dismissal than I meant it to be.
I walk away as fast as I can in the crowded living room.
There’s a line for the half bath off the kitchen, so I head upstairs. Moans coming from Cammie’s bedroom suggest at least one couple has already headed to bed. I haven’t seen her since she chewed me out earlier for inviting a “spoiled princess” to her home, so maybe it’s Cammie in there. I hope it is. Our friendship would be less tense if she met a new guy.
I pee, wash my hands, and then rake a wet hand through my hair, trying to come up with a game plan for downstairs. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to not be here either. If I head home, I’ll lie awake and stare at the ceiling.
