I could have included my number in any one of the dozen or so letters I’d written Wren, but I haven’t. She hasn’t sent me hers either. If we want to communicate with each other, we have to write it and rely on postal workers to transport it between my house and her penthouse, which is weird and rather ridiculous and also strangely fun. I like watching theink shimmer and dry on the paper as I scrawl out random thoughts. Like covering the page with a stream of consciousness rather than typing a one-worded text between classes or at a red light. Like decoding where Wren was when she wrote me based on the paper she used. Lined paper means school; pink stationery is from home.
If I mentioned any of that to Gus, he’d be incredulous or laugh uproariously. Probably both. He hasn’t mentioned Wren since she left in July, and while I’m glad he’s over his crush, I’m unsure how he’ll react to mine.
And that’s all this interest in Wren Kensington is. Attraction, mixed with a little intrigue, because our lives are so fundamentally different from each other. Talking to her is like reading a book or watching a movie—escapism into another world. Do I roll my eyes when Wren mentions attending premieres for TV shows my classmates at school talk about? Yes. Or when she goes to concerts for artists who sing the songs my truck’s crappy radio occasionally picks up? Yes. Or how she spent a weekend shopping for the perfect Thanksgiving outfit—whatever that means—when I’d bet my savings that she has a clothing collection that would make most department stores envious? Yes. But I’m entertained by it all, too, so I keep writing back, and although I don’t know what Wren finds the least bit interesting aboutmylife, so does she.
Something hard hits my left arm.
“The fuck?” I glower at Gus, the only baseball-throwing possibility in the room.
My best friend just grins. He knows me too well to shrink from the glare most people would look alarmed by. “What’s with you tonight? I asked three times if you wanted to hit Lucky’s.”
“You mean, if I’ll be your chauffeur to Lucky’s,” I correct, avoiding his question.
Lucky’s—the only bar in the area with reasonable prices and no fancy cocktail menu, plus a lax carding policy, even if you can’t afford a bad fake—is outside Gus’s biking range. Especially this time of year. It hasn’t snowed yet, but the temperature has been hovering around freezing, so it’s just a matter of time.
“Everyone’s going?” I lean down, retrieving the baseball from the floor and running a thumb along the knitted seam on the worn leather.
“Yep,” Gus confirms.
“Yeah. Sure.” I set the baseball down by my laptop. Stand. Stretch. Better than spending the evening reading a letter from a girl who’s probably getting hit on by a bunch of surfers right now.
Wren is spending Thanksgiving with her mom’s family, who live in Los Angeles. An insignificant detail I shouldn’t even know.
“Just gonna change,” I say, heading for the closet.
Gus nods. “Cool. Do you have food?”
“Have at the fridge,” I tell him, knowing there’s not much to have at. Because I haven’t bothered grocery shopping lately—not because I’m the oldest of four boys, like Gus is. My mom left last week for a monthlong deployment, and I haven’t readjusted to being fully responsible for food again.
I swap my wrinkled T-shirt for a navy henley that smells clean, then pull an old windbreaker from baseball on over it. Move Wren’s latest letter from the desk drawer to the old shoebox, replacing it on the shelf in my closet before grabbing my phone, keys, and wallet.
I find Gus in the kitchen, munching on a jar of pickles.
I make a face as the smell of vinegar burns my nostrils. “That’swhat you’re eating before we go to Lucky’s?”
“All you had,” is what I think Gus mumbles around a mouthful, capping the jar and sticking it back in the fridge. He walks over to thesink, flipping on the faucet and drinking straight from the tap.
I roll my eyes. “I’ll be in the truck. Lock up.”
My parents swapped keys with the couple down the street when they moved into this house fifteen years ago. Now, it’s how Gus solicits rides and how I let Gus’s family’s dog out after school since both his parents work and he and his younger brothers participate in just about every activity the local school system offers.
Once I’m in the truck, I roll the windows down as a preemptive necessity, certain water isn’t going to do much to diminish Gus’s pickle breath. I’m not sure the gauge on the dashboard is entirely accurate—it reads41—but it doesn’t feel inaccurate either. Midday on Thursday nearly reached fifty; Gus’s youngest brother suggested we eat our turkey outside.
Sure enough, I smell salty brine when Gus climbs in. But the evidence of his snack fades—or I just become used to it—as I drive toward Lucky’s, groaning when I spot the crowded parking lot ahead.
The busyness is predictable—there’s not much to do here in the winter, and it’s a holiday weekend to boot, but still annoying. I have to park a half mile down the road, right before a guardrail, and I wish I’d worn more layers, as my windbreaker does nothing to block the chilly gusts.
Then, as soon as we enter the bar, I rip it off and shove my sleeves up. The air in here is humid and sticky, sweetened by sweat and smoke. Like most of the bar’s rules,no smokingisn’t strictly enforced.
Lots of familiar faces surround us, but Cammie’s is the first I spare more than a passing glance. This is the first year we haven’t attended the same school, and it’s felt weird, not having her be part of our everyday crew. Between driving back and forth to her classes and working part-time at the hotel by the country club, I’ve hardly seen her all fall.
Cammie glances this way a few seconds later. She spots Gus first, smiling, then sees me, and it grows wider.
My stomach caves in, and my steps slow automatically.Shit. I was hoping some distance would help our friendship return to normal.
I glance at Gus, but he didn’t notice. He’s striding toward Wade, hand outstretched to slap his back.
I exhale, hoping I’m misreading.
