She sobers. Well, sobers as much as she can with who knows how many drinks swimming in her system. “You’d want me to?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re the only one allowed to keep secrets?”
“You know all my secrets.”
“I don’t know what you wrote in those letters.”
“Because you didn’t bother to tell me you were going to fucking England instead of Los Angeles! Why did you change schools anyway?”
“You know why. I can’t stick to a decision, like you said earlier.”
“That’s not what I said. Or what I meant.”
Wren blows out a long breath. “It’s down to a two now.”
She starts toward my truck, stumbling after only a few steps. The ground here is uneven, but I’m guessing her unsteadiness has more to do with the alcohol lingering in her system.
I scoop her up before she can twist an ankle, ignoring the protests that she smells.
“You’re never going to want to have sex with me again,” she declares, halfway across the parking lot.
“I always want to have sex with you, Wren. That’s how this morning happened.”
“I probably wouldn’t keep it,” she says. Her head is turned away, so I can’t read her expression. “Would you still want to know?”
My answer doesn’t require any thought. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo.
We reach my truck a few seconds later. Wren slides out of my arms immediately, which I’m a little disappointed by.
I climb into the driver’s side. She’s beaten me inside, her fingers drumming a steady tap against the door.
“We should have done some of that date stuff you suggested to Gus,” I say, sticking the key into the ignition. “I didn’t know—I was insecure about everything you could do yourself that I couldn’t offer you. Figured it was better to not try at all than to take you to a free concert when youwere used to a ten-course meal at a fancy restaurant.”
“It’s fine. I mostly wanted to have sex that summer anyway.”
“I’m serious, Wren.”
“So am I. I didn’t care what we did, Sawyer. I just wanted to be with you. If we were alone, even better.” She yawns. “Besides, that guy I gave my number to earlier looked like he’d play mini golf with me.”
“Hundred Bucks Guy? You gave him your number?” I watched and didn’t think she’d talked to him again.
“No.” She smirks. “That was just payback for the cilantro.”
I glare at her, but I’m fighting a smile myself. Mostly of relief. “Good. Your number’s worth more like five hundred.”
“A hundred was more thanyouoffered.”
Recalling how I wound up with Wren’s number effectively ends our bickering. That photo is no longer my background, but I still look at it often. More frequently than I should.
Wren’s quiet on the drive. I turn the music down to a reasonable volume, focusing on the dark road ahead. It’s not until we reach her street—what I think is still her street—and I glance over to confirm it is that I realize she’s fast asleep.
I pull into the driveway, relaxing when I recognize her convertible parked by the garage.
