“Did he hurt you, Wren?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “But not the way that you mean. I thought he—I thoughtwewere something real. He just wanted to get laid.”
The bitter words leave an acrid taste on my tongue. Because I know they’re not true—not entirely. Sawyer didn’t write me letters for months on the off chance I’d show up tonight. He didn’t invite me, had no idea I would be there, and I was the one who instigated sex earlier. But I’d rather convince myself he never cared at all than deal with the reality he cared some—just not enough.
I was the one who chased him. Who followed him upstairs. Who sent the first letter. Who got stupidly swept up in the possibility he might be mine because I felt like his.
Rory strokes my hair the same way Mom does. “I’m so sorry, Wren.”
“It’s fine. I knew better.”
“You were safe? You used protection?”
“Yes,Mom,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
I say it partly to lighten the mood. Partly because I’ve never discussed sex with my sister and it’s a little weird that it’s happening now. She mostly treats me like a little kid, and I mostly let her. That’s shifting all of a sudden, and too much has already changed tonight.
Rory doesn’t smile. “It’s important, Wren. Not only for pregnancy, but also for sexually transmitted?—”
My cheeks are flaming. “Oh my God, Rory.Stop. Just because I didn’t get an A-plus in health class, like you did, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”
“Of course you’re not an idiot, Wren. But if you’re too embarrassed to discuss sex, you’re not old enough to be having it.”
“I’m notembarrassedto discuss it. It’s just weird to talk about it with you. It’s not like you told me about your first time.”
Her smile is sad. “He was your first?”
I wriggle my toes, enjoying the freedom of not having them crammed into heels, and admit, “Yeah.”
She moves, mirroring my position against the dryer. “My first time wasn’t that special. I went out on a few dates with a guy in my Political Philosophy class freshman year. We went back to his dorm room after grabbing pizza. It lasted about two minutes while his roommate kept texting, complaining about how he needed to get his soccer ball out of the room. Mostly, I just remember the endless buzzing being annoying. The second time was a little better.”
“What was his name?”
“Calvin.”
“Did he wear?—”
“Iknewyou were going to ask that. They were a different brand.”
I giggle. Rory does too, reluctantly.
“Thanks for telling me,” I tell her.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Okay if I come in?” Flynn calls.
Rory glances at me.
I nod. I spent forever on my makeup earlier, and I’m sure I look like a raccoon by now. At least I’ve stopped crying.
“Okay,” Rory answers.
Flynn enters a few seconds later. His arms are full, so he shuts the door with his foot. He hands Rory a bottle of Pellegrino, me a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and selected a bottle of Grey Goose for himself.
He takes his former seat beside me, knocking our bottles together. “Cheers, Wren. If you want me to beat him up, just say the word.”
“Thanks, Flynn.” I lean forward, letting the cork fly. It hits the ceiling, then bounces into a corner. I suck the foam off before it can spill down the neck, then wash it down with a hearty swallow. “He could take you though.”
