She reaches for her water glass, taking a sip. “Thanks. I’m spending my junior year abroad in Italy—fall in Florence and spring in Milan—so hopefully, I’ll improve more.”
I finish my taco in two more bites.
She goes to school in England. She’s spending the next year in Italy. None of the details should matter to me—if she’s not here, she’s not here—but the realization that I know so little about her life is a bitter one. There was a time I would have bet I knew Wren Kensington better than anyone. Now, we’re familiar strangers.
“Long distance doesn’t bother the Brit? Or is he going with you?” I do an admirable job of keeping my tone neutral, I think, as I reach for my drink and take a swig.
I’m not sure Wren agrees. Because she pushes her untouched plateaway, resting her elbows on the table and fixing me with a determined look. “We broke up.”
My jaw flexes. “I’m aware.”
“Not me and you. Me and the Brit. Although Pierre is French, not English, technically.”
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons. I didn’t want to marry him. I don’t want to live in England for the rest of my life. I wasn’t in—” She glances down at the table, squares her shoulders, then glances back up. “I didn’t want to cheat.”
My fingers flex on the can. “Not having sex with me was another way to avoid that.”
“You weren’t complaining last night. Or this morning.”
“Why would I? I like getting laid.”
“So, that’s all it was to you? Just sex?”
“I …” I wasn’t expecting that question.
Discussing the past with Wren is complicated. My current feelings? Even thornier. She was gone from my life for two years. She’s been back for a matter of days. And I’m … I don’t know what the hell I am. Her being here makes me mad and sad and happy and relieved.
Conflicted. I’m very conflicted.
Wren tosses her napkin on the table. “I guess that’s my answer. Message received. I won’t bother you anymore.”
I listen to her steps down the hallway. To the screech of the spring I’ve been meaning to oil and the slap as the screen door meets the frame again. I think I’ll be able to hear her car start, too, but her engine is too quiet.
The house is too.
I thought that’s what I wanted. What I was accustomed to at least. But all of a sudden, I hate it.
42
My phone buzzes as I stare up at the ceiling of my bedroom. I debate not checking, but boredom wins out. It’s not like the white plaster is going anywhere.
The message is from Gus, which isn’t surprising. We were texting for a while earlier, about his upcoming date and his plans to head to Lucky’s with Wade and some other guys, me trying to make up for my lack of attention this afternoon. This message is about the one topic we didn’t touch.
Gus:She’s here.
No name. No context. I don’t need either to figure out what he’s saying.
Twenty minutes later, I enter Lucky’s. The bar seems especially crowded tonight, but maybe that’s just the contrast from my quiet house.
I spot Wren immediately. She’s at a back booth, by the pool table, with a group of friends. The guys are sporting gaudy watches and preppy shirts; the girls are wearing makeup and heels. Since no one I grew upwith dresses that way, I think it’s safe to assume they’re all rich.
It’s only been a few hours since she left my house, but Wren looks completely different. She’s wearing jeans and a low-cut top, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that exposes the sharp angles of her cheekbones.
I watch her drain the glass she’s holding. One of the guys she’s with leans closer and says something. She nods, and he hurries toward the bar.
I turn away, heading for the table with my friends.
