“They paranoid about security?” I joke, not wanting to touch the topic of the last time we saw each other.
“Not really. They were trying to keep me from sneaking out last summer.”
She’s standing before I can decide how to respond to that comment. Does her family know about me? How strongly do they disapprove? Strongly, I’m assuming, if they were essentially locking her in.
Wren reaches down to pick up a bag I didn’t notice in the sand, glancing over as I climb to my feet too.
“Let me give you a ride,” I say.
“Why?” She faces me, handle clutched between both hands.
“Why should you let me?”
“Why are you offering?”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “I want to.”
She holds my gaze for a few seconds, then shakes her head.
There’s this weird dip of disappointment in my stomach, followed by a pinch in my chest that only eases when she adds a sighed, “Okay.”
I scratch my jaw, hoping my hand will hide how relieved I am, then jerk my chin left. “My truck’s there.”
It’s a stupid comment. Wren knows what my truck looks like. Even if she didn’t, there’s only one vehicle in sight.
I forgot how fucking nervous Wren Kensington makes me. How she evaporates all the ease that usually inhabits my body, strips me down to second-guessing, and spins me around in circles.
She glances where I nodded. I catch the tiny divot in her cheek, the indicator that her next words are going to be a tease before, “Almost missed it,” leaves her mouth.
I roll my eyes, at myself more than her, then head that way. Wren follows, tossing her undoubtedly expensive bag into the bed of my truck without a second glance to check where it landed.
That’s one thing about Wren. I have this strange sense of connection, almost kinship with her, because she’s as unpredictable as I am. She’ll turn her nose up at a marina’s stench, then have sex in a dusty supply room. She’ll match her nails to her prom dress, then leave her fancy luggage to fend for itself in the bed of my truck, which has been cleaned … never since I bought it. She’ll share a traumatic, terrifying experience, then treat me like a hired driver she’s never met before.
Wren texts for most of the trip, the ceaseless buzzing of her phone proof that plenty of people have noticed her absence.
I’m about ten minutes from my house when she glances up and says, “You missed the turn into town about fifty turns ago,” making me think she wasn’t as absorbed in her phone as she was acting.
“You can stay at my place tonight.”
I keep my eyes on the road, ensuring I miss her reaction.
“Won’t your parents mind?” Wren asks quietly.
I nearly snort, stifling the sound at the last possible second. “No.”
“They’re used to you having girls over?”
I brake at a red light, drumming my thumbs against the steering wheel. “My dad is in prison, and my mom won’t be back from deployment for another three weeks. They won’t mind.”
Wren doesn’t say,Sorry, in the tragic tone people like to use to talk about my family. Or, even worse, ask what crimes my father committed.
Her next question is, “Will Skylar mind?”
I know she’s noticed the tattoo on my wrist; I’ve seen her stare at it. But telling her about my parents was enough. I’m not in the mood—or the right mindset—to discuss my sister.
“What would she mind?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” she says quickly.
