A familiar SUV pulls up to the curb. I hold a finger up to the driver, letting Miles know I see him.
“Good.”
I can’t think of anything else to say. Nothing funny or witty or cutting. I want closure, and I have no clue how to get it.
“You bored?” His voice has changed. There’s a lilt to it, a taunt, and I seize the challenge.
“Hardly,” I say loftily. “I’m at Proof.” The name of the exclusive club would impress most people I know. But I realize it likely won’t mean anything to Sawyer, so I add, “With my boyfriend.”
There’s a pause that allots plenty of time to regret the lie that just left my mouth.
“That’s why you called? To tell me you’re dating some douche?” He sounds amused. Distant and detached.
I’m relieved. At least, I tell myself I’m relieved, that his disinterest is exactly what I needed to hear. That’s the reason I made thiscall—because I wanted him to know that I don’t care either. That I don’t care that he doesn’t want me. That I don’t care that he exists, nearby and out of reach.
“He’s not a douche.”
“You left him to call me. He’s a douche.”
I inhale sharply. He doesn’t even exist, but I’m offended on my boyfriend’s behalf. Irritated on mine because he couldn’t just say,Good for you, or some meaningless bullshit like that.
“I really called to thank you,” I say. “You were right, on New Year’s, about us. If we’d continued our … whatever, I wouldn’t have met”—a bus with a sneaker ad on the side rumbles past—“Jordan.”
“Bye, Wren.” Sawyer hangs up.
I lower my phone, staring at the time—12:01.
Happy birthday to me.
Two weeks after my eighteenth birthday, Mom lets me know she accepted a project in Montauk. My parents already rented a house near Scarlett and Crew’s.
Meaning I’m expected to spend the summer in the Hamptons.
16
May
At first, I think I’m hallucinating. I see Skylar sometimes, which makes me sound crazy. But in those moments, I don’t forget that my sister is dead. I know that seeing her is an anomaly. A mirage that will fade and no reality can replace.
Wren, sitting on my secret beach, isn’t as easy of an image to shake. Because it could be a hallucination, or it could be real, and the only way to find out for sure is to talk to the seated form. She’s wearing a fancy, full-length dress, most of the fabric strewn across the sand. That’s the most compelling evidence this is really happening—I doubt my imagination could conjure the design details of her dress.
Still, I walk slowly down the beach, blinking rapidly, expecting her to disappear at any second.
If it wasn’t for the salt-saturated air sticking to my skin, the constant crash of surf against shore, the breeze playing with my hair, I would havealready dismissed this. But those all feel very real, same as every time I walk along this stretch, and Wren is still sitting ahead.
When she glances this way, her eyes that same shade that knocks me senseless every time, I stop hoping—fearing—she’ll disappear.
I sink down beside her without saying a word, leaving a good foot of sand between us.
Wren says nothing either. No explanation, no indictment. She turns her head back to the water, staring at the waves again.
I lean back on my palms, burrowing my fingers deep in the sand. In the summer, it’s a relief. The sun warms the top layer to a temperature that’s almost painful to touch, so digging deep enough means more comfort. This time of year, it makes no difference. The sun never came out today. All the sand feels the same.
“Tonight was my senior prom.”
I don’t look over at her. I fix my eyes on the horizon, too, pretending we’re not close enough that I could reach out and touch her. “That’s not how you dress every Friday night?”
“I mean, most.”
